The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Caught-in-the-Middle-Ship stood on the Great Plains of Valleyum, their heads moving to and fro in a manner reminiscent of tennis game spectators in later ages. On the one side stood Labamba with a multitude of valiant Men and Elves, yet the sight of the fearsome beasts both living and mechanical on the other side was verily horrifying to behold.

Merisuwyniel, their hitherto fearless leader, feared not Death nor the sickly, fluorescent green hue that the army had taken, obviously thinking it to be the proper appearance for an army of dead – or undead, as the case may be. She was not puzzled by the strange words concerning space-time continuum and reversed polarity of neutron flow, for her highly intelligent Elven mind was able to grasp even the most complicated of futuristic technobabble. She eschewed not the wear and tear of battle, knowing full well that her new questing habit in shades of lavender brought out the colour of her eyes and highlighted the sheen of her golden tresses in a most flattering display of femininity, whilst being eminently practical in matters of grime-repellent fabric and the close fit of the divided riding skirt.

And yet she remained motionless, indecisive even, in a way quite untypical for her normally courageous spirit. A feeling that she had never known before had taken control of her heart. It was not loneliness, for lo! was not Gravlox’ arm laid protectively about her shoulder? It was not anger, though that would have been an understandable reaction to the desertion of the Velour. It was not hunger, for she was no Hobbit.

No, this strange, hitherto unknown feeling was – fear! Fear and… despair! She had kept hope throughout the Quest of the Entish Bow, despite overwhelming odds time and time again. She had not despaired, though her small band of Questers bumbled its way through Muddled-Mirth in ways that would have served well as “How not to” instruction manuals. But now, when all hell was unleashed and seemed to have assembled against her, her strength and courage finally failed.

“Well, this is the end, Gravlox,” she proclaimed dramatically, clasping his now well-groomed hand. He looked pale and worn from his captivity, yet in his eyes there was peace and love. “I would have followed you, my Orc Captain… my almost-Elven lover… King of my heart!” she said. They embraced, oblivious to the terror surrounding them, and if their kiss was so fervent as to be embarrassing in such a public location, who could blame them? They had nothing to lose.

“I’m glad you are here with me,” Merisu sighed. “Here at the End of All Things.”

There was no protest from the Entish Bow, clasped firmly in her other hand. It, too, had seemingly given up hope.

[Kuruharan]

While this moderately nauseating scene was going on, Kuruharan sat on a rock in a recently acquired rusty suit of plate armor with a ridiculously oversized lance planted in the ground next to him.

“Kuruharan!” screamed Orogarn Two, “what are you doing? Get over here and help!”

“…mmm…wha,” said Kuruharan. “Oh, sorry. I was just reading this fascinating treatise on military tactics. It’s shown me the importance of engaging critical factors of the enemy’s supply system.”

“Will you just shut up and get over here!” screeched Vogonwë.

“Humph,” said Kuruharan, “how rude.” He placed his book on the ground. Embossed in gold letters on the cover of the tome could be discerned the name of one of history’s greatest military thinkers. The letters read Donkey Hoté.

Kuruharan picked up his lance and strode over to Chrysophylax. The dragon was saddled and bridled and consequently not in the best of moods.

“Shouldn’t I be flying through the sky spreading death and destruction amongst our enemies?” the dragon asked, trying to sound reasonable.

“Nonsense, my loyal steed,” replied Kuruharan cheerily. “That’s a waste of effort! All we have to do is surgically destroy their food reserves and the enemy will starve to death!”

“Might not the Gallowship all be dead by the time that happens?” asked Chrysophylax.

“Every plan has an element of risk,” said Kuruharan. His gaze swept the battlefield in search of his intended target. “Now, where are the enemy windmills?” he demanded.

*Clang* went the visor of his helmet as it crashed down on his nose.

“Wha…I don’t think the enemy brought any windmills,” said Chrysophylax.

“Preposterous,” snorted Kuruharan as he raised the visor. “If they don’t have any windmills how will they grind up their grain to make flour for bread?”

“I don’t think they brought any grain to make flour for bread,” answered the dragon.

“Ha,” said the dwarf. *Clang* “Ouch!!! This just goes to show that you know nothing about logistics. (Stupid visor!) Armies march on their stomach…”

“Actually, this army flew,” interrupted Chrysophylax.

“…therefore they have to have a supply of food,” continued Kuruharan, not even hearing. “Ergo, they have to bring grain. This means they have to grind it up. This means they must have brought windmills.” *Clang*

“Why can’t we all think like you,” said the dragon sarcastically.

“Because then everyone would be a genius!” answered Kuruharan. He lifted his visor and scanned the battlefield again. “There they are!!!” he cried.

“Where?”

“Right ther..*Clang*…OW!!”

“Uhhh,” said the dragon. “I don’t think those are windmills. Those are three great enemy Loyers.”

“There’s something wrong with your eyes,” snapped Kuruharan. “How else do you explain their size and those four great vanes that are spinning about?”

“Those aren’t vanes!!!” said the dragon. “Those are their two arms and the great shadows about each of them that look like vanes!!”

*Clang* “Ooof!!” Kuruharan muttered. “We can be glad that you are just the loyal steed and are not in charge of tactical decisions.” The dwarf climbed into the saddle and set his lance. “Heigh-ho Silver, AWAY!!!”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘Gold’,” said Chrysophylax. “Chrysos (or krysos) means…”

“Oh very well,” said Kuruharan. “Heigh-ho Gold, AWAY!!!”

Away the dragon shot!

“EEEEEKKKKK!!!” squealed Kuruharan as he fell out of the saddle. He held on to the stirrup and was dragged along the ground in a most undignified manner, flailing around with his lance.

*Whang* went the lance off the side off Chrysophylax’s head. The dragon staggered and started weaving from side to side in his charge. “Oooohhh, nooow I see. Maybe those are windmills after all.”

Alas, their heroism had not gone unnoticed. The three Loyers watched as this growing threat stumbled and staggered unsteadily toward them. As one they opened their mouths and let loose a terrible cry.

“BAWH-HAWH-HAWH-HAWH-HAWH!!!!”

Unfortunately, at that moment Kuruharan’s lance plunged into the turf. Doubly unfortunately, this caused him to spring back into the air. Triply unfortunately, he still had hold of Chrysophylax’s stirrup. Quadruply unfortunately, this yanked Chrysophylax off balance and sent him sprawling.

The Loyers collapsed on the ground in convulsions of laughter.

Kuruharan was left trapped thirty feet in the air, clinging desperately to the lance.

“Would somebody like to give me a hand please?” said Kuruharan.

The Loyers were laughing so hard that tears were starting from their eyes and bursting into steam as they hit their faces. They could barely catch their breath.

The lancehead snapped off and Kuruharan began his descent to the earth.

“TIIIMMMMBEEEER!!!!” *splat*

The Loyers were writhing in delirium. They would have burst into laughter anew, but alas, they lacked the air…so they simply burst.

Thus it was that Kuruharan and Chrysophylax managed to kill three Loyers and live to tell the tale.

[Thenamir]

With the deaths of the three Loyers and the consequential angering of the enemy hordes, it appeared that battle was indeed about to be joined in earnest (most likely dead earnest). Since recovering from his collapse after sending his O-mail to Yawanna Gateskeeper had merely stood observing the unfolding of events and commenting the bleedingly obvious. Until now.

Quietly he slipped off unnoticed from the We're-all-going-to-die-ship while they were distracted by the assembling of the resurrected enemies, disappearing behind a rock outcropping nearby. After a short period of quiet mumbling (and a couple of shocked gasps) a figure emerged from the shadows, grey and dirty robe tattered and ragged, a bent figure moving slowly. He looked like an old beggar-man, walking wearily, leaning on his rough staff. His head was bowed, and he did not look towards them.

Vogonwe was the first of the Hey-remember-we-are-the-good-guys-and-gals-ship to notice the figure, but could not see his face: he was hooded, and above the hood he wore a wide-brimmed hat, so that all his features were over-shadowed. Yet it seemed to Vogonwe that he caught the gleam of black-rimmed glasses keen and bright from within the shadow of the hooded brows . The wannabe-poet elbowed Orogarn Two, who was muttering to himself trying to keep up with all the newcomers now on their side. "That line of horses," queried the Proctor's heir, "can you make out the warriors astride them?"

"Sure," said the sharp-eyed arrow-thrower. "Who-him's on the first one, Too-thin's on the second, and Moron's on the third."

"Who's on the second?" asked Orogarn, slightly puzzled.

"Who's on first." replied the patient elf.

"No, what's the name of the warrior on second?"

"Too."

"Yes?"

"No, I meant Too is second."

"Of course two is second -- being Orogarn Two I ought to know. I want to know who's on the second horse!"

"Who's on first."

"What a moron!"

"Oh, he's on third."

"WHO'S on third?"

"No, Who's on first."

"Gah! I need Maalox."

"Oh, he's bringing up the rear..."

While these two prattled on, the bent grey figure positioned himself between the battle-readied questians and the approaching armies, so that he could no longer be ignored. Kuruharan gazed with wide eyes for a while, as step by step the figure drew nearer. Then suddenly, unable to contain himself longer, he burst out: "Your arrows, Vogonwe! Get ready! It is Sauerkraut. Do not let him speak, or put his hotdog smell upon us! Throw first!"

Vogonwe took his arrow slowly and as if some other will resisted him. He held it loosely in his hand but did not ready to throw. Orogarn and Merisu stood silent, their faces watchful and intent.

"Why are you waiting? What is the matter with you?" said Pimpiowyn in a hissing whisper.

"Vogonwe is right," said Orogarn quietly, "as improbable as that might seem." Vogonwe cast a withering glance at Orogarn, but the Grundorian failed to notice and it missed its mark, falling to the ground untouched. Orogarn continued, "We may not shoot an old man so, at unawares and unchallenged, whatever fear or doubt be on us. Watch and wait!"

"That's never stopped us before," noted the rest of the group, more-or-less in unison. The old man took no notice, but stooped and sat himself on a low flat stone. Then his grey cloak drew apart, and they saw, beyond doubt, a flash of white, but whether of hidden clothing or untanned flesh could not be determined. With a flourish he swept off the grayed and dirty cloak he had worn since he first appeared to the Whatdowedonowship. (At least, it was intended to be a flourish, and would have succeeded except that the sleeves momentarily tangled, destroying the effect.) The assembled Questians, surprised (and slightly embarassed) by the maneuver, averted their eyes, not knowing what the four-eyed man wore beneath (if anything). When they dared to look again, behold, the Gateskeeper stood before them, his hair was white as snow in the sunshine (as was his pasty white skin); and gleaming white were his dress shirt and jeans; the glasses under his deep brows were polished bright, piercing as the rays of the sun; a power strip was in his hand.

"Gatesy," murmured Merisu in surprise and wonder, "your hand is restored! And you're all in white!"

"I have come through fire and water, and a bit of Balrox Bleach works wonders," replied the shining geek, who wasted no time in turning to the advancing enemy who were momentarily blinded by the sunlight coruscating off his glasses and new attire. Using that moment to best advantage, Gateskeeper began speaking spells of delay and time-wasting:

Solitaire, Freecell, Pac-Man and Plus-pack!
Minesweeper, Tetris and Missile Attack!
Online casinos and fake-contest spam!
Neopets, Xanga, Napster and Hangman!

As he spoke the staff of the bright maia began to spin and turn in his hands, and soft wares began to appear, flying at the encroaching evil emissaries. Even more surprising, however, was the fact that the enemy did nothing to resist the incoming programs, but instead grabbed at them and fought over them. The advance of the enemies slowed to a crawl as they began examining, then playing the insidious games and mind-numbing amusements with single-minded focus. Mogul could hardly believe his eyes at the sight of great wyrms playing Dig-Dug, Werewolves playing Duck Hunt, and Orcs playing Beavis and Butthead (for them, a reality game) -- the Dark Lord had forgotten to put up the filters and firewalls.

Gateskeeper gave a great whistle, and from the recently resurrected came a horse shining white -- the fabled Fad-O-Slacks, Lord of Horses and Fashion Pantaloons. Leaping upon the great equine form the great software nerd cried, "Now! Charge!!" A roar rose up from the side of the Good Guys (tm) that shook the air and earth, and the line of righteous combatants surged forward to join battle.

[Mithadan]

Seeing the success of their friends' actions, Gravlox and Merisu were heartened. They stood next to one another with heads held high as the battle raged. Orogarn assailed a troop of Orcs with his blade swinging madly. After several fell to his sword, his foes broke ranks and attempted to flee. But one lingered too long and was struck down with a cloven helm, ruptured spleen and torn zyphoid notch. The Orc's blade flew from his hands and landed on the ground with a clatter nearly at the feet of Gravlox. The almost Elf reached down and lifted it, even as Merisu drew her own blade. With a smile, Gravlox turned to her and asked, "Shall we?"

"Oh, yes," replied our heroine. "Let's!"

So the two entered the fray with the other members of the Bloodthirstyship and their assault was like a wrecking ball crashing into a condemned building. Heads flew from necks, arms fell from shoulders and legs were cut out from under their foes. Hearts, lungs and livers were pierced, bellies were disemboweled and spines snapped. And after a few minutes, they began to sing with joy.

Gravlox:
Such a pounding!
The enemies fleeing!
Madness takes its toll.
But listen closely...

Merisu:
Not for very much longer!

Gravlox:
I've got to -- keep control.
I remember, killing the Orcs,
Drinking those moments when
my foes fall dead.

All the Itship:
And the Void would be calling...

Let's kill some Orcs again!
Let's kill some Orcs again!

Orogarn:
It's just a jump to the left.
(Thwack, smash)

All:
And then a step to the right.
(Crash, biff, bam)

Hal:
With your hands set in fists...
(Whack, pow, oof)

All:
You bring your knees in tight.
But it's the sword's trust
That really drives you insane!
Let's kill some Orcs again!
Let's kill some Orcs again!

This went on for some time, and soon a great hill of slain foes had been created by the Itship. And indeed it seemed almost as if the tide had turned when Sueim raced up with a cry. "Look!" Nearby, a great Dragon was writhing with body english as a little yellow ball with a pie slice missing wound through the air before him. It was pursued by three ghostly wraiths, one red, one white and one brown. The yellow ball dodged desperately and the red and white ghosts turned away. But the brown one caught and devoured the ball. Immediately, magical runes appeared in the air which read "GAME OVER".

"Darn brown one," growled Gatesy.

The Dragon bellowed and spouted flames. Nearby a second Dragon snarled as the same set of runes appeared before it. In moments, many of the dragons Vampires and Werewolves were freed from their spells and were acting as if they were in really bad moods. The Itship retreated before this new onslaught and the enemy were heartened and shouted and cheered. "Back to the hill!" cried Merisu.

The Itship had barely gained its summit when the assault began. Their blades whished through the air and arrows whistled towards their targets. A new mound of Orcs, Trolls, Werewolves and Vampires was developing at the base of the hill. Yet no matter how many they slew, it seemed that more rushed up to take their places and the Dragons were gathering and waiting their turn. Could this be the end of the Itship?

"Shut up!" cried Vogonwë. "Damned narrator..."

At that moment, Sueim stood tall in the midst of the fray, and shaded his eyes as he looked off into the distance. Then he raised his hands to his mouth and cried in a great voice, "The Sparrows are coming! The Sparrows are coming!"

"Bloody great," muttered Kuruharan. "Just what we need. Some appetizers for the Dragons."

And they came... A great cloud of sparrows swooped in from the East and stooped down upon the dragons. "Oh no!" cried Pimpiowyn. "I can't bear to look!" But to the Itship's surprise, the valiant little birds flew straight into the nostrils of the Dragons. The Wyrms looked puzzled. Then they looked annoyed. Then they looked alarmed. Then, with great gouts of fire caught in their sinuses, their heads began to explode, showering the Itship with gore... and stuff.

"Oh, gross!" moaned Pimpi. "This is even worse than Sauerkraut's cart."

[Kuruharan]

Chrysophylax stooped over the shattered cranium of Flourdrum. “Alas, poor Dumpling! I was once vaguely acquainted with him, Kuruharan: a fellow of infinite jest, of most depraved fancy. He hath inserted a whoopee cushion under my buns a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my bottom trembles at it. Here hung those lips that sneered at me I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your water balloons? Your taunts? Your whoopee cushions, that were wont to set the back end on fire? Here I am now to mock your own grinning!!!” Chrysophylax crushed the remains of the head.

Chrysophylax strolled over to the body of Ancalorgas the Black. “This was the scariest dragon of them all: All the dragons save only he did that they did in miserably low self-esteem. He only, in a general vicious thought and common ill to all, made one of them. His life was brutal, and the elements so mix’d in him that Nature might stand up and say to all the world ‘WHAT WERE WE THINKING?!!’ But I come to bury Ancalorgas, not to praise him!” Chrysophylax jumped up and down on the corpse.

Chrysophylax walked over to the next body. “Ahh, dear old Smug the Complacent. Many the time he would natter on incessantly about the improvement of my character. He would ramble on about how I should give my thoughts no tongue. I should be familiar, but by no means vulgar. What friends I hast, and their adoption tried, I should grapple them to the ground with hoops of steel and eat them when they weren’t looking. I should give no dragon my ear, but shout at the top of my voice. I should also take no dragon’s censure, but be hasty in judgment. Not a borrower but a lender (at interest) be; for loans at reasonable rates are excellent ways to send money chasing after more money. And this above all: to my ownself be true! What a windbag he was!” Chrysophylax kicked the body over a nearby cliff.

“Here is Scathing the Critical. He was never happy with my name. He said I was a disgrace to dragonhood and wanted me to take a new one. He was always shouting, “Get thee to a punnery!!” Chrysophylax set the body on fire.

Chrysophylax stood over the last body. “Is he dead? Never could tell with ole’ Argon the Inert. Good night stinky dragon and flights of imps screech thee to thy rest!” Chrysophylax started munching.

“Why does the drum come hither?”

“Because the battle is still going on while you’ve been soliloquizing you idiot!!!” yelled Kuruharan. “Go, bid the soldiers shoot…or do SOMETHING useful!!!”

The fighting continues and a peal of ordnance is shot off

[The Saucepan Man]

The mighty Dragons had fallen, their pride fittingly swallowed, as it were. And at this, a great cheer had gone up from those who fought with the Embattled-ship. But many foes remained. And the most terrible of them were the metal beasts that trundled across the field of battle shrieking their harsh war cry.

Exterminate! Exterminate!

Like domed cones they were, roughly man-size, and knobbly were their armoured skirts. No arms had they, but two weapons, as like kitchen implements, extended before them. From one of these, as like a whisk, they fired rays of death which felled any who stood in their path. The purpose of the other, as like a sink plunger, was not entirely clear. Their domed heads sported single eyes on stalks and each was topped with a pair of flashing lamps. It might be said that they appeared rather dated, for they were conceived by Môgul in the days before he had developed the dark art of Sêejeeaï. Yet they were deadly.

Neither sword nor axe could breach their metal casing and no arrow could pierce their shell. Warrior after warrior fell to their cruel rays, and soon the order was given to withdraw. Vogonwë, Soregum and Orogarn found themselves caught up in the retreat, which before long became a rout. Blindly they ran and, though they fought against the tide, the harsh creatures mercilessly herded them into a barren gully, as like a quarry, from which there was seemingly no escape.

In desperation Orogarn scanned the cliffs that surrounded them, and soon he found what it was he sought.

“This way!” he cried, as he scrambled up a section of the cliff which permitted some purchase. His companions followed, climbing until they reached a narrow ledge high above the narrow gully.

“We should be safe here, for now,” said Orogarn. “It doesn’t look those things they are much good at climbing.”

“What in Muddled-Mirth are they?” said Soregum, panting to catch his breath.

“They are the Dar-lêks,” declared Vogonwë solemnly. “The dread metal beasts that Môgul Bildûr conceived to spearhead the assault on the swinging city of Gondola, once the jewel in Dairyland's crown.”

“Swinging city?” replied Soregum. “I guess that it was a pretty groovy place to live, huh?”

“Not at all,” replied Vogonwë. “It was suspended by great chains from two mountain peaks and swung in the air between them. The legends tell that living there was a rather nauseating experience. The motion sickness was quite hard to bear, you see.”

“So, anyway. How do we defeat these things?” spat Orogarn grimly.

“No Man, Dwarf or Elf could withstand them, save one alone,” continued Vogonwë. “The Elven Lord of Time, Dok-Dorhu was their nemesis. But he now dwells in Mantoes’ Halls and I fear that we can expect no help from him. I composed a poem about him once. Would you like to hear it?”

“As if we don’t have enough problems,” muttered Orogarn.

“Perchance it will serve to lift our spirits,” continued Vogonwë, oblivious to his companions’ objections.

Dok-Dorhu was an Elven-lord.
On him was praise loudly poured:
when he fought for Gondola swinging high
like a pendulum in the sky.

His scarf was long, his blade was sonic,
his companions’ love was purely platonic.
When Slangbad’s forces rudely attacked
many a Dar-lêk’s armour he cracked.

And while survivors took to the balloon,
He stood against the marauders aloone.
With a mighty stroke, the chains did fall
and down came Gondola, Dar-lêks and all.

“Er, if these Dar-lêk things cannot climb, how come they managed to attack a city suspended in the mountains?” enquired Soregum.

“Simple, my little fat friend,” said the Gateskeeper, suddenly appearing as if by magic. “In their later incarnations, they were able to hover.”

And sure enough, before the startled companions could respond, the Dar-lêks began, one by one, to lift from the ground and climb slowly through the air towards them.

“Well that’s just great!” groaned Soregum mournfully. “We are going to die then.”

“Not at all, my dentally challenged chum,” responded the Gateskeeper. “I really didn’t want to do this, but …”

He raised his staff and pointed it toward the ascending creatures. A bolt of lightning sprang from it and struck the lead Dar-lêk. It crackled and fizzed and dropped to the ground. The bolt leaped from one metal monster to the next and very soon they were naught but lumps of blackened scrap metal scattered across the gully.

“These level 3 spells can be really rather useful, you know,” said the Gateskeeper cheerfully. “Not really in keeping with the spirit of things, I know. The purists will have a field day, I fear. But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The battle to end all battles raged around the BattleShip, and the plains of Valleyum resounded with the clash of swords, the twanging of bows, and the clicking of loyers’ pens. Also with the sounds of the various creatures, sentient or otherwise, dying or still alive, that had come to participate in the fight. As if that alone wasn’t enough, suddenly there was heard a rushing of waters, the great noise of a great storm from the shores of that land.

For lo! though the Velour had left the Itship to battle alone (though now joined by the outpourings of Mantoes’ halls), some of their servants and helpers, the Maiar, pitied them and came to their aid. Either that, or they wanted to join in the fun too.

Master of the Pea Seas that wash the shores of Muddled-Mirth is a vassal of TM Ulmo, named Davossë. He goes into the depths of discussion and rejoices in the winds of opposition; for in storm he delights, and laughs amid the roaring of the posts. His spouse is Laluinen, the Lady of the Pea Seas, whose posts lie spread through all forums under the Barrow. All threads she loves that live in the Books, N&N, Movies, and Mirth, and all posts that grow there; to her posters cry when attacked by Davossë, for she can lay calm upon the waves, restraining his wildness. The Downers lived long in her protection, and held her in reverence, giving her titles both lofty and strange.

It is said that in the making of Canonicity, Mogûl endeavoured to draw Davossë to his allegiance, promising to him the certainty of final authority and the power of the last word, if he would serve him. So it was that long ago there arose great tumults of many pages that wrought havoc on the forum. But Laluinen, at the prayer of HI-wë, restrained Davossë and brought him before the Barrulmo-Wight; and he was pardoned and returned to his barrow; yet the delight in violence has never wholly departed from him, and at times he will rage in his wilful opinion without any support from the Legendarium. Therefore those who dwell on the Downs or come there to post may love him, but they do not agree with him.

With them, on the wings of the storm, came many other spirits, and their voices arose, crying out insults at the enemies.

“You steal taters from confused gaffers!”

“You are descended from grovelling stone trolls!”

“You look like a muddy-booted Baggins!”

“You terrorize wood-elves!”

Friends and foes alike stood still, confused at the abstruse meaning of those words. The InsultShip took advantage of the sudden silence and added a few creations of their own:

“You’re dating a horrible Dunlending!” Pimpi shouted.

“You take advantage of friendly Istari!” Merisu added, not to be outdone by her shieldmaiden-handmaiden.

“You’re being stalked by petty dwarves!” Kuruharan growled.

“You were misplaced by a forgetful Maia!” Orogarn declaimed.

The enemies were completely dumfounded; no loyer had an argument against such silliness, and they began debating whether some kind of libel charge could be pursued. However, the orcs needed no meaning; they knew when they were being insulted even without understanding the words, and they fought on all the more furiously. The respite was over, and the din of battle arose once again.