The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Diamond18]

Suddenly, without warning, a burning rock came screaming from the sky and exploded into a million pieces, each one slamming into the ground with collasal force! Death! Destruction! The whole world was engulfed in flames and molten space rock -- people's large and small intestines fried like sausage and their bones disentegrated like tissue paper that's been held over a votive candle too long. Men, orcs, elves and Velour alike, dead, all dead! All dead! O, the carnage! Death to all Hatchlings of Emu Ilovetar!

Dear Gentle Reader,

Wait a gosh darn moment. This is all too final. Some other dues ex machina must be used.

If you find courtroom scenes boring, no matter how farcical the characters or outrageous the events, I apologize, for it is only going to get worse. For let us now turn our attention back to the true events of that fateful day in Valleyum, which cannot be rescued by great balls of fire or blood and destruction.

Well, great balls of fire, anyway.

We are now zooming back down to submerse ourselves in the ofttimes hard to suspend disbelief -- wow, that’s mixing metaphors, is it not, Gentle Reader? It doesn’t even make any sense. However, it is what we are doing. Zooming back down we see where Vogonwë Brownbark and his young love Pimpi are preparing to carry out a mission entrusted to them by the Loyer Formerly Known as Grrralph. But heck, we’re still going to call him Grrralph, Gentle Reader, because we’re just that way.

Hark, action is taking place....

“I don't believe what I'm hearing... Meri-Sue was right. You've changed!”

“I don't want to hear any more about Meri-Sue. The Velour turned against me. Don't you turn against me.”

“I don't know you anymore. Vogonwë, you're breaking my heart. I'll never stop loving you, but you are going down a path I can't follow.”

“Because of Meri-Sue?”

“Because of what you've done... what you plan to do. Stop, stop now. Come back! I love you!”

“Liar!”

Oops, heh heh, sorry, Gentle Reader -- wrong parody. Let me adjust the controls on my Parody-O-Matic here -- indispensable machine but it can be terribly glitchy -- and see if we cannot find the proper tone, this time. Ah yes, here we go:

“I’m hungry.”

“Not now, Pimpi, I’m composing,” Vogonwë replied with a hint of irritation. In fact, he was quite nervous, more nervous than he had been since that incident with the Giant Mutant Neanderthalic Black Skwerlz of Workmud when in the midst of battle he had run out of arrows and been reduced to throwing hair pins. His anxiety put him on edge and thus Pimpi’s tummy rumblings were not a welcome distraction from the task at hand.

Pimpi should have been more nervous than she was, considering what Grrralph had asked of her, but at the moment her task seemed a long time away and the hollowness inside was much more pressing. She looked over Vogonwë’s shoulder with half interest, reading the words he wrote upon paper and thinking that the Diabolical Workmudian Sleep-Well Spell he was crafting didn’t seem all that much different from one of his sonnets.

“You’d better hurry up,” she said languidly, “we have to do this before the trial is over.”

Vogonwë took a breath before replying, “I am hurrying -- and unless you can remember what the fourth line of the third stanza is supposed to be, it would be most helpful if you would refrain from speaking to me.”

“Oooookay,” Pimpi backed away. “Excuse me, your Poet-Laureatness.”

Vogonwë went on muttering snatches of poetry under his breath, scratching out the words on the paper and replacing them countless times, till the paper was a mess of unreadable scratches and half-baked rhymes. “Oh it’s no use, I can’t remember the Spell,” he moaned. “I should have paid more attention in school....”

“All hope is not lost,” Pimpi said bravely, swatting him on the shoulder. “I have faith in you, Vogy -- if you can’t remember the spell thingy, just improvise.”

“Improvise?” he looked at her cross-eyed.

“Yes! Ad lib! Write your own Diabolical Brownbarkian Sleep-Well Spell.”

“But I am a poet, not a spell weaver.”

“Whatever,” Pimpi fluttered one hand dismissively. “Same diff.”

“I protest, there is much--”

“Listen, I’m getting seriously bored out of my mind here, okay?” Pimpi snatched the paper and pen away from him. “Time is of the essence, now get over there and recite something.”

Vogonwë grumbled, and turned reluctantly to where Gravlox was chained to a pole, heavily guarded by minions of the Dark Lord -- who were, at the moment, eyeing Kuruharan intensely, but were sure to come down hard on anyone else who attempted to remove Gravlox from his spot. He cleared his throat and coughed nervously, then stood up and walked hesitantly over to where the Orc/Elf was awaiting his fate.

“Excuse me, tally ho,” Vogonwë said, waving at Orc guards. They snapped their attention away from the trial and menaced their weapons towards him, growling and snarling and saying “get lost” among other, less publishable things.

Vogonwë held his hands up innocently, “I’m so sorry to disturb you gents. But if you have a moment to lend me your incredibly large, misshapen, hairy ears, I have a favor to ask.”

The guards burst out into laughter at the idea of doing a favor, and told Vogonwë again to get lost or feel the wrath of their swords, clubs, and assorted switchblades.

“Okay,” Vogonwë broke out into a sweat -- very unbecoming in even a half-elf -- and tried to smile. He did a quick head count of the Orcs and ruled out the possibility of taking them out with his arrows -- his proximity to them and their number meant that he could hope to skewer only about half a dozen of them before the other dozen made him feel the wrath of their assorted switchblades. And no doubt the clamor would attract the attention of more unsavory types, not to mention the in session court down the hill. No, he had no choice but to go at this in the manner Grrralph had requested.

He took a deep breath. “Section 108 paragraph 5 line 9 in the Valleyum Unsavory Visitors Act states quite clearly that all prisoners being held on the shores of Valleyum by any and all Unsavory Visitors, such as yourselves, are entitled to three things --

1. The presence of an officiary of the religion of his or her choice
2. A root beer flavored lollypop
3. The recitation of a poem by a professional, licensed Poet.”

The Orcs looked at him blankly, wondering if the strange Elf before them was really All There.

“Now,” Vogonwë continued, “I see none of these things, though I do see a prisoner, and this is Valleyum, and you are all unsavory. Therefore you are in serious, er... well you’re all in a lot of trouble because this represents an unlawful something or other. However, this is also your lucky day because it just so happens that I am a licensed Poet and a Priest of the Order of White Rabbits, which is the religion of this Elf/Orc’s choice. Also I have in my possession one root beer lollypop, slightly sticky with a coating of pocket lint.”

The Orcs exchanged befuddled glances. Then one took a menacing step forward. “Look, chump--”

“The name is Brownbark. Vogonwë Brownbark.”

“Whatever, Chump. We don’t want any of your pansy Elf poetry around here, you got me?”

Vogonwë nodded understandingly, then said, “I thrill at the trilling hill of daffodils.”

The Orcs recoiled, expressions of pain contorting their already contorted features.

“Hey, I said none of that now!”

“Little Mincy-Mee of Shmee danced the Tootlefree in the land of Hannalee.”

“Argh!” The Orcs tried to charge Vogonwë, but were brought to their knees by --

“I went to the fair
I went to the fair,
I went to the fair
To see a bear,
And the bear was there,
At the fair.”

“You’ll never get away with this!” gasped one Orc.

Vogonwë smiled with a hint of sadistic pleasure and replied,

“The drooping fronds of pond leaves left scars
Day is night and night is day
Morning shadows drift down the wet dog nose of love
Rolling in the sand is a pinecone.
Of desire.”

No reply came from the Orcs this time -- they had all fallen face down and were lying motionless on the hill.

Pimpi came creeping up behind Vogonwë and asked, “Are they sleeping? Why have you stopped reciting?”

“I think they’re dead,” Vogonwë said, nudging one prostrate Orc with his foot. “I was experimenting to see what would happen if you mixed two napping spells with a traditional drinking song of Chippendale. And that last one was just something I was working on for social occasions. The effect has succeeded beyond my wildest expectations, the guards are out of commission permanently, which makes your task much easier.”

“I’m going to go untie him.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t mention it. No really, it was nothing...” Vogonwë said dryly, but his complaint was completely lost on Pimpi, who advanced upon the tethered Elf/Orc, and said, “Gravlox? Hello? D’you remember me?”

Gravlox mumbled something around his gag, and Pimpi reached to remove it.

“Be careful, he might bite,” said Vogonwë, hanging back.

Once the gag was free, Gravlox said irritably, “I do not bite and yes, I remember the both of you, to my regret. What have you come to do to me now? Is it not enough that you killed me, you must now come to gloat over me in my hour of subjugation?”

“No, we’ve come to rescue you!” Pimpi said earnestly, tearing away at the knots securing the ropes around his nicely manicured hands. “We’re going to take you away and hide you! Come along now, before anyone notices!”

Gravlox looked between Pimpi and Vogonwë suspiciously. “Is this some kind of trap?”

“Yes,” Vogonwë replied, “we’re going to chop you up and eat you with a side of lembas, that’s why we’ve gone to all this trouble to rescue you from certain death at the hands of Mogul.”

“You’ve become very sarcastic since I last knew you,” Gravlox observed.

“We don’t have time for this, come!” Pimpi urged, and the three of them hastened away, darting glances over their shoulders at the trial which proceeded merrily along, oblivious to the absence of its subject.

[The Saucepan Man]

Greedhog had watched the oral examinations of Gravlox and Soregum with the patronising and supercilious expression that only a truly seasoned Loyer could affect. When they were finally over, and Sueim had sat down, he rose once more and addressed Mantoes.

“My Lord, may I continue?” he asked.

“Whatever, dude,” came the mighty judge’s reply.

“My learned friend,” Greedhog intoned, spitting the words out contemptuously as if they were flies that had somehow become ensnared within his pallid jowls, but nevertheless bound by the code of courtroom etiquette to use them, “has put in contention the issue of whether the subject of this trial, one Gravlox Uruk, is or is not at the present time an Orc. I might point to his very name as evidence of his Orcentricity, under the doctrine of res ipsa loquitur. But I would submit that this question is wholly irrelevant, and therefore one which need not trouble your Lordship.”

“Sweet,” said Mantoes, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. As far as he was concerned, the less he had to decide, and the quicker this tedious trial was over with, the better.

“For it is undeniably the case,” Greedhog continued, “that, while he may be seeking redemption, the aforementioned Gravlox is most certainly not yet fully redeemed. And thus it was when Lord Mögul exercised his option under the Orcish Conundrum Concordat in respect of, inter alia, the said Gravlox. Indeed, at that time the subject was undoubtedly more Orcish than Elvish. I can testify to that myself, having - er - questioned him at length.”

“And your point is…?” asked the judge.

“My point is, My Lord, that the whole purpose of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat, its raison d’être if you like, was to avoid a situation whereby you would be required to admit a former Orc into your hallowed Halls by reason of such Orc having sought, and successfully obtained, redemption. My Lord, I am sure that you of all people need no reminding of this, but, should proof of this proposition be required, then I would refer the court to page 3, post #119 of the trial papers prepared by my Înstrùktïng Sólícïtôrrs.”

Klïffòrd Shànnse and Slôrrtern Maï glowered in smug satisfaction and the mention of their handiwork, while Mantoes eyed the enormous stack of papers before him with some reluctance.

“No need, dude,” he declared. “I know the score. No way we wanted those gross Orcish dudes messing up the place and bringing everyone down, redemption or no redemption. Seriously bad vibes, man.”

“Ergo, My Lord, it follows that the aforesaid Concordat could only validly be invoked in circumstances where the Orc in question was seeking redemption, yet was not fully redeemed. Which is precisely the state that Gravlox Uruk was in when he was offered to, and accepted by, my client, Lord Mögul, under the terms of said Concordat.”

“Er, right,” said Mantoes.

“It follows that the subject has validly come into my client‘s possession by the proper operation of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat. Moreover, as I am sure that all present are aware, section XXXIX, clause 658, sub-clause 658.12, paragraph 3, sub-paragraph (d), sub-sub-paragraph (ixx) of the Valleyum civil code states that possession is nine tenths of the law. Accordingly, given that the said Gravlox is currently within my client’s possession and validly so, my client is legally and indisputably entitled to retain ownership of precisely nine tenths of him."

Greedhog paused for effect, an evil grin spreading across his grotesque features, before continuing.

"As to the remaining one tenth, my client is of course perfectly willing to deliver this up to my learned friend, should he so wish”

His submissions over, Greedhog sat down with a flourish and glared smugly at Sueim.

“He’s good,” whispered Kuruharan, clearly impressed. “Darn good. I wonder how much he charges for this sort of thing?”

“Aye. Ever had I heard that the dread loyers of Moredough were well practised in their dark arts,” added the Gateskeeper. “And now the evidence of mine own eyes testifies that the legends did not speak falsely.”

And so, as Merisuwyniel fought to hold back the rising tide of despair that threatened to engulf her, all eyes turned back to Sueim, upon whom the hopes of the Court-ship, and the success of their Quest, now depended.

[Lush]

"You know, the West is just another ideological construct used to perpetuate stereotypes and dictate the nature of diplomatic relationships," a tiny voice sang sweetly to Leninia as she walked down a long, dark corridor toward her destination.

"Uh huh." Leninia brushed it off. She was concentrating on her task so hard that she didn't even resort to telling the voice to shut up. "Wait a minute, who is this?"

"The voice in your head, of course," the voice replied.

Leninia remembered the vulture from her previous dream, vision, quest...thing. and decided that she'd had enough weirdness for today.

"Could you go away, please?" She implored the voice in an uncharacteristically polite and only slightly irritated tone.

"Sure. Please don't think that my entire existence revolves around you. Yet before you throw me out so rudely, perhaps you should know that I have something say about the task that lies ahead of you."

"You do?"

"Yes."

A long silence followed, interrupted only by the sound of Leninia's high heels clicking on the polished marble floor.

"What was that again?"

"I said, yes. Oh, and almost forgot, FREE POLITICAL PRISONERS IN THE NAME OF DEMYSTIFICATION OF ALL SOCIAL CONSTRUCTS AND REPRESSIVE MEASURES THAT PERPETUATE THEM!"

The voice did not come back.

"Hello?" Leninia ventured. "Hey. Loser. Moron. Weirdo. Emotionally constipated freakoid who still lives in his mother's basement and wears the same socks for a week at a time! Ok. It really is gone. Great."

And at this, Leninia reached the door at the end of the hall. It was rather unremarkable and shabby, bearing graffitti along the lines of "Abandon all dope at the door, plz." Leninia prepared herself, tossed her hair about for extra confidence, and knocked.

Another long silence followed. Then a toilet flushed. Then a dull and disinterested voice yelled "it's open!" and Leninia stepped through into what appeared to be a particularly low-end office, with garish lighting from cheap novelty floor-lamps shaped like trees and stacks of dusty folders rising like towers and getting lost somewhere in the great heights of the ceiling.

A young man sat at a shabby desk and quietly yet deliberately thumped his head on it. Another young man, in suspenders and a not-so-crisp shirt, was eyeing Leninia suspiciously.

"The hair salon is down the hall in the opposite direction," he finally said.

"You think my hair needs a sa..." Leninia bristled, then quickly regained her composure. "I mean, I wasn't looking for the hair salon, I was looking...well. For you."

"For me?" Young Man #2 raised an eyebrow. Young Man #1 meanwhile continued thumping.

"Excuse me," Leninia smiled a glittering, toothy smile. "But is there anything wrong with your, um, colleague over there? Does he need help? Maybe we could give him a pillow?"

"Oh, no, that's qute alright, actually," Young Man #2 grinned. "He can't concentrate on his job otherwise."

"Must be a pretty tough job."

"Tell me about it," Young Man #2 groaned. "We keep getting our budget cut in half. It's supposed to be one of the most important jobs in this entire sorry establishment, assisting Our Beloved Foorer Mantoes himself. But guess what? This place has its priorities so screwed up that I'm beginning to think of transferring, before I go insane and get pushed into early retirement. All they care about is their defense fund!"

"Maybe I can help?" Leninia fluttered her eyelashes so much it seemed for a moment as if she might take off and sail straight up and away. "I'm sure we could get the budget improved drastically for the coming fiscal year. I have connections."

"What's the catch?" Young Man #2 eyed her cautiously and hungrily at the same time, like a bird eyeing a particularly bright-colored spider on The Yearning Channel documentary.

"Oh just a little bit of fine print, dear."

"Very fine?"

"Excrutiatingly fine, darling."

"Extremely fine?"

"Gloriously, divinely fine, pumpkin."

"As fine as you are?"

"Hmm. Why not?" And all the while Leninia's eyes continued to blink and glitter and radiate like miniature nuclear power plants. Young Man #2 began swaying from side to side, drooling, smiling, and muttering utter nonsense:

"And then we're going to have a...yes, barbeques on the back porch...the first one we can name, hmmm, something fashionable, like Arden...Maybe the second one will be Dior...Pink pram...Of course, you can keep your job...Cocktails in the den...Summer holiday at St. Tropessea...Pretty trinkets on your birthday...Yes, the lace one.." And so on.

This was enough to rouse even Young Man #1 from his head-banging stupor.

"What have you done?" He roared at Leninia. "We get off at five and we still have work to do? You want to get us fired?"

"No, sugar," Leninia smiled sweetly. "I want to help you."

"Listen lady, your tricks ain't gonna work on me..." Young Man #1 began.

"I know," Leninia interruped gently, remembering the voice's advice. "That's why I had to get your colleague here out of the way. Now listen to me very carefully: Rule number one, you do not talk about what happened here today. Rule number two, you do not talk about what happened here today. Rule number three, this so-called office decor really has to go. Rule number four, helpmefreeyourpoliticalprisonersandallyourfinancia lproblemsaregoingtodisappear."

"Whoa, lady, that's a whole lot of fine print."

"Well, put your glasses on," Leninia snapped.

"...And then we can install a pool...My mother can babysit the kids...You in your nightgown, brushing your long gorgeous hair...And the pink ribbons...Yes, of course, we can...A sale at the Gap of Rohan, you can get anything you want..." Young Man #2 was still going strong.

"And why should we listen to you?" Young Man #1 persisted.

"Because I know how this whole business was. I used to be slightly evil, you see, Leninia Tiny and Terrible, you may have heard of me. But then I met some people, entered a 12-step program..." Leninia trailed off, smiling, for Young Man #2 had come out of his stupor and was staring at her like a rabbit at a cobra on The Yearning Channel.

"Come, gentle revised budget, come, loving, green-coloured revised budget,
Give me my sanity; and, when I shall retire,
Take my stock options and cut them out in huge financial benefits,
So that all the world will be oyster, and pay no worship to my garish looks.
Oh, I will buy a mansion..." He whispered.

"Shut up!" Young Man #1 yelled. "Tell me instead if there are any political prisoners in our jurisdiction whose case may be up for review."

"We only have one. One lousy one." Young Man #2 ruffled a paper-stack, then another. On his twelth paper stack, as Leninia yawned, he finally came upon what he was looking for.

'Last name LaBamba. First name....eh...what is this? Too-thin? Since when can somebody be too thin? Or too r..."

"Ok, I get it man, you're obsessed with your retirement fund, I get it!" Young Man #1 roared.

"So, can we do something about this LaBamba gentleman?" Leninia coughed charmingly and politely.

"Wait, hold on, there is also something here about an...Hmm. An army dispatched here by Mogul? All classified under, er, enemy 'combustants'? Held without trial? Tortured with watching mid-level sitcoms and uh, other stuff...Hmmm. Seems like a huge violation of basic hu...I mean *cough wheeze* Maybe they were all mis-filed? An entire army mis-filed?"

'I'm telling you, we can turn this organization around," Leninia said. "Make it stand for something glorious again. Let it never mis-file another being, human or otherwise, ever again. Mis-filing. That word should have new meaning for us today. We can't be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will not go quietly to early retirement or otherwise! We will not vanish without a fight! We're going to move on! We're going to survive! Today we celebrate our...eh...What date is it today?"

"No clue."

"Ok, fine, whatever, do whatever needs to be done."

"And..." Young Man #2 looked at Leninia like a prairie dog popping out of its hole and staring with astonishment at whatever it is there is to be stared at (all this Leninia of course learned from The Yearning Channel, copyright 200...eh, whatever year it is right now).

"And what?" Coy Leninia asked.

"And all of that before this? I mean...You probably think that I'm an uncool materialistic..."

"Emotionally constpitaed frekoid?" Leninia finished sweetly.

"Yeah...I mean no...I think...The things you said to me before? Are they...? Are they?"

Leninia remembered the voice in her head.

"Yes." She said. "Yes."

"Hold me closer, tiny and terrible Leninia."

[Mithadan]

As with any activity conducted in a public forum, so too are there fans of the legal profession; those who would rather perish than miss a trial of any great moment. Those who hang upon every last word spoken by a loyer and every last nuance of the law. From the corners of Valleyum, these had descended upon the plain before the Hill of Fish to witness Sueim strive against Greedhog. There they stood in the gallery. All two of them. At this moment, they were attempting to do the wave but were rather looking like Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum bobbing up and down from Through the Looking Glass. But that is, of course, a different story...

Hal sidled over to Merisu and patted her on the shoulder. "Have heart fair maiden," he cried. "It is always darkest before the storm. Every cloud has a silver lining. What goes up must come down. Our distinguished counsel will muster his wiles and deliver a brilliant repartee! Justice will prevail! E pluribus unum! Ad hoc, ad loc and quid pro quo!"

"Ipsi dixit?" mumbled Kuruharan.

"Et tu?" snarled Orogarn with a glare at the dwarf.

Then Sueim smiled and rose gracefully from the counsel's table. He paused to straighten his tie, then advanced to stand before Mantoes. The shining loyer cleared his throat and then spoke in sonorous tones, words of great moment and significance. "I rest my case," he said.

"WHAT!" cried Merisu. "That's it?"

Sueim looked off towards the hill upon which the stake stood with a prisoner bound to it with leather thongs and duct tape. He nodded. "That is most assuredly it," he replied. "Hal would you escort Merisu to the rear of the Itship please?"

Hal gave Sueim a poisonous look, however, with the Velour looking on he had little choice but to comply. With bowed head, Merisu walked away until she was hidden from view behind Chrysophylax who, for the past few minutes, had been issuing a cloud of steam that even Prada's bright eyes could not pierce.

Mantoes hemmed and hawed for a few minutes with the other Velour, then returned to the bench. "Like, having reviewed the Orcish Conundrum Concordat and the records of Gravlox Uruk, we think that he was well on the way to redemption even before that idiot Elf or half Elf shot him full of arrows..."

From behind the Mists of Chrysophylax there came a voice. "What! Hey! I object! OW! Pimpi, why did you hit me..." Quite rightfully, the voice was dutifully ignored by all present.

"...Even after his untimely demise," continued Mantoes. "He worked hard at his lessons and training, even his dental hygiene though to little avail, and learned the ways and manners of the Elves. We find that he is sufficiently reformed to not qualify as an Orc for the purposes of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat."

"Oh my Emu!" came a distinctly and properly feminine yet strong and admirable cry from behind the Smokes of the Dragon. This cry was likewise ignored.

Greedhog ground his teeth in irritation and his clerks began discussing how to appeal from a ruling of the highest court on Muddled Mirth. Then Mantoes spoke again. "But like, however, the fact is that he is in the possession of Môgul Bildûr, formerly known to all here as Melvin Bluenote, and like, it is so totally true that possession is nine-tenths of the law. So I guess we kind of, like, have to rule in favor of Môgul Bildûr."

From behind the Mists of the Wyrm, there came another cry. One would have expected it to be the sound of anguish and grief of a distraught lover who had lost her one and only forever. But it sounded suspiciously like, "Yes! Yes!"

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum gasped, as did a few of the other, less interested, observers. At Greedhog's counsel table there were high fives all around and not a few "Woo hoos" and cries of "Who's your daddy?" But Sueim rose and, to the surprise of all present, he did not look displeased. Indeed, he was smiling broadly. "My Lord Mantoes," he began. "Some clarification, please. As I understand, your ruling is that Gravlox Uruk is redeemed, but that whoever is in possession of him is entitled to his...errr... possession. Is that correct?"

Mantoes nodded. "Sorry, dude."


"No problemo," said Sueim. He motioned towards the sky, and a wind arose which blew aside the Mists of Chrysophylax. The dragon, who appeared almost to be a bit teary, stepped aside. There was revealed for all to see, the sight of Merisuwyniel and Gravlox Ex-Uruk embracing one another tightly. Next to them were Pimpiowyn and Vogonwë, Gravlox's rescuers. They waved happily at Sueim, who waved back. Then the Loyer turned to face Môgul's counsel.

"Possession is nine tenths of the law, Greedhog," cried Sueim. "In your face!"

The forces of Môgul Bildûr quailed at the blow that had been dealt to their master and a wail arose from the great mass of Orcs, Trolls, Wraiths, half-Orcs, half-Trolls and other assorted incestuous combinations that comprised the army. But suddenly a rain of legal papers fell from the sky and there, free from the bonds of Sueim's writs and injuctions was Môgul Bildûr, flying on Heffalump. "Who cares about a traitorous Orc or Elf or whatever he is," he cried. "The court has ruled and I am now free to act as I see fit. I think I'll take up right where I left off before this ridiculous sideshow began. Let's see... Where was I? Oh yes!" Mogûl swept down over the Itship and his Aerophaunt, Heffalump, trumpeted loudly. He raised a hand and shouted, "Kill them! Kill them all and bring me the fragments of the Ent! Bwah ha ha!"

But at that second, a new voice rang out and it was nearly as loud as Mogûl's. "Wait a minute Bildur!"

Mogûl closed his eyes in annoyance. "Deja vu, all over again. I hate deja vu." He opened his eyes and looked about to find the owner of the voice. And lo! There stood Leninia, and next to her stood a man in a rumpled suit who looked altogether too much like a bureaucrat. But the voice belonged to neither of them. Rather, it belonged to a very tall and skinny man, dressed all in black, who stood holding a long sword. And behind him was arrayed a vast shadowy army of the spirits of Men and Elves from the Halls of Mantoes. Yes, there was Feeblenor who long ago had wrought the Lava Lamps and his seven sons, Maypo, Maalox, Celebimbo, Curuthin, Ramrod, Ramfast and Carrera. And there were Thingy and his household, and Pinhead who had dwelt in the caves of Imablonde and many others of the Noodlar and the Doolalliquendi besides. And there were the great Mannish heroes such as Moron the Old and Who-Him and their hosts as well. But Mogûl's eyes were glued upon the tall thin man who had spoken. "Too-Thin Labamba," he whispered...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

I feel pretty,
Oh, so pretty,
I feel pretty and witty and bright!
And I pity
Any Velou who isn't me tonight.

I feel charming,
Oh, so charming
It's alarming how charming I feel!
And so pretty
That I hardly can believe I'm real.

See the pretty being in that mirror there:
Who can that Green Goddess be?
Such a pretty face,
Such a pretty dress,
Such a pretty smile,
Such a pretty me!

I feel stunning
And entrancing,
Feel like dancing and ringing a bell,
For I'm loved
By a pretty wonderful Mel!

Yawanna twirled around as she sang in the gardens of Valleyum, and flowers sprang up where her bare feet touched the ground. It had been a long time since the words of the ancient tale of the West Side had occurred to her, and she was well aware of the fact that this song was no longer hip. But for some reason, it made her feel young, as young as Melvin had made her feel with his charming smile and flattering words. Ever since she had willingly suspended disbelief, she had surrendered to his enchantment, and it did not break.

She stretched a pale green hand down to collect some seeds, and the plants gladly gave them to her. Carefully marking each kind and wrapping them in paper envelopes, she put her most prized possessions in a large suitcase. She would turn Muddled-Mirth into a paradise, a garden in which love, light, and joy could dwell forever – or at least as long as it lasted. She envisioned herself as its Queen – she would not be dark, but terribly beautiful, fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth! All would love her and despair! Finally she would no longer have to play second fiddle to that upstart Prada – who did she think she was anyway, with her head full of fashion nonsense instead of Yawanna’s creativity?!

Thus did she dream of a fair future, and it occurred not to her to doubt Melvin’s sudden appearance nor to question the truth of his words. Yet gradually she became aware of a melody that intruded upon her singing, a discord that she at first wove into her own music, yet it did clash and she realized that her Cell-antír was ringing shrilly. And she loathed the thought of being interrupted in her pleasant thoughts and tasks, yet she was also curious to know who wished to send her a message.

Her green brows furrowed as she read the words. They brought back a memory she had thought forgotten, and indeed she was not inclined to revive it, yet it left a bitter taste in her mouth and her normally smiling lips pressed together as tightly as her clenched hands did.

Dear Yawanna,

Mogul is leading you on. Please listen to the attached em-pethree. And please accept my sincere apologies for that incident at the last Velour Annual Charity Auction and Bazaar. I do hope your hair grew back out OK.

"Andy" Andotiruves

cc: Emu the Flightless

Almost involuntarily, her hand moved to click on the enclosure. She listened to it, first with disbelief, then with increasing doubt. She recognized both voices, that of the Elven maiden and that of her beloved. Could it be?

“It is by Yawanna’s will that the Ent shall be remade, and when it is, vile spirit of greed, you shall be no more.”

“Yawanna is it? You think that she will help you? Well, I’m sorry to disabuse you of that little notion, but the gullible wench thinks she is going to be my Queen. She has no intention of helping you now.”

She sank to the ground, covering her face with her hands. Who was she to believe, this obnoxious “Andy” or her darling Melvin?

[Mithadan]

Of the Chamber Pot of Doom or the Tale of Who-Him and His Son Too-Thin Labamba

Of old, when the Elves were brought to Valleyum, the Elder race was less old and had little experience with civilized life, having spent most of their time wandering in the woods and fields. Thus, when they were brought to the Blessed Lands the Elves were untidy (and thus were named by the Velour the 'Slobs'). Being glad of the company and bearing great affection for the Elder Children of Emu, the Velour resolved to tidy up after the Elves and later instruct them on the skills of housekeeping and cleaning up after themselves. So it came to pass that the Velour crafted for the Elves enchanted chamber pots which cleansed themselves and tasked the lesser spirits to do laundry and pick up the prodigious amounts of trash that the Elves, in their joyful free-wheeling style, left behind where ever they went. And the Velour, being a bit airheaded themselves, then forgot to instruct the Elves on such menial tasks...

But ages later, the Noodlar rebelled and returned to Muddled Mirth without the permission of the Velour. After taking counsel, the Velour resolved to encourage the Noodlar to return by withdrawing their magic from the chamberpots and prohibiting the lesser cleaning spirits from following the Elves to Muddled earth. Thus was hardship wrought upon the Noodlar who were forced to learn to clean up their own... messes, or live in untidiness. And the Elves did not learn quickly...

So it was that Prince Pinhead, the Lord of the great caves of Imablonde, could no longer bear the smell of unchanged chamberpots and dirty laundry and left his realm for a time on a ride through the forests of Dairyland. And lo! one night after days of riding without changing his clothes, he heard voices unlike those he had ever heard before. Pinhead dismounted and crept up to a clearing and saw a great multitude of people unlike any he had seen before, and these were the Younger Children of Emu, the Men. And after they had gone to sleep, he crept into the clearing and took up a rough hewn harp and sang a song of Velleyum. The Men awoke in an enchantment and loved his music and said, "boy, Pinhead, you sure can sing, but you smell bad!" And Pinhead dwelt among them for a time and they laundered his clothes and cleaned up after him and he rejoiced and resolved to bring the Men back with him to live among the Elves as their housekeepers, butlers, stablehands and other assorted menial workers.

So it was that the Lord of the Men, Moron the Old, agreed and Men came to live among the Noodlar and do their dirty work for a proverbial song. But Môgul Bildûr was displeased and sought to create strife between Men and Elves and he sent his agents among the Younger Race with whispers of Unionization, minimum wages and benefits. And some fell under the spell of the Dread Developer, but most rejected him, recognizing that he, his Loyers and his armies of Orcs and Trolls and whatnot were even greater slobs than the Elves. Then there was war in Dairyland...

Now Who-Him was a great lord of Men who had negotiated with the Elves and gotten lands of his own for his people so long as they cleaned up after the Elder race. And they did so with joy, knowing that they had a pretty good deal in comparison to the Men serving the Sons of Feeblenor who still had to sleep with the horses. And the people of Who-Him were faithful and brave and were great cleaners and warriors to boot. Indeed, they had grown so savvy and sophisticated that they were little unlike the Elves themselves, save that their lives were short. And among them arose minstrels who were nigh as skilled as the Elves, and greatest among these was Who-Him's son Too-Thin, who was also known as Labamba in recognition of his music. But the joy of the people of Who-Him was cut short and an army of Orcs rolled over his lands and Who-Him was captured and brought before Môgul Bildûr. And Môgul offered him his freedom if he would become a champion of Unionization and strive against the Elves, but Who-Him refused. So Who-Him was given nifty shoes of stone and taught to swim with the fishes...

But Too-Him and his band escaped the nets of Môgul Bildûr and gathered to him Men and Elves and created a travelling troope of performers who would offer to entertain the Legions of the Dread Builder, then, after the the Orcs and Trolls (and whatnot) were drunk as Zerls, would slay them all. And Too-Him wielded a great sword and would leave his mark, an "L", carved upon the chests of those he slew. And the Elves and Men of Dairyland rejoiced at the actions of Labamba and grew bold and strove against Môgul Bildûr even harder.

So the Dark Lord sent a great army afield to capture Labamba, and there was a dragon with them, Flourdrum the Dreadful. Yet even this army would not avail to capture or defeat Labamba, so Flourdrum went forth with but few Orcs around him and made a camp in the lands where Too-Thin was said to dwell. And Too-Thin and his troope came and played for the battalion, thinking to slay them as he had done so often before. But Flourdrum placed Labamba under a spell and convinced him of the benefits of Unionization so that in after times Too-Thin was both beloved and feared by the Elves.

At last, weary of the long wars against Môgul Bildûr, Too-Thin assembled a great army and planned to attack Slangbad in secret. And he built many ships and sailed his army to Valleyum, planning to march up the coast of the Blessed Lands and cross the ocean again in the far north thus coming upon Slangbad from behind. And it may be that Labamba's ploy might have been successful, for Môgul Bildûr's attention was elsewhere at that time, due to the untimely death of Flourdrum who had been barbequed by the Orcish army when provisions had run low. But when Labamba and his army landed on the shores of Valleyum, they were set upon by the Toll Maiar of VIA and arrested for illegal entry. Thereafter, they were imprisoned in the Halls of Mantoes, but it was said that when great need arises and the shores of Valleyum themselves are threatened by Môgul Bildûr, that Labamba and his army would be released together with the spirits of all who were ever slain or cheated by the Dread Developer and that Labamba and his army would then fight the Step-Sister of All Battles on behalf of the Velour and the Elves... and then seek back wages...

[The Saucepan Man]

“Curses! Foiled again!” exclaimed Môgul Bildûr in typically stereotypical fashion as he surveyed the host of Who-Him and Too-Thin from his perch atop Heffalump, before steering the great Oliphaunt back over the serried (and rather worried) ranks of his vast army. The Velour too made a hasty departure, muttering something about surf being up and having important affairs of state to attend to, judging (wrongly, as it happened) that all had now been set right, that the Bolstered-ship looked to be completely in charge of the situation and that this was really none of their business anyway.

And so, as the two great hosts faced each other across the wide plain, Môgul hastily convened a conference of his commanders. The various Uruk captains, semi-literate Trolls and senior Loyers present eyed each other nervously, fully aware of the likely consequences of their Master’s set-back. Only the Cap’n Ar-Kidd, the bushy-browed Dumbarian commander, remained in good spirits. In reaching Valleyum and discovering the fabled weed native to the land, he had achieved that which his ancestor, Ar-Peronome, had been unable to do. Whatever happened, he would now die a happy man (aided no doubt by the vast quantities of said fabled weed that he had been smoking). Greedhog, on the other hand, simply stared blankly at the ground, unable to comprehend how the trial had slipped so badly from his impeccably manicured grasp.

Having predictably worked out his anger on a selection of his unfortunate commanders, Môgul turned to his Advocate-General.

“There there, old chap. Never mind. It wasn’t your fault,” he said, albeit rather unconvincingly.

But Greedhog was inconsolable.

“They’re the good guysss,” he hissed in disbelief. “They’re not sssuppossed to cheat. That’s what we do. They are sssuppossed to act with honour and integrity. How are we sssuppossed to know where we sstand if they don’t play by the rulesss? It’sss just not right!”

“Whatever,” said Môgul, losing patience.

He had in fact been rather impressed with Sueim’s tactics and was seriously considering headhunting him (quite literally) to replace Greedhog. But right now, he had more important matters to consider, such as how to prevent his entire army being obliterated by a bunch of hoary has-been heroes.

“Now let me see …” he said, producing from deep within the folds of his black cloak a battered and dusty old tome and flicking through the pages.

The Dark Lord’s Bumper Book of Back-up Plans, Desperate Gambits and Aces in the Hole had never failed him in the past, but it was wearing rather thin. Most of the pages had been ripped out and those that remained seemed woefully inadequate to address for the situation at hand. But it was not long before a malignant smile spread across his face.

“The fools!” he chuckled. “Hmm, that should even up the odds a bit.”

“My Lord …?” said Greedhog expectantly.

“They have released from the Halls of that idiot Mantoes a host of long-dead heroes, right.”

“Right, Oh Magnifisscently Malisscious One,” replied Greedhog, seeking to curry favour with his Master once more.

“Well, it says here that, by doing so, they have caused an imbalance in the space-time continuum.”

“Er …?”

“Which means that all I have to do is reverse the polarity of the neutron flow …”

“Eh …?” mumbled a confused Greedhog.

“Sorted!” exclaimed a blissfully oblivious Ar-Kidd.

The remaining captains assembled simply stared dumbly, thinking that their Master had taken leave of his senses, but wisely refusing to articulate such thoughts.

“Shazam!” declared the Dread Developer portentously.

Nothing happened.

“Shazam!” he said once more, trying a slightly different emphasis.

Silence. His commanders began to back away nervously.

“Sha-zam!” he tried again, summoning up every remnant of dark sorcery within his black soul.

Still nothing.

“Oh Delightfully Diabolic and Dessceitful One,” piped up Greedhog. “If I might …”

“Shhh …!” hissed Môgul sharply. “Listen. Can you hear it?”

Almost imperceptibly at first, a deep rumble reached the ears of those assembled. Gradually, it built until it had become an ear-shattering roar, seemingly issuing forth both from the sky and from deep within the earth at one and the same time. The very ground upon which they stood began to shake and dark clouds gathered overhead. Bright shafts of jagged lightning rent the stormy darkness and a piercing shriek could now be heard above the roar. It was, as usual, all rather clichéd, but effective nonetheless. As was the Dread Developer’s reaction.

“Look! Look!” he exclaimed in jubilation. “They come! They come to me! MWAHAHAHA!”

Back at the site of the trial, the One-up-man-ship had been in the middle of celebrating their seemingly inevitable victory and greeting with great vigour the throng of Who-Him and Too-Thin when the hullabaloo had begun. Thinking that the army of Moredough was beginning its advance, they turned to meet it in battle. But the dark horde had not moved.

“What in Emu’s name is happening?” cried Orogarn Two.

“Ai!” wailed Vogonwë, clapping his hands to his sensitive ears.

“Good grief, what now?” muttered Kuruharan, glancing disdainfully at the Half-Elf.

“It can’t be …!” said the Gateskeeper in disbelief. Being a geek of colossal proportions, he had recognised the signs immediately.

“Can’t be what, Gateskeeper?” asked Soregum.

“He has reversed the polarity of the neutron flow!” declared the wierdo Wizard ominously.

“Oh no! Not the polarity of the neutron flow!” cried the It-ship as one, without having the faintest idea what he was talking about.

And there was a great wailing and gnashing of teeth among the Wail-ship and their allies, until Soregum piped up.

“Um, what exactly does that mean, Gateskeeper?”

“It means, little one, that …”

But he was cut short by Too-Thin’s cry.

“Egad …!”

All eyes turned to follow his gaze to a nearby hill to where a great scaly reptilian head was rising over the peak. It was swiftly followed by a great scaly reptilian neck, a great scaly reptilian body, four great scaly reptilian legs and a great scaly reptilian tail.

“Flourdrum!” exclaimed Too-thin.

For indeed it was the great Dragon, father of the Hokikoki. And he was not alone. The storm clouds parted as a host of winged Dragons swept down from above, led by Ancalorgas the Black, the most terrible of his kind. And among their number were Smug the Complacent, Scathing the Critical and Argon the Inert. And lo, there ran the great Werewolves, Carchasscof and his sire, Dribblin, no longer hiding amongst innocent villagers but free now to wreak their beastly havoc. Above them wheeled the beautiful but deadly figure of Luringfemfatal, the Vampire vamp, temptress of the noble and virtuous (and, incidentally, Leninia’s former role model).

“It means, little one,” continued the Gateskeeper grimly, “that Môgul has released from the Void every evil spirit that ever dwelt in Muddled-mirth.

And sure enough, a great horde of Werewolves, Vampires, Demons, Wraiths, Zombies, Skeleton Warriors, Mummies, Frankenstein’s Monsters and Creatures from the Black Lagoon was now advancing down the hill towards them led by Flourdrum. And behind them all, a familiar old man wheeled his Vending Trolley. Saurkraut had returned too.

But that was not all. Way back in the mists of time, in his eagerness to conquer the hidden city of Gondola, Môgul had created an army of mechanical beasts and enclosed within them evil misshapen beings. They too now advanced towards the Dread-ship. And their metallic war cry was dreadful to hear.

Ex-term-in-ate!