Years go, I knew an elf named Vapor who seemed to be always
getting himself in trouble. This is the story of one of his
escapades.
With what could only be described as a smirk of anticipation,
Vapor pushed aside the poorly-tanned animal hide which covered the
door and stepped inside. He wrinkled his nose at the stench of
unwashed bodies.
The troll was ecstatic! He had found rat. A large, almost
bite-sized rat. He poked at the rat with his spear, delighting
in the way that the rat kept attacking the point as he herded it
back into the corner. The rat made another dash for freedom and the
troll picked up the already-splintered kitchen table and kicked the
cowering rat into the wall where it died. A bit of saliva dribbled
down his chin in anticipation of the delicate flavor of smashed
rat.
A large number of pointed, yellow teeth flashed dimly in the
darkness in a what the troll thought of as a smile. He relished
the crunch of the delicate skull bones of the rat as he considered
the pair of orcs who were sleeping off their hangovers in the bedroom.
He grunted happily to himself, "Butch eat rat first, then orc."
Behind him he heard the clink of metal. Bits of broken wood
rained down as the troll spun around, banging his head on the
ceiling in the process. Trolls tend to be excitable. They can go
from their normal, placid, pissed-off state into frenzied rage for
almost no reason. The painful lump was still forming on the top
of his head when he spotted the a small, pitifully armed sylvan
elf who was peering at him through the moonlit door.
"Arrrrghhhhh!" said Butch ("Who the hell are you?").
He crammed the last of the rat into his mouth and sank the point
of his spear several inches into the door frame where a moment
before Vapor's head had been.
The elf grinned evilly. He rendered the a single digit of his
left hand in the traditional Agincourt salute before hastily
backpeddling out of the room. Rubbing his head with one hand, the
troll was temporarily confused. He looked at the top of the door
where the Vapor's finger had pointed. When it finally occurred
to him that it had been a form of sign language, he let out a howl and
headed through the door, after the elf.
Once outside in the moonlight, it was easy to follow the nasty
little elf who had hurt his head. The elf was stupid and slow and
tired easily. It had to rest at the top of each hill. Butch
salivated at the thought of a fine, tender meal.
On the Bywater Comm:
Vapor: "Troll in hobbiton!"
Merlinius: "Troll?!"
Vapor: "Go look for yourself"
Drdreii: (With glee..) "Trolls are cool."
Beav: (Somewhat apprehensively...) "So where is this troll?"
Vapor: (Snickering gleefully...) "He's in the bar right now."
Canther looks up from a scroll that he is reading and drops his
wine glass as the door to the bar splinters open.
"Geeez, another dwarf too drunk to see the door."
"Arrrrrghhhh!" says Butch who is momentarily blinded by the
bright light in the bar.
Vapor: "Canther, don't kill him."
Canther: "Why?"
Vapor: "He's my friend."
Butch is working his way down the bar toward Canther,
alternately smashing the stools with one hand while trying to
skewer the terrified bartender with the other. Canther casts a
predatory look at the troll.
Canther: (Somewhat hopefully...) "He might have something nice
inside."
Vapor: "All he's got is a spear."
Merlinius: (Contemplating a choir of trolls singing "Arrrrrgh!"
in four-part harmony...) "I can summon U another troll"
Vapor: (Happily) "I like trolls!"
Merlinius: (Really getting into the spirit of things)
"Vapor, I could summon U a couple of trolls!"
Canther throws a chair between himself and the troll and edges
toward the door. "Who let this sucker in?
Prather who is dead drunk and asleep on a corner table, wakes
up, looks judiciously at the troll and tells Cather,
"Oh man! If that sucker romances your leg, you better fake
an orgasm...,"
Andwise acks!
Meri: (In shocked disbelief..) "PRATHER!"
Prather puts his head down and goes back to sleep.
Rauko, the Vampire of Morgoth, materializes from the shadows,
searching for whining mortals... He spots the troll who is contentedly
gnawing on the leg of Bando the bartender.
"What the hell?!!"
Butch looks up, spots Rauko and with a delighted look on his
face considers his next snack. Rauko waves a hand and the troll
begins to disintegrate, starting at the feet, like Dorothy with the
wicked witch. As the Troll's head sinks into the floor, one eyeball
rolls out and lays there, staring at accusingly at Vapor.
The ghost of a fat rat floats out of a wall, snatches up the
eyeball and says, "EEEEK EEEK," (Vengeance is mine!).
Vapor: "That was kinda scary..do it again!"
Rauko looks at Vapor and motions at the stains on the floor,
"You do THAT again and you might find your head on a stake, for display."
Vapor: (Frantically searching for some sort of justification...)
"I wanted a newbie to kill him, and have him feel proud of himself,
think of the experience he'd get."
Canther (Hopefully...) "Any newbies get killed?"
Merlinius: (Enthusiastically...) "That was cool!"
Veldrane: (Cowering in the ByWater postoffice...) "Is the
troll still in town?"
Vapor: "No, he got hauled away by the bouncer. Rauko found him
in the bar and ate him, mistaking him for a large Hot Dog."
Veldrane mutters that he almost died from running into the
troll.
Marigold comes into the bar, shakes her head at the mess and
begins to clean up.
This is, of course, a true story. No changed names, and the voices you
heard were those of the real participants. He nods sagely and gives
you a fox-eating-shit-from-a-hairbrush grin.
The joy of storytelling is to build a picture
in the willing minds of those who listen. A bard
sees and hears that which others often miss and
by sharing these things, he may enrich the listener.
In the telling, I may animate a chipmunk and cause a
breeze to blow. I see a puff of smoke or a dripping
candle that might have been. But still, I paint with
truth. I have seen the places where my tales unfold
and I know the smell of death upon the wind. I've
heard the grunt of beasts.
--and if a lie I find in what I've told, I'll be
the first to cry for truth.
-Prather, a minstrel
The Balance of Things
I have heard enough of the advantages and
disadvantages of this or that race or profession to
turn any normal storyteller hoarse as a frog.
In the whole of Arda, one thing seems to be true
whether you live in a cave, or a hobbit burrow, or a
fine house made out of trees. The one thing every damn
fool wants is a better house.
At Minas Tirith, a lotta heavy hitters with armor
and big swords were standing around waiting for a stone
wall to fall down. The catapult operator, a little orc
with a goatee, was getting kinda nervous with all these
people watching him, so he prayed to the gods, saying,
"Can you make this thing shoot a little farther?"
There is break in the clouds and a ray of sunshine
surrounds him and a big, scarey voice comes down from
above,
"YOUR PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED!"
"NO. I'M SORRY. THATS AS FAR AS IT SHOOTS!"
The other day, a big muscle-bound, hard-ass sucker
comes into the Green Dragon. He pulls the head off a rat,
eats the body and washes it down with a mug of beer.
Now most folks would be terrified of this guy but not me.
I know that if tell a funny enough story, I can make beer
shoot out of his nose! I figure that makes a minstrel just
about as powerful as anybody.
-Prather
Two great kings, in time longs past, fought on the
plains of in place called Agincourt. The elvin longbows of
one army met mounted, armored cavalry of other. The Elves
were outnumbered nearly five to one and they realized that
the outcome of the coming battle would go ill for them and
thus they sued for peace, asking only that they be allowed
to safely return to their own lands.
Of course, the horseman king who in his advantage in
strength recognized an opportunity to rid his lands of
elves not just for a battle but for future generations as
well. He refused the terms, boasting instead that he would
totally destroy the elvin bowmen.
At the parlay he mocked the elves, promising,
"For those who we do not kill, they who surrender to our
host, we will remove the middle finger on each hand. No elf
who leaves this battle will ever pull the string of a bow!"
This proclaimation was widely repeated by the
soldiers on both sides and in the hours before the battle,
dispair fell upon the elves for they knew there would
be no retreat.
But that night it rained. The sky opened and sheets of
water fell as a curtain upon the land. In a gray downpour
came the dawn, and the battle on the grassy plain was joined.
Soon, with march of horses across it, it became a sea of mud.
The archers held an open hillock to the south. They
waited, keeping thier bowstrings dry beneath their cloaks
and only restringing their bows when the horsemen came into
ranges. The mired riders were slowed and trapped by the mud,
forced afoot, leading their horses. The arrows and rain
fell together until the rides were dead.
And each time the cavalry charged and the riders fell,
feathered by the elven bowmen, the archers cheered. They
gleefully showed their contempt for the edict by waving
their still-attached middle fingers.
To this day, the salute of the Archers of Agincourt, is
still used by those who would bestow great insult on an enemy.
-an old tale author unknown
So Walker came to hobbit town and found, a wooden sword,
The haft was nicked and blade was dull, the hilt was deeply worn.
He picked it up, and held it high, and to me he gave a wink,
"It's made of wood, and wood will burn, I'll fire it up, I think."
With confidence he held the blade and whispered to it, "Fire."
But then he looked in disbelief, his thumb became a pyre.
He leaped around the room a bit and dipped his thumb in ale,
And the echoes of the words he spoke, were heard in Rivendell.
"This cannot be, for wood is wood and wood is easily burned.
To Aravir himself I paid and the secret words I've learned".
His brow was creased as again he glared and gave the sword a spin,
But the chanted words became a howl as he fired his thumb again!
A jig he danced across the bar, his teeth were gritted tight,
With hand held out and thumb on fire, 'twas not a pretty sight.
This time he prayed in dulcet tones, as if with words of love,
But what he should have asked for, was a good asbestos glove.
His face got red and his lips curled back, he could stand the pain no more.
With a final curse, he dropped the sword, and ran smoldering out the door.
Then Prather came, and took the sword, and smiled with kindly eyes,
He touched the wood, and felt the grain, and hefted it for size.
His ranger's touch was sure and strong, he held the sword up high
And the words he used were soft and sure, he sang them them with a sigh,
With confidence he held the blade as the prayer for fire he spoke,
And then he looked in disbelief --his thumb began to smoke.
--Prather