The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Mithadan]

At that moment, the door swung open with a sonorous groan. A tall, mighty thewed, figure trudged in, pausing only for a moment to oil the hinges of the door, which closed silently behind him. He wore a black leather apron which was soiled from his great and momentous toils, and a great belt swung on his hips in which were hung tools inumerable. Hammers, he carried, and wrenches great and small. Spanners and screwdrivers, tape measures, awls, drills, saws and many others besides, and about each of his mighty wrists were great rolls of silver, glowing duct tape. Over his eyes was a visor made of some magical clear material. Before him ran two odd little persons, each of whom carried what appeared to be a golden plate hanging from a string.

"I thought they were mithical..." whispered Merisu in awe.

"What manner of beings are these?" asked Orogarn.

"They are..." began Merisu. But before she could finish, each of the little persons drew forth from their belts a metal hammer which they used to strike the plates.

GONG

The room shook with the noise. As the tone faded, the figures bowed and retreated to the door.

"They are Gongs," answered Merisu. "Or Gongers, some call them. Long ago, it is said they were Elves who dedicated themselves to serving their master. They are now bent with their labors and..."

"Strange..." interjected Kuruharan.

"Yes," finished Merisu. "They are strange. And deaf."

The tall figure approached the table at which the Velour were seated. Mantoes grinned and cried out, "Woot, woot! Geek alert!" The great one, for clearly he was one of the Velour scowled, but did not reply. Instead, he nodded to Manuël. "Haulië..." muttered Manuël by way of greeting.

"I am sorry I am late," said Haulië. "I was working on my punchlist. Item number 4,678,242, in fact. I was fixing the plumbing of the great waterfall of the Holy Mountain..."

"You fixed the shower, how sweet of you!" piped Prada.

"... which you broke while snowboarding down the glacier," continued Haulië. "Next I will begin work on the great fjord whose walls you crumbled while sailboarding."

"Cool," replied Manuël as he examined his fingernails. They were all there.

"I came as quickly as I could once I received the summons," continued the legendary carpenter of the Velour. "What is happening?"

Tickle-me-Ulmo rose and gestured at the Itship. "These," he said with a sniff. "Were washed up on our shores. Which reminds me, add removal of the wreckage of their ship to your punchlist." Haulië pulled a voluminous scroll from under his apron and unwound it, which took the better part of a half hour. Then he scribbled some runes on it before rolling it back up. "I'll get to it in about 27 years," he replied. "Go on waterboy."

"They requested an audience which we oh so graciously have granted them," continued the dripping wet Lord. "They request that we fix some tree or other."

"I don't do trees," answered Haulië. "That's my wife's gig. So if there's nothing more..." He turned and made as if to go.

"Not a tree," piped up Pimpiowyn. "An Ent. We have come to ask you... great... wonderous... dudes..." Prada cleared her throat. "...and dudettes to re-unify a broken Ent."

"Well, that's still not my job," replied Haulië. "After I made the Dwarves we amended our Charter to clarify that I am not to mess around with making or fixing living things. An Ent would be within Yawanna's jurisdiction. Where is she anyway?"

"Like, last I saw her, she was communing with a tree, dude," said Tulk Hogan. "Why don't you throw her a vine?"

Haulië sighed. "Very well." He reached under his apron again and withdrew the thinnest, lightest, shiniest Cell-antir the Itship had ever seen. Gateskeeper's eyes bulged. "A T-2000!" he whispered. "Full color screen, messaging, net access, video, speakers with woofers, tweeters, sub-woofers..." Kuruharan kicked him and Gateskeeper fell silent as Haulië dialed.

A beep was heard, then a voice spoke. "This is Yawanna," it said. "I can't answer your osanwë right now. I'm busy... (tee hee, stop it) ... I'm occupied... (Shhh I'm recording)... I'm... uh, negotiating with Melvin about my new role as Queen of Muddled Mirth. Please leave a message and maybe I'll call." A second beep was heard, then a moment's silence which was broken by a few snickers.

"Duuude," laughed Manuël. "You've been dissed. Yawanna's dumped you like dirty laundry and hooked up with Mel again."

The Cell-antir fell from Haulië's nerveless hands. Kuruharan leapt forward and attempted to pick it up, but a miniature bolt of lightning shot from its screen and burned his hand. "Ow!" cried the Dwarf. "I was only going to pick it up for him..." Vogonwë and Orogarn exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. But then, Haulië's face turned bright red and he roared in anger. Seizing a huge hammer from his belt, he swung it about his head and brought it down on the floor before the council table with a mighty crash. Cracks appeared, then a portion of the floor fell in with a rush like the imaginary wings of a Balfrog. Flames leapt up from the newly opened fissure.

"Dude," Manuel intoned with a serious look on his face. "You better add that to your punchlist too." But Haulië ignored him.

"Mogul has gone too far!" he shouted. "He has come even unto Valleyum and soiled the sands of this shore. We must hunt him down and rescue Yawanna!"

"We agreed not to mess around with Muddled Mirth," Mantoes replied. "And next week is our annual clambake and beer-fest! Besides, I'm not sure Yawanna wants to be rescued."

"Of course she wants to be rescued," cried Haulië. "She loves me! Besides, who would want to hang with Mogul? I will go to Muddled Mirth myself if none will aid me."

This pronouncement threw the council into chaos, with some crying that Mogul must be stopped and others saying that the surf was up and who cares about a few trees, Elves, Men and Dwarves anyway. It may be that this debate would have gone on for some time, but the council was once again interrupted. Two Elves rushed in with wide eyes and impeccably coiffed hair.

"My Lords and Ladies," cried the first Elf as he raced forward. "There is... AUUUGGGHHHH!..." He screamed for a long time as he fell into the fissure that had opened on the floor.

"Pity," murmured Prada. "We really should put up a 'wet floor' or 'caution' sign or something."

The second Elf stopped just before the fissure. "My Lords and Ladies," he cried. "There is a great army or Orcs, Trolls, Elephants and Loyers encamped upon the plain before the Hill of Fish. They carry banners bearing the mark of the Red Nostril. They have sent this message." He tossed a scroll over the fissure to Manuël.

He read it aloud. "Greetings my boring brethren. Melvin Bluenote, also known as Mogul Bildur, sends his regards. I would like to offer Valleyum a covenant of peace and future trade with my realm in Muddled Mirth. In exchange, I ask only for a trifle that has caught my fancy. A little token of your friendship. I would like something returned to me that was stolen by a certain Elf, known as Merisuwyniel. Just some shards, pieces, fragments of wood that once were an Ent. In exchange you shall have my gratitude and friendship. If not, well I've come to party!"

Manuël slumped back into his chair. He pronounced a single word of great power and portent: "Bummer!"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

And lo, all eyes turned to Merisuwyniel, both of the Velour and of the WeHaveNoIdeaWhatThisIsAllAboutShip. She stood tall and straight, her cheeks flushed most becomingly with righteous anger, dramatically clasping the Entish Bow to her heaving bosom. [Truth be told, though the Bow feared for its once and future life, it relished those moments, as my cherished readers can well imagine!]

“Never!” she cried out, and repeated it for emphasis, “Never!”

“What did she say?” Chanessa stage-whispered.

“Dunno,” Estë-Lynn replied. “Sounded to me like ‘Verily I come, I come to you’.”

Merisu was getting into the spirit of the occasion and raised the arm that held the Bow, shaking it defiantly. “Mogûl, if you want it, come and claim it!”

“Ummm, isn’t that what he just did?” Vairsacë commented pragmatically.

Taken aback ever so slightly, the Elven maiden tried again. “By Vinaigrettiel my deceased evil but repentant mother and Gravlox the Fair-Enough-In-My-Eyes, you shall have neither the Bow nor me!” With these words, she fled from the Lofty Halls of the Velour and was seen there never again.

[Rimbaud]

Which left the Flounderingship, well, floundering. Feet shuffled, fingernails were inspected, and some took the chance to enjoy the fine art that adorned the walls. Seemingly, the favoured style was a splurge of paint and colour, perfected by – Hal peered to read the scrawl on the nearest – Jak’s Son, Pillock.

“I suppose,” he ventured, “That we should, um, be supportive and walk out, you know?”

“Nay,” said Manuël, sounding rather grand for once, although it didn’t last. “We should, you know, like, find a solution and appease Mogul.”

“Appeasement, eh?” said Hauliê. “Don’t much like the sound of that.”

And like a childhood failure on the hopscotch board, they were back to square one.

“Let me get this straight,” said Soregum. “Merisu has the bow, Mogûl wants it and we face certain annihilation if we demur from producing it. Seems clear to me.”

“We can’t abandon Merisu,” said Orogarn Two. “This mission ain't over until Pimpi sings.”

"Hey!" exclaimed a short sort-of-hobbity-human.

Hal’s mind cast itself back to memories of Merisu’s heaving bosom and concurred. “We must provide support,” he muttered.

“It’s us that, like, will get it in the neck, if you all leave!” exclaimed Vairsacë, somewhat plaintively. “If you hightail it outta here now, we’ll have to come after you for our own sakes.”

“Can’t you mount a valiant but ultimately fruitless defence?” asked Hal. “It would be jolly spiffing if you did.”

“Fruitless defence is the last resort of the valiant,” countered Haulië.

“And it ain’t got nothing like that in our contracts,” cried Mantoes.

“There’s, um, some small print,” murmured the Gateskeeper. “In a microdot hidden in the ‘V’ of Velour. We tendered the software package.”

“Word,” said Vairsacë.

“That’s it,” said Gateskeeper.

“No, I mean, just, you know, ‘word’,” said Vairsacë hurriedly. “Like, ‘word up, we’re in a jam’.”

“Ah.”

“We have two options,” said Hal, pompously. “Either we decide to support Merisu’s bounceless, er, boundless, um, problems…or we muck in with these chaps and fight a brave fight.”

The door slammed behind them, as the LikeWhatevership departed in a flurry of a hurry, leaving some seriously un-chilled out Velour in their wake.

[Kuruharan]

The Gallowship fled down the escalator, past the plot hole, and out the Mall. They continued fleeing pell mell until they reached an indefinite point and flopped down.

Chrysopylax pointed toward a hill looming in the distance. “Excuse me,” he said. “I believe that is the enemy right over there.”

"DOH!!!"

There were thousands of them spread all about the base of the hill.

“Verily,” muttered Orogarn Two. “When my people tried this stunt the earth was changéd from a plane into a sphere. Is it not time for the earth to be changéd into a banana shape or something?”

“Eucatastrophes can never happen the same way twice,” opined Kuruharan.

“It wouldn’t be exactly the same way,” retorted Orogarn Two.

“It would be the same principle,” rejoined Kuruharan.

“Pipe down,” snarled Merisuwyneil. “Look in the center of the camp! It looks like there is some sort of prisoner being tortured there!”

The distance was too great to see clearly, but it appeared that some figure with shockingly blonde hair was bound and surrounded by other figures who seemed to be going over his body with ostrich feathers and hitting him with wet noodles.

“My darling…” murmured Merisuwyniel.

“What?” said Orogarn Two.

“err…Nothing,” said Merisuwyniel.

“Milady,” shrilled a voice. “There is nothing else for it but to launch a desperate frontal assault to rescue yon prisoner and avenge the honor of this pathetic land!”

“B-b-but, that might get us killed!” whined Pimpi.

“Almost certainly,” agreed Reaperneep ecstatically.

“But then,” mused Merisuwyniel, “the Ent-that-was-Broken would fall into the clutches of Môgul Bildûr, dooming Muddled Mirth for all eternity.”

“So?” said Reaperneep. “We’ll have met with a glorious death in battle!”

“If Môgul conquers the world, the Halls of Mantoes would be his as well,” replied Merisuwyniel. “Even in death we could not escape him.”

“Well, actually, I think that would be more of a problem for you,” said Orogarn Two with a certain smugness.

“What about me?” asked Kuruharan.

“Uhhh…” said Orogarn Two.

Suddenly the air was shattered by the savage battle cries of the orcs.

“LOL! u R lAMeERZ11!!! WE ROoLZzE!1!”

A regiment of the savage creatures sprang into view.

“U iZ giViN Uz EnT (sP?) or loL11 u r gIon dy!!111”

Merisuwyniel blinked uncomprehendingly at their attackers. “What?”

“ALl YouR bASE r BELong tO uZ LOL11!!!!11”

“Oh dear,” sighed Vogonwë. “I suppose this probably means that somebody set up us the bomb.”

A little to the side, Chrysophylax muttered something to Kuruharan. “I think it might be about time to use the Whistle. It would lend some meaning to post number 215.”

“What about post number 243?” asked Kuruharan.

“I think all hoped is lost,” answered Chrysophylax.

Without further ado, Kuruharan pulled out one small bundle he had acquired in post 215. Out of the bundle he pulled a little whistle. He set the whistle to his lips and blew a mighty blast. There was no sound and nothing happened. “Are you sure it worked?” asked the dragon. “No,” answered Kuruharan. “Quick, lemme up! We may need to make a quick exit from the story!” Just as the dwarf was climbing to his accustomed position, a dull rumble was heard in the distance.

Then came the horn.

“Oh, wait…” muttered Kuruharan. “I should have thought of this sooner…what if he’s been banned here too?”

“Too late,” hissed the dragon as an earthshaking barking erupted from somewhere nearby. The orcs stopped dead in their tracks.

“WhAz DaT!!!///?”

The orcs abruptly discovered that “DaT” was the sound of a pack of monstrously oversized, vicious, and bloodthirsty hounds who pounced upon them from above and went charging on toward the enemy camp, leaving a trail of gore and shattered limbs in their wake.

The horn sounded again, very near, and it shook the Don’tknowwhatthey’vestartedship to the ground. A figure of glittering scarlet and white flashed past at blinding speed, blasting deafening (but merry) notes on his horn. A few seconds later a group of stout fellows in pigtails and short red jackets went running past, wheezing and gasping like they were having a collective coronary.

“What in the name of my gem-encrusted toenail clippers was that?” demanded Leninia.

“Hornme the Foxhunter and his Magnificent Steed Har-har,” answered Kuruharan. He has hunted every thing from the Swine of Aha to the Bingos of Down Below.”

“But has he chased Electrons to and fro?” asked Pimpi.

“But I thought the Velour would not aid us,” said Merisuwyniel.

“He’s…different,” said Kuruharan. “Let’s go watch.”

The trail of shredded internal organs provided them with ample guidance to their destination. On a little knoll, a short distance from the appalling carnage (that I could not possibly describe on a family site) sat Hornme and Har-har themselves. Har-har was an incomparably dazzling specimen of cream-colored horseflesh (Merisuwyniel instantly wanted to go give him a good rubdown, the lucky stallion…). Seen at close range, the Messyship discovered that Hornme wore a funny little black cap, a gloriously scarlet jacket, shining white trousers, and impeccably shined jackboots. Under one arm he held a vicious looking riding crop and with his other hand he held a pair of golden field glasses. One could tell by looking at him that he contained all the haughtiness befitting his rank and station. He would speak with such noble disdain to every one, carry his nose so high (that the field glasses could more accurately be described as a periscope), strain his voice to such a pitch, assume so imperious an air, and gallop about with so much loftiness and pride (to say nothing of lack of regard for anybody else’s life or limb) that anyone who had the honor of addressing him would be seized by an irresistible urge to thrash him. His native power and his dogs invariably prevented such an outcome. He was also outrageously handsome so that most women were immoderately desirous to get their hands on him (at least until he opened his mouth). In his own eyes, he appeared to be the paragon of beauty. As can easily be imagined, his fellow Velour found him to be beyond insufferable and they’d packed him off to Muddled Mirth at the earliest available opportunity. Alas, those in Muddled Mirth had taken an ill view of his devastation of the land and wildlife and had recently sent him packing back to Valleyfornia. His attendants lay strewn about the feet of Har-har, all gasping fit to burst.

“Good show!!” he squawked at the top of his voice. “Rip out that large intestine!!”

The Gallowship looked upon the slaughter.

“I say, fellow,” bawled Hornme, rapping Orogarn Two on the top of his head with the riding crop. “Be a good chap and keep hold of Har-har while I go to inspect the damage!” With one final whack to the noggin punctuate the point, Hornme bounded out of the saddle and strode off into the mess. Har-har remained with a most disdainful air about his new handler. In the midst of the rout, the forces of Môgul finally remembered they had aerophants that would take them out of the range of these demented dogs and their deranged keeper. The ponderous pachyderms were packed with a polyglot parcel of pugnacious Dumbarians, orcs, and Loyers, all eager to escape the dogs and wreck ruin upon their assailants from on high. The surviving aerophants took to the sky and sped with winged speed upon the Gallowship.

“NOW WHAT?!!!” cried Merisuwyneil.

“Here,” yelled Kuruharan. “I picked these up in the Seventh Age.” He pulled a pair of long metal tubes and large stands out from the back of the wagon carrying the Ent-that-was-Broken. He set them up so that the tubes pointed toward the sky. He grabbed Vogonwë and shoved a smaller tube-shaped thing into the half-elf’s hands. “Jam these into the back end of the guns!” commanded Kuruharan.

“What’s a gun?” said Vogonwë.

“Just do it!” yelled Kuruharan, pulling out a funny looking helmet and goggles from his robes and putting them on his head. The ill-sorted pair readied their unbelievably anachronistic devices. Finally, they both grabbed a length of cord from the back of their respective thingies.

“READY!” cried Kuruharan. “FIRE!!”

[Diamond18]

And lo!

Nothing happened.

“Well, this is anticlimactic!” Vogonwë complained, ripping off his goggles. “I’ve recited poetry with more lethal power than this thingie!”

Kuruharan ripped off his goggles in an unconscious imitation of the half-elf. A short, unconscious, imitation.

Pimpi rushed up with a glass of water and splashed it on the dwarf’s face whilst Vogonwë knelt to slap his hairy cheeks. “Who- wha- where?” he sputtered, regaining consciousness.

“You fainted from fear and frustration,” Vogonwë informed him helpfully, giving him another slap.

“I don’t remember that,” Kuruharan protested. “One moment I was ripping my goggles off and the next--”

“Nevermind that,” Pimpi pointed at the sky, “It’s chaos and anachronism up there, do something!”

“Right!” the damp dwarf exclaimed. He and Vogonwë reloaded the weapon and disengaged the safety lock, and lo!

With a mighty ka-blooey the thingie exploded into the Valleyum air, striking down one of the aerophants in a glorious and gruesome display of flinging flesh and spurting blood clouds of destruction and Doom!

“Oooooooh... explosion!” Vogonwë’s human half reacted with laconic admiration, while his elven half quietly and privately began composing a poem expounding the beauty of red skies.

“Yippy-ki-yay,” Kuru uttered jauntily, in a short, unconscious imitation of a man who dies hard, harder, and with a vengeance.

A moment later, blood and gore from the kill landed upon the Itshippers and their jubilant moods were somewhat dampened.

[Rimbaud]

The enemy then began a new and fearsome assault. Large, bright blue balls began bouncing from their ranks towards the Parodyship, whence they were fended off with stave and club. Upon contact with our heroes arsenal of weapons, they popped languidly, showering them with a mixture of home fertiliser and vinegar that was probably meant to be explosive, but was in fact rather a good salad dressing, and handy for use on compost.

The enemy moved forward smoothly, although with some minor pixellation, and a few jerky movements. The blue balls varied in size, bouncing almost comically towards them.

“This is too much,” said Hal. “We’ve stayed with the story because of the great history of REB and the humour and excitement of the first instalments. But this is just vapid, generated dross cooked up to satisfy the lowest common denominator.”

Yet no sooner had this fairly ridiculous little speech concluded, then more battles were upon them, complete with sweeping camera shots.

A huge red-faced warrior was upon Hal, and Orogarn Two stepped up to aid him. Their blades a blur so fast that they appeared to hum with some fierce power, they commenced a deadly dance, of skill, feint and counter-feint. Several others stopped their half-hearted slaughtering to watch. Operatic music soared above the scene as the combatants, um, combatasised,

It was breathtaking and dramatic. “Actually, this is quite good,” said Vogonwe.

“Doesn’t justify the stultified plot!” shouted Hal through the maelstrom of hacking and slashing. It did look good though, as they battled on a high ridge with the panorama of Valleyum spread beyond them.

“Watsa all theees?” asked a huge bouncy ally, bounding up to them with improbable ears. “I’msa Ha-Ha Sinks! I is here to…”

The enemy and the Parodyship ceased their battles and turned all their attention on the newcomer, who quicker than you could say, “when is a door not a door? When it’s ajar!” was pasted liberally on the ground (and stamped on). After giving each other nods and slapping their enemies on the back, battle resumed, if slightly more good-naturedly.

The battle swung this way and that, until Hal noticed that the enemy were magically regenerating out of huge skulls set in the cliff walls. “Get the generators!” he cried and Kuruharan threw throwing axe after throwing axe, while the others, wizards and archers and fighting women, protected him.

Thus was the gauntlet thrown down, and the battle raged among the over-described Itship and the truly opaque and casually explained forces of darkness.

[The Saucepan Man]

As soon as the battle had commenced, Soregum had lost no time in finding a comfortable vantage point on a nearby hill from which to view the proceedings.

“Er - fighting’s not really my thing,” he explained to a quizzical Hal as the limp haired handyman drilled his way through a column of Orcs and nailed a couple of Trolls for good measure.

“Coward!” cried a rampaging Reaperneep, leaping happily from one adversary to another, his tiny but (appropriately) rapier-sharp rapier introducing them all to an assorted selection of their internal organs.

“So what is your thing?” enquired Orogarn Two, overjoyed at the opportunity to revive Grundor’s ancient feud with Dumbar at the expense of a troop of red-clad and rouge-faced Dumbarian warriors.

Soregum did not answer (judging it imprudent to explain that it might not be in his best interests to join in the slaughter of his Master’s army), but instead took out a pouch of Old Toothrot and charged his pipe. Resting his hairy and fungally challenged feet upon a still unconscious Grrralph, he sat back to enjoy the spectacle.

The Entish Bow purred with delight as Merisuwyniel fired off one shot after another from a seemingly endless supply of arrows. Her violet eyes flashed as she paused momentarily to brush a stray auburn hair back into place and wipe a tiny speck of blood from her otherwise spotless face. Pimpiowyn stood proudly beside her, covered from head to foot in gore, relishing the opportunity to put her recently acquired shieldmaidening skills into action at last. Hush was silent no more as it contended loudly with any enemy who dared approach Merisu. Nearby, the Gateskeeper was fiddling with the controls on his staff (a cluster of buttons marked, respectively, with a circle, a square, a triangle and a cross). Every so often, random missiles (lightning bolts, arrows, a hail of bullets and, inexplicably, a bouquet of pink carnations) shot out from his staff and hit an Orc or a Troll, upon which they exploded in a shower of red and green pixels and quickly faded without trace. Leninia moved like a shadow through the fallen, dispatching the enemy wounded with the lethal tip of her umbrella, taking care not to break any of her well-manicured (and equally lethal) nails in the process.

Kuruharan stood to one side, busy drawing up odds on which member of the Battle-ship would score the most kills and raking in bets from the docile and gullible locals. Chrysophylax circled overhead barbequing any enemies who showed an interest in the Dwarf’s impromptu bookmaking enterprise.

Vogonwë, meanwhile, had warmed to his role of Master Elf Gunner and was training his fire on a second attack Aerophaunt as it swept in ballistas blazing. A resounding blast rang out over the battlefield and the mighty flying pachyderm and its crew were no more. Or rather, they were many more - only smaller and less cohesive.

“That only counts as one!” cried Kuruharan. He had placed rather long odds on the Half-Elf coming top in the headcount stakes, and was now rather regretting entrusting the mighty weapon of the Velour to him.

“Astounding,” thought a baffled Soregum to himself as he puffed on his pipe while the frenzied action carried on apace all round. “These guys really seem to enjoy this sort of thing.”

But his thoughts were cut short as the remains of the disassembled Aerophaunt fell down about him. As he scrambled for cover, he was dimly aware of a flock of winged shapes far in the distance but fast approaching.

“The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!” he cried predictably, but then fell forward as an unidentifiable, but hefty, chunk of Aerophaunt landed on top of him and darkness engulfed him.

The Eagles, meanwhile, passed high overhead as they flew towards the Council Chamber of the Velour, glancing only with passing interest at the proceedings below.

The Slaughter-ship pressed on. But, though they toiled diligently and characteristically in seeking to eliminate everything in sight, there seemed to be no end to Môgul’s hordes. The Dread Developer’s loyers had not been idle. As soon as the army had reached Valleyum, a small detachment had been despatched to the Pad of Mantoes, where they had busied themselves slapping requisition orders drawn up under the terms of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat on the bewildered Elvish officials. The custodians of the Pad were powerless to resist, as the paperwork was all in proper order, and had proceeded to release the resident Orcs from their Holding Pens. And so, every time an Orc died on the field of battle, he was immediately processed and sent back out to fight once more, slightly dazed and confused but otherwise none the worse for wear. The skulls in the cliff walls from which they emerged were an extra touch added by Greedhog, who had often regretted that his early artistic promise had been overshadowed by his loyering duties.

Meanwhile, Kuruharan had noticed that Hornme the Foxhunter’s participation in the conflict was somewhat lacking. The red-coated Velou sat perched on a hunting stick swigging from a hip-flask, as his hounds feasted on fricasseed Aerophaunt flesh. Puzzled, Kuruharan once more drew out the Mighty Whistle from Post 215 and blew silently on it. Nothing happened. He blew again, and again, and again until he was red in the face.

“I say old chap,” Hornme shouted over to him. “Would you mind not making that dreadful racket?“

“But what about the battle … your hounds … blood … teeth … guts … ?!!?“ stammered Kuruharan, for once at a loss for words.

“Sorry old bean, nothing I can do,” replied the Foxhunter holding up an official looking piece of paper. “The loyers have served a hunting ban. The paperwork is all in order, don‘t you know. It‘s not really my place to intervene anyway, so I am off for a spot of afternoon tea and crumpets. Best of luck and all that. Toodlepip!”

And so the tide of the battle swiftly began to turn against the Ebb-ship and before long they found themselves hemmed in on all sides by a seemingly (and, as it happened, literally) endless supply of enemies.

“Well it looks like the game is up,” said Merisu, a beautifully tragic expression suffusing her face. “It’s been nice knowing you all. Thank you for your help. I am sorry that it has come to this.”

“But you can’t give up,” protested Pimpi. “You are a shieldmaiden. And shieldmaidens never give up. They keep on going against the odds until a Deus Ex Machina turns up to rescue them. That’s just the way it is - isn’t it?”

“The only Deus Ex Machina around here passed overhead about an hour ago,” said Kuruharan grimly.

“Is this really the end?” asked Soregum, who had just recovered from one near death experience and was understandably miffed to now find himself faced with another.

“End? No, little one, the journey doesn’t end here,” replied the Gateskeeper in a kindly tone. “Death is just another path. One that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain turns all to silver glass and rolls back. And then you see it …”

“What, Gateskeeper? See what?”

“White shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

“We’ve already seen that,” observed Orogarn Two. “Back in Post 228. When we arrived here in Valleyum.”

“Oh yes,” muttered the Gateskeeper, his beatific expression dissolving. “We’re done for, then.”

*******************************

And so the Backs-to-the-Wall-ship steeled themselves and readied their weapons for the enemy’s final blow. But the dark horde did not advance. Instead, the massed Men, Orcs and Trolls stopped and gazed about themselves in fear and awe. And then, slowly, they began to withdraw.

“Haha! I knew we would prevail!” cried a jubilant Reaperneep.

But no sooner had he spoken than four great Trolls began to beat out a rhythm on their drums and the enemy’s ranks began to part, with the exception of two particularly confused Orcs who were suffering the effects of a succession of hasty reincarnations. Bemused, their eyes rolled up as their foreheads each gave way to black pseudopodial spikes, which then promptly retracted. As the two Orcs slumped lifelessly (albeit only temporarily so) to the ground, a dark nebulous cloud behind them slowly resolved itself into the figure of a man. An incredibly handsome man, clad in black leather trousers and a leather jacket left open at the front to reveal an astonishingly manful chest. He ran a perfectly manicured hand through his mass of luxuriant raven hair and winked devilishly at the Gawp-ship.

Without exception, and against their better judgment, the female members of the It-ship found themselves going weak at the knees, while the remaining companions, to a man, were lost in admiration for this fine specimen of masculinity. Only Soregum was immune to the effect. He was weak at the knees too, but that was because he was only too aware of the identity of the charismatic stranger and was terrified out of his wits.

As raucous Orcish voices struck up a hypnotic chant in time with the rhythm of the Troll’s drums, the darkly angelic man began to sing.

Please allow me to introduce myself
A Velou of wealth and taste
I’ve been around for a long, long year
Laid many a realm to waste

I was ’round when the Elven folk
First came to Valleyum’s gate
Made damn sure that Feeblenor
Saw the light and sealed his fate

M’yeah

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

I stuck around ol’ Dairyland
When I saw it was a land for a change
Built up towns, malls and factories
’Til Yawanna screamed in vain

I charged a fee
Brought prosperity
While the deals were made
And the taxes paid

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name, oh yeah
Ah, what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game, oh yeah

I watched dismayed
As the Velour played
While you toiled through the years
Thinking that they cared

I shouted out
“Who split the Entish boughs?”
When after all
It was Mantoes’ vows

Let me please introduce myself
A Velou of wealth and taste
And I salute you Entish Questors
Who have led me a merry chase

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name, oh yeah
But what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

Just as every light has a shadow
And all the sinners saints
As heads is tails
Just call me Melvin
And I’m in need of no restraint

So now you’ve met me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
If you do, we all can profit
And save Muddled-Mirth from waste

M’yeah

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name
But what’s puzzling you
Is just the nature of my game

The Orcs were now in full swing with their chanting as Môgul (for it was he) conjured a gleaming obsidian Fender Spellcaster out of nowhere and played a gratuitously unrestrained guitar solo before continuing with his song. The tale had been going for seven pages now without him having the opportunity of a musical number and he was enjoying himself.

Tell me Merisu, what’s my name
Tell me Pimpi, can ya guess my name
Tell me Vogy, what’s my name
Join me now, there’s no shame

Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo

Oh, yeah
What’s my name
Tell me, Leni, what’s my name
Tell me, Gatesy, what’s my name

Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo

As the Orcish chants faded, Môgul sauntered impudently up to Merisu and, taking her hand, planted a kiss on it.

“We meet at last, my dear,” he said in a suitably sinister and clichéd manner. “And how delightful you are in the flesh.”

And with that, an amazing thing happened. Merisu’s cheeks flushed bright red, her hair fell dishevelled about her shoulders and she began to perspire. Her companions would not have believed it, had they had sufficient wit to notice. But each of them was bewitched, seeing in this man the perfect being, each according to their fancy. Kuruharan saw the astute businessman whose ability to turn a profit knew no bounds, while Leninia was once more the young and naïve groupie transfixed by the rock legend that she perceived. The Gateskeeper could only begin to guess at the power which lay behind his dark sorcery, while Vogonwë marvelled at the beauty of his poetry. Orogarn Two, meanwhile, was lost in admiration for the manliness of the man and was busy wondering just how he managed to keep his hair in such good condition. Each member of the Dumb-struck-ship fell instantly for him, with the exception of Grrralph, who was snoring loudly, and Soregum, who was once again trying (and failing) to merge unseen into the background.

“My dear Entish Questors, how enchanting it is to meet you all, old friends and new,” continued Môgul addressing the enthralled companions, who were oblivious to his villainous clichés hearing only the persuasive oratory of a master wordsmith. “It’s wonderful to see you here. It’s certainly a thrill. You’re such a lovely audience, I’d like to take you home with me. I’d love to take you home. But first, to business. You have met my breth/sist-ren and had the opportunity to see them for the uncaring fools that they are. I would hazard a guess that they were not too interested in your Quest. Am I right?”

As one, the Taken-In-ship nodded dumbly.

“As I thought. Do you really think that they give a flying flet what happens to Muddled-Mirth? Of course they don’t. They have not taken any interest in it for the past six millennia, so why would they start now? There is only one Velou who has the best interests of Muddled-Mirth at heart, and you are fortunate enough to have met him before it is too late. And now you each have a wonderful opportunity before you. For together, we can build a parodic paradise in Mirth. An unashamedly uncanonical Utopia where you can fulfil your wildest dreams. Think what splendour and riches await you if you will only relinquish the Entish parts and join with me.”

And as the Dread Developer continued to enthral them with his words, the companions’ thoughts drifted away and visions were conjured up in their minds of that which they each desired the most.