The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[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.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Orogarn Two, son of… [oh, go back and read it on the first pages of this story – I can’t be bothered to repeat it all now!] anyway, the Heir Incumbent to the Proctorship of Grundor could not take his eyes off the epitome of manhood that stood before him. He had been feeling rather manly as the last of the three Heroes in the Questship, but not even Halfullion, Earnur and himself all in one could have competed with this splendid specimen. When Melvin beckoned to him to approach, he could not have withstood though he were as strong as he deemed himself at times. That shapely, masculine yet well-groomed hand held out a letter to him. He recognized his father’s handwriting and took it, too amazed to question its origin.

He turned it over and broke the familiar seal, that of the Royal House of Grundor - seven shining teeth and a white toothbrush on a black background, yet without the crown of the King. But lo! what was this? A golden crown adorned the seal! Too puzzled to wonder how a seal could be multi-coloured, he unfolded the paper without checking it for the watermark of authenticity.

He began to read:

Hail, King Orogarn the First!

His head reeled. What could this mean? Grundor had no king, Grundor needed no king, his father had often told him. He had asked, “How many hundreds of years must a Proctor gamble to become King?” And his father had answered, “Few years, perhaps, in other places of less dental hygiene. In the City of Pearly Whites ten thousand years of brushing, flossing and bleaching would not suffice.”

He continued reading:


You may indeed wonder at the title I give you, yet I only pass on what was given by the Wight City’s Council. Our family has been requested to take the kingship of Grundor, since it does not look like a king even exists, let alone will ever return to rule. Since I think more highly of you than of myself, I have decided that you should be the one to become king, and I, who am accustomed to the role of Proctor, will continue to carry the burden of hum-drum responsibilities for you.

There is but one condition – you must come back immediately, or this offer will no longer be valid. Leave your childish questing; there are others who can carry on with that, but you are the only one who can rule the realm.

Your bank account has been expanded without a limit, so that all necessary resources are at your command. Oh, and do you remember little “Neigh-o-whinny”, as you called the neighbour girl who went to school with you? She had a horsey face, you said, and a ponytail, and braces, and spectacles, and freckles. Well, she was away at a fancy boarding school somewhere out East, and now she has returned, looking drop-dead gorgeous and whispering to her friends that she will marry no one but you. I think you will find that it is worth your while to come back home. Please hurry!

Your affectionate father

PS - By the way, the new motto of our house is now "Once a King in Grundor, always a King in Grundor!"


Orogarn (forget Two – now he was Number One!) looked up, his eyes glazed with wonder and desire. He could envision himself, standing on the ramparts of Minus Teeth, his arm tenderly laid around the slender waist of a beautiful maiden, fairer even than Merisuwyniel on a good day, though he had not imagined that to be possible. A light breeze arose and blew, and their hair, raven waves and golden tresses, streamed out mingling in the air. And tooth decay vanished, and smiles were unveiled, and whiteness leaped forth; and the toothpaste tubes shone like silver, and in all the bathrooms of the City men sang despite the foam that welled up in their mouths from what brandname they could not tell.

Without realizing what he did, Orogarn walked slowly toward Môgul. His sword he dropped ignominiously into the dirt, not heeding the excellent quality of its blade nor the nobility of its lineage. He no longer needed it. From somewhere in the background, the strains of Grundor’s national anthem sounded triumphantly. He was on his way home.

[Kuruharan]

Kuruharan passed into a vision, his spirit forsaking his mortal body (which went kerplop on the ground).

It seemed to the dwarf that he traveled with winged speed (but this was ridiculous as he, like Balfrogs, had no wings). Kuruharan could not see where he went because he was surrounded by darkness.

Slowly, tiny lights began flickering before his eyes. They rapidly grew nearer. As he grew closer to the lights, they began to spread out below him. It looked like someone had spilled a great chest of gold and jewels and had left them sparkling in the void. In his vision, he swooped down to take a closer look. As he drew near, he recognized what he saw. It was the neon lights flashing from the signboards of millions of casinos, resorts, mansions, villas, bingo halls, and gardens. It seemed they spread to cover the entire earth. He saw teeming throngs of pleasure seekers swarming the casinos. There seemed to be no end to them. Humans, halflings, elves, and orcs crowded around the gaming tables pouring their money into the coffers of the dwarves. In all the casinos, the dwarves happily fleeced the masses. In the mansions and gardens that covered the world, the dwarves merrily cavorted and played. In his vision, Kuruharan traveled deep beneath the earth where millions of workers toiled in the strip mines to gain their meager wages, all under the watch of strict dwarven masters. Everywhere the same symbol blazed forth. A red twisting dragon (who seemed mighty familiar) bearing a gold and silver “K” rune.

In his vision, Kuruharan surged upward, out of the earth and toward great mountains that shimmered in the distance. Kuruharan knew where he was. He was flying toward the mountains where of old was the Kingdom of Hazard-boom. All was restored, more glorious than it ever was before. On and beneath the earth were pleasure palaces beyond all hope of counting. Kuruharan swept up toward the peaks. Atop the highest place sat a mighty tower that stretched far above the earth. Upon the flashing neon sign were the words, “The Tower of Sûkers-doom.” In the topmost condo was a throne room that put even the Great Hall of the Velour to shame. On one side was a great arena where Chrysophylax devoured defaulting debtors. On the dais was a throne. On the throne, Kuruharan saw himself. The joyful sound of falling money eternally rang throughout the room. The sound drove Kuruharan into ecstasy. Somewhere behind the throne, something dark and unpleasant was lurking. But it was so hard to pay attention to such distressing things when one was listening to the sounds of making money.

All of this could be his if he would just…

…do nothing at all. That was all that was required. Just do nothing at all.

[Diamond18]

Next Mogul beckoned to Vogonwë Brownbark, son of Geppetuil the Elven-partyking, third cousin of Thranduil, Thrice Removed. Far from the boughs of Workmud had Vogonwë traveled, in passive voice. When he was but a wee elf-lad, he would never have dreamed of finding himself one day standing on the shores of Valleyum, face to face with the mightiest and most poetically gifted of all the Velour (as Mogul did seem to him at that moment). But there he was, undeniably standing there. And there was Mogul. And by all appearances, this surely was Valleyum.

He would have continued to marvel at these facts if a vision had not appeared to him then. But it did, so he didn’t.

He saw himself no longer standing on the shores of Valleyum (face to face with the mightiest and most poetically gifted of all the Velour) but rather he was riding through the boughs of Workmud on a gallant steed the color of wet sand. A steed with a twinkle of immense intelligence and dry wit behind its almond shaped eyes. The horse tossed its flowing mane and snorted, rearing onto its hind legs and pawing at the air majestically. Vogonwë’s own luxuriant gray-brown hair flowed behind him in the non-existent forest breeze, and he tossed his head as the horse reared. His locks danced about his head yet fell back into place impeccably.

“Whoa, Nelly,” said he, and his mount dropped its hooves to the fertile Workmud loam, snorting and pawing like a truly gallant steed. There before him gawked a gaggle of fine Workmudian lasses, who somehow found his luscious locks and skittish horse all very manly, or elvenly, or whatever.

“Oh Vogy,” one sighed, “recite us some poetry!”

He smiled (with gleaming white teeth) and opened his mouth to recite them some poetry, but of a sudden there came a commotion from his left, and his right. And behind! There was commotion all around! The elven lasses squealed and huddled together as vague yet menacing shapes advanced through the trees.

“Orcs!” Vogonwë exclaimed, making a face as if Orcs did smell mightily bad. (Which they do).

“Oh no!” screamed the lasses.

“Never fear,” he said, winking, and quick as a flash drew a handful of arrows from his quiver. Without hardly seeming to look, he hurled them in every direction, and lo! every one of them hit its mark, the blood curdling scream of an unlucky Orc signaling his success. Vogonwë’s hands moved at lightning speed, drawing arrows and flinging them into the woods, yet his head remained squarely upon his shoulders and he even had time to wink some more at the fine elven lasses.

When the last Orc was killed (for the foolish creatures kept coming even in the face of his awe inspiring arrow tossing) Vogonwë brushed one stray hair back down into place.

“No more orcs,” he proclaimed, and the lasses jumped and clapped and whooped and hollered.

“Poetry! Poetry!” they cried.

And then, he did recite them a poem. It was the most beautiful poem ever to be recited in the boughs of Workmud, or anywhere else for that matter. Even Vogonwë marveled at the words dripping from his tongue as if he were Midus and his drool liquid gold. Effortless rhymes came into his head and he wove an epic so beauteous, so moving, so lyrical, so dashing, that the fine elven lasses began to either swoon or throw items of their clothing at him (depending on their stamina).

The poem came to its triumphant conclusion just as another figure burst through the trees.

Lo!

It was Pimpiowyn, fairest of all the fine young lasses. She bounded gracefully into view, her golden curls flying about her head in a blaze of bouncing tresses, and her gigantic, almost animesque eyes (Vogonwë did not know what animesque meant anymore than he knew who Midus was, but such thoughts kept leaping to his head as if he were coining them himself) blazing with a fury so awful and terrifying that the elven lasses screamed louder than they had for any Orc. Pimpi brandished Hush above her head, her shapely young bosom heaving as she arched her back and hissed like a cat.

“Get away from my half-elf!” she cried, and fell upon the lasses in a rage. Chop, slash, gouge, slice, rip went Hush as Pimpi mowed through the half clad she-elves, screaming “He’s mine! Don’t even think it! If you want him, come and claim him!” and other such territorial declarations. Soon a waste of blood and gore replaced the group of lasses, and Pimpi stood triumphant in the carnage.

“Pimpi-love,” Vogonwë sniffed, moved. “I didn’t know you cared so much!”

Pimpi put away her sword and smiled prettily up at him. “Of course, Vogy-my-dear, I love you more than any other and no one shall ever come between us.”

Just as she said this, two more figures burst from the trees. One was instantly recognizable as O’Lando L’oreal Bloom, his distant cousin, and the other was a squat fellow in a cloak. Soregum!

They panted after Pimpi, exclaiming in unison, “We love you, Pimpiowyn, let us come between you!”

But Pimpi strode past them and put out a hand for Vogonwë to hoist her up onto the back of his gallant steed. She did not look towards them or even seem to hear them -- she took no notice of them whatsoever, as if they did not even exist. “Come, Vogy, my genius,” she said, “your father is throwing a massive party in honor of your mother coming back from the dead, and you are to recite a poem for her, so we must hasten before we are too late.”

“Gladly!” Vogonwë cried, his heart soaring. He lifted her up, light as a feather, and urged his horse forward as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Shall I practice my recitation as we ride?”

“Oh yes! I would love that!” said Pimpi with the utmost sincerity.

O’Lando and Soregum, meanwhile, were moaning and crying out for her attention and affection. Vogonwë waved gleefully to his cousin as he rode away, trampling Soregum deep into the fertile Workmud loam in the process. They galloped off into the sunset, Vogonwë chanting a stupendous ode as Pimpi sighed dreamily, their hair flowing out behind them, tangled together in the non-existent forest breeze.

And then, it was over, and Vogonwë found himself standing again upon the shores of Valleyum, face to face with the mightiest and most poetically gifted of all the Velour.

[Diamond18]

To Pimpiowyn Took, daughter of Pipsissewa Took and Éohorse Son of Needahorse (a valiant Man of the Mike) Mogul Bildur appeared to be a gigantic T-bone steak.

No, wait... that was not Mogul, that was the dinner laid before her in the hall she suddenly found herself in. Pimpi gasped as she lifted her eyes and looked about the room -- tables laden with scrumdillyumptious foodstuffs stood in rows, and the scents wafting from them were nothing short of heavenly. Meats, vegetables, fruits, puddings, pies, and candy bars littered the area, and all of it was hers, hers, all hers! She grabbed a knife and fork and began to carve away at her steak.

A door opened to her left, and the scent of freshly baked chocolate cake greeted her nostrils. She looked, and saw Vogonwë carrying a seven layer chocolate cake decorate with pink icing, strawberries, and cream. He huffed and puffed with the weight of the dessert as he rushed to deliver it.

“Delightful!” she cried.

“I’m so happy you like it,” said Vogonwë, setting the cake down next to her plate of steak. “I was a little worried that giving up poetry to become a Master Chef would leave me bored and dissatisfied, but that was before I realized that food preparation is an act of creative expression unrivaled by all other art forms.”

At first Pimpi worried that, as good as everything looked and smelled, Vogonwë would prove to be as talented a Chef as he was a poet. But as she mowed down her steak and set in upon the cake, she marveled at the perfection with which they were prepared.

“Do you like it?” Vogy asked anxiously, hovering over the crumbs solicitously. “If you like it I shall be ever so pleased and I will never bother with poetry again, who needs it anyway? I’ll spend all my days crafting dishes for your enjoyment!”

“I love it,” Pimpi mumbled around a mouthful of mashed potatoes (the creamiest mashed potatoes she’d ever mumbled around). “I never knew you were so good with food!”

“I wasn’t, not until Mogul taught me, anyway,” Vogonwë said. “He’s a far better cook than I, but he’s made me his protégé and I am ever so honored. And I’m happy you’re happy, darling, so happy that I’m going to go back to the kitchen and make spaghetti.”

“With meatballs?”

“Whatever your heart desires. We have endless supplies of food.”

“Delightful!” she cried, spitting bits of creamy mashed potato onto his shirt.

Vogonwë left, and Pimpi spent the next indefinite time period gorging herself on the goodies. She ate bacon and eggs, split pea soup with ham, chicken salad on croissants, roast beef sandwiches, pickles, glazed donuts, creamed filled donuts, jelly-filled donuts, donut holes, figgy pudding, cheese and crackers, baked yams, corn on the cob dripping with butter and crunchy with salt, Golden Delicious apples, seven layer salad, lasagna, pizza, chili, double fudge brownies, peanut butter, coffee cake, carrot cake, yellow cake, angel cake, pound cake, fruit cake, orange marmalade cake, cheese curds, French fries, potato chips, fish sticks, corn cakes, Caesar salad, bratwursts, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, baked beans, string beans, fava beans, a nice Chianti, focaccia bread, chocolate chip cookies, pickled beets, lembas, string cheese....

Etc. etc. etc.

Through all of this, Pimpi never felt uncomfortably full or even the least bit gassy. She ate and drank, ate and drank, ate and drank to her heart’s delight, and quick glances in the mirror showed her that she still looked lithe and graceful doing it. Periodically Vogonwë came in and asked her if everything was to her liking and took orders for whatever fancy struck her palate, but otherwise he did not make himself a nuisance, and never once tried to make his words rhyme.

Presently, she heard sounds of battle from outside. She paused and peeked out the window. There, she saw Merisuwyniel surrounded by dozens of foul orcs, dragons, and dwimmerlaiks, whatever those are. Merisu, though holding up her lopsided end of the fight admirably, was fair on her way to being soundly beaten. She put a hand to her head and cried, “Oh how I wish my faithful sidekick in shieldmaidenry were here to help me!” spitting bits of creamy mashed potato onto the orcs’ shirts.

Pimpi groped at her waist for Hush, and when her hand closed around the bejewelled hilt of her trusty dagger, she sprang forth from the dining hall onto the field of battle. With Pimpi now by her side, Merisu cried out in joy, and the two of them made short order of the bothersome foes. Pimpi moved with grace and agility, not hampered in any way by the amount of food she had stuffed into to her face.

After the foes were vanquished, Merisu approached Pimpi, admiration shining in her eyes. “Pimpiowyn, you have saved my life this day, and I am forever in your debt.”

“I am honored to serve by your side,” said Pimpi, glowing.

At that moment, Vogonwë appeared at her side, holding out a velvet pillow on which resided a plateful of shortbread cookies. “To celebrate your victory,” he said.

Stamped upon the cookies was the design of a (very handsome) nose.

[Rimbaud]

Hal shook himself, for the world seemed to turn, like a coin on a string. His head span.

He shook himself again. He was home. He thought of that in wonderment, for always it had been his father’s house, but now he thought of it as home. He felt indescribably warm inside.

“Halfemption!” cried his father, coming down the central staircase, sunbeams behind him from the great bay window of the first floor landing. “Great days are these, where the valiant Halfemption Gormlessar returns to his father’s house.”

“Greetings, sire,” said Halfemption, uncertainly. His father had never spoken to him thus, nor greeted him so warmly. If he had addressed him in the past, it had been by the name ‘Empty’, as a counter to his noble brother’s diminutive, Halfie.

“Why so subdued?” cried his father, approaching now, and clapping him on the shoulder. Halfemption nearly burst with pride. “Come, we must eat! Your exploits are the talk of all the land, but still I want the details! Come, come!” he boomed.

And so through to the great dining hall they went, and a feast was laid out in Halfemption’s honour, and servants were there, dressed in white. The Lords and Ladies of the surrounding estates, who were seated at the long table, rose as one to applaud the returning hero.

“Your coat?” lisped a curious voice at his elbow. Halfemption turned, and gasped. His brother, the grand, admittedly self-titled, Bravest Half-Elf in the World Ever, simpered at his side, hunched and with his eyes downcast. His bearing was slumped and not possessed of the same testosterone-fuelled arrogance of his true demeanour. His hair, once a thing of such beauty that there were more paintings of Halfullion in hairdresser’s shops across the land than any other living man, was lank and even straggly.

The strangest thing of all was that Halfemption felt no shame, next to his brother, he felt tall, broad-shouldered and strong compared to him. Moreover, in this strange world that seemed to have grown around him, Halfemption saw truly that his brother was not wise, and not truly noble, and that he was the better man. And his father believed this too, and he was loved.

“My lord!” said Halfemption, to the shadow of his brother. “What ails thee?”

His father pushed between them, a strong arm bringing Halfemption to the head of the table. “Don’t waste your time with Halfie, my boy! A waste of space and always has been. You know we caught him cutting the cook’s hair last week?”

Halfemption grinned despite himself. Although this didn’t seem right, it felt very good. He sat and looked down, and at the beaten silver platter, yet empty.

A face looked back at him. His face…yet, the eyes were bright, the hair was perfectly tousled and the teeth! The teeth were white and straight. He looked more like Halfullion than Halfullion did!

He frowned slightly. Over the shoulder of his reflection he saw something dark lurking, a cold figure of fear behind him. He turned, suddenly, but nothing was there.

Slowly, Hal returned to the feast, as his father passed an apple to him.

“Eat!” cried the huge man. “Eat, and be strong!”

Halfemption Gormlessar lifted the luscious red apple towards his mouth. It was so bright, and round and firm. Something did not smell quite right, but he closed his eyes and opened wide for the first bite…

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Reaperneep stood his ground in the face of the stranger before them, with sword drawn as his usual precaution when confronted with someone unknown to him.

“Why do you not draw your own sword, poltroon!” cheeped the Mouse. “Draw and fight like a Man!”

“Why should I fight against you, Little One?” a gentle Voice answered him.

“Do I understand,” said Reaperneep, withdrawing his sword for a moment and speaking very sternly, “that you do not intend to give me satisfaction?”

“Indeed not,” Mogûl replied, and it seemed to the Mouse that a light radiated from behind him. “I intend to show you the way to your greatest hope.”

“And just what do you think that is?” he queried sceptically.

“I can lead you to the eastern end of the world,” the Velour declared. “From East, across the sea, the great Blue Wizard ever comes to us. There you will find his own country.”

“So the end of the world is eastwards after all,” Reaperneep breathed ecstatically. “I knew it! Blue Wizard, you say? Isn’t a Wizard dangerous?”

“So am I, and you are dangerous as well, to your foes,” Mogûl answered. “Yet those who know how to speak with him will find wisdom in his words.”

The Mouse mused thoughtfully, “A wise woman of the woods, Silverberry was her name, once spoke this verse over me:

Where East and West met,
Where on waves dances flet,
Doubt not, Reaperneep;
To find all you seek,
Go unto the utter East.

“I do not know what it means. But the spell of it has been on me all my life.”

He turned his face eastwards, and it seemed to him that he saw from afar a wall that stood up between him and the sky, a greenish-grey, trembling, shimmering wall. Then up came the sun, and at its first rising he saw it through the wall and it turned into wonderful rainbow colours. Then he knew that the wall was really a long, tall wave – a wave endlessly fixed in one place as you may often see at the edge of a waterfall. Beyond the sun he saw a range of mountains, so high that he either never saw the top of it or forgot it. And those mountains must have been outside the world. Suddenly there came a breeze from the east, tossing the top of the wave into foamy shapes and ruffling the smooth water all round him.

Enchanted, he walked toward the Eastern light.