Where is chap 11?
Carl Blondin
11 in the list of articles posted. (Just to let you knoe, there was over
400 articles posted to each group this week-end). Have I missed the
chapter or is it just not out yet?
Carl
Steuard Jensen
Doesn't seem to be out yet. I know that TSignus hoped to have it up
over the weekend, but something's clearly gotten in the way. Perhaps
I'll drop him another line. I don't want to be pushy or to rush
things, but I'll see what I can do. ('Course, I'm ridiculously busy
at the moment, which makes the fact that I'm posting now a bit
humorous.) :)
Steuard Jensen
Öjevind Lång
[snip]
>Doesn't seem to be out yet. I know that TSignus hoped to have it up
>over the weekend, but something's clearly gotten in the way. Perhaps
>I'll drop him another line. I don't want to be pushy or to rush
>things, but I'll see what I can do. ('Course, I'm ridiculously busy
>at the moment, which makes the fact that I'm posting now a bit
>humorous.) :)
> Steuard Jensen
So where *is* Chapter XI? I'm writing number XII, so I definitely want to
know.
Öjevind
PaulB
<ojevin...@swipnet.se> writes:
Steuard, could a delay of over a week be considered grounds for passing
the chapter to the next person on your list of chapters to be assigned. I
wouldn't say this if there was some communication from TSignus explaining the
delay. To quote Heinlein, The Roads Must Roll. (Of course, contact would have
to be made and the commission accepted by the new person.)
In fact, the opinions of others as to how to deal with overly long delays
would be appreciated at this point as well. I don't know what my cut-off point
would be, but a week after the post was initially stated it would be put up
seems a mite long.
Breathe
Peace
PB
"... the essence of myth [is] that it have no taint of allegory to the maker
and yet should suggest incipient allegories to the reader..."
C. S. Lewis, having read "The Lay of Leithian"
Steuard Jensen
Quoth "Öjevind Lång" <ojevin...@swipnet.se>:
> So where *is* Chapter XI? I'm writing number XII, so I definitely
> want to know.
So, here's the story. The last I heard from TSignus was a couple days
before last weekend; he (?) had been unexpectedly busy, but hoped to
have the chapter up last Saturday. I decided to give him until the
end of the Memorial Day weekend to get the thing done, but then I got
remarkably busy myself (finishing up a number of challenging string
theory problems for a class). On Wednesday, once I was less busy, I
sent him email in the morning asking him to write back and let me know
if he'd prefer to swap chapters with someone later on (or make some
other arrangement). I haven't heard back yet.
I expect that occasional delays will end up being inevitable in a
project like this; this one was somewhat extended because I didn't
really have time to deal with it for a few days in the middle.
However, I _have_ now dealt with it. :) In accordance with original
plans, I've asked O. Sharp to fill in for this chapter (as I recall,
he and Ojevind and I were planning to take turns on last minute
replacement chapter needs). He hopes to have Chapter 11 up by
tomorrow afternoon or evening.
As for TSignus, I at least don't hold any grudge here; sometimes other
things come up and interfere despite the best intentions. While it's
hard to feel like you're letting people down, "real life"
responsibilities should generally take priority over fun side
projects, I think. If he wants to volunteer for a chapter later on,
he's more than welcome (I hate stealing a chapter out of someone's
hands, after all).
This does suggest, however, that we might want to establish some
guidelines on how long people should have to write their chapters.
However, I'm not going to establish any: this is supposed to be a
fairly freewheeling project, and I feel like I'm already "imposing"
too many rules and restrictions already. I will suggest, though, that
future contributors try to get their chapters up within a few days,
post a note if it will be longer, and consider swapping with someone
else (or asking me to arrange something for them) if it looks like the
delay will be substantial. No firm guidelines here, but I think it's
a good idea.
If it _does_ ever seem necessary to do a "last minute substitution" as
in this case, I'll be sure to drop a line to the person in question
first, and to give them a couple of days to respond. (Hint to
volunteers: _do_ respond fairly quickly if you _are_ planning to
finish your chapter in reasonably short order. :) )
So, in summary: O. Sharp will have Chapter 11 written by the end of
this weekend. Other chapters may then follow as planned.
Steuard Jensen
PaulB
Jensen) writes:
>) In accordance with original
>plans, I've asked O. Sharp to fill in for this chapter (as I recall,
>he and Ojevind and I were planning to take turns on last minute
>replacement chapter needs)
I would like to reiterate a suggestion that I made in a previous post. If
there are those on your unassigned list, why not give the person at the top of
the list first crack? This would save Steuard, O. Sharp, and Ojevind the extra
work of a rushed page and give the people on the list an opportunity to write.
(A hint if this is adopted, pay attention to the unassigned list if your on it,
and if there is a delay in a posting start thinking of how you would treat the
chapter in question, that way when the request comes your not taken by
suprise.)
It just seems that Steuard and the others have enough on their plates
right now that any heads-up type help would be appreciated by them and also
help keep the ball rolling on the project. a series of 10 - 14 day delays
between chapters is a good way to loose momentum and intrest in an otherwise
fun project for all.
Steuard Jensen
> I would like to reiterate a suggestion that I made in a
> previous post. If there are those on your unassigned list, why not
> give the person at the top of the list first crack?
I did consider the possibility, which would also be good in that it
would get more people into the fun (well, get them in sooner,
anyway). However, I had one big reason for _not_ doing it. If I
offer the chapter to someone, I'd want to give them at least a day or
two to respond. That means that if the first couple of people on the
list turn down the job (as happened in one case that almost required a
replacement earlier), it could take another three to five days to find
a volunteer to take the chapter "at the last minute". By that point,
we're no longer really addressing the delay. On the other hand, if
O. Sharp, Ojevind, and I are all perpetually "aware" of what the
current status of the project is, it's pretty likely that one of us
will be able to be in contact and whip out a chapter fairly quickly.
(Getting to write the occasional "extra" chapter might also be a perk
of being a "founder" of the project, assuming it's not a burden. :) )
On the other hand, I might also just send email to _all_ of the people
on the waiting list, and tell them that the first person to send me
mail accepting the job would get it. :) That might work pretty well.
I'm interested to hear comments from everyone on the various
possibilities. For now, I think I'll just keep addressing these
issues on a case-by-case basis; I really don't want to add any more
"rules" to this thing that we already have. :) But, yeah, it wouldn't
hurt for people on the waiting list to pay attention to where the
project is at any given point and to how long it's been since the last
contribution.
Anyway, those are my thoughts on the matter at this point. I'm always
open for suggestions, though!
Steuard Jensen
Mithrigil
replacements?
The Heads must roll...
-*Mithrigil*
Steuard Jensen
> What about the Waiting list? Shouldn't these people be considered for
> replacements?
See my response to PaulB in a parallel thread to this one. I'm
sticking with O. Sharp's assignment for this round, but in the process
of responding to PaulB I came up with an idea that avoided my biggest
concerns with going through the waiting list (namely, a "first come,
first served" chance to do unexpectedly free chapters, after I send
out an emailed request for a last-minute volunteer); I'll probably
use that in the future. My apologies to anyone on said waiting list
who had high hopes of a shorter wait. :) (Though the new method
_could_ lead to conflicts more easily, and seems less "fair" to me
than the usual chapter assignments, it's only for "special treatment"
and won't affect the normal ordering of chapters, so I guess it's
okay.)
Steuard Jensen
Carl Blondin
Steuard Jensen wrote:
>
>
>
> On the other hand, I might also just send email to _all_ of the people
> on the waiting list, and tell them that the first person to send me
> mail accepting the job would get it. :) That might work pretty well.
>
I like this idea. Especially since the one who responds probably has
something in mind for the chapter. The first one on the list may not be
inspired at all, so I think a first come first serve basis of
reassigning, after you send the e-mail of course, is a pretty good idea.
Carl
O. Sharp
: However, I _have_ now dealt with it. :) In accordance with original
: plans, I've asked O. Sharp to fill in for this chapter (as I recall,
: he and Ojevind and I were planning to take turns on last minute
: replacement chapter needs). He hopes to have Chapter 11 up by
: tomorrow afternoon or evening.
I'm working on it. I'm finding the subtext deeper than expected, and
there's a heap of tricky verse. :) I had hoped to have it up by noon
PST, but it'll take a _bit_ longer...
Hang onto your hats, though! It's coming! :) :) :)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
o...@netcom.com And that's all I'm saying till it's up. :)
O. Sharp
BOOK I, CHAPTER XI: A STAB IN THE BACK
It was a raw night back in the Shire. Howling winds and sudden gusts
of rain led to an atmosphere worthy of any particularly bad detective
novel. Fredegar Bolger sat quietly in the house in Crickhollow, nursing
his ninth Southfarthing Malt and chewing his fingernails in dread. Then,
suddenly yet predictably, he heard a noise from outside: a _squick,
squick_ coming down the path, as if from waterlogged boots. Terror seized
Fredegar. A heavy knock came on the door.
"Open, in the name of Arwen!" rang out a female voice.
"No, sorry, not buying, no visitors after ten," Fredegar said
instinctively. "My mom locked the door and lost the key. Lease says no
visitors. Sorry."
"I'm looking for a lone Ranger," said the voice.
"Can't help you," Fredegar stammered, missing all the obvious
punchlines.
"Come _on_!" said the voice. "Let me in. I just want to dry off.
Look, I'm two thousand years old and I'm _really_ sexy."
Fredegar's mind was too preoccupied with terror to consider this.
"Go away!" he shouted. "I'm not in. Leave a message with the building
manager and we'll call you back in five working days or your pizza's free."
"I'm just trying to increase the size of my part, damn you!" the
woman howled out in earnest. "There's a movie coming. Open up!"
Fredegar said nothing. The mysterious woman continued hammering at
the door for several minutes, cursing beautifully-rounded epithets, until
finally she gave up and left. Fredegar heard the _squick, squick_ of her
boots as she headed back towards Crickhollow. Her departure, however, did
not cure his terror. He continued looking around the quiet room, looking
for some nameless horror he could not yet identify.
After a time he heard a commotion from the stables at Brandy Hall.
_No Witnesses!_
Fredegar leanded over the wooden table, peering towards the
wood-silled windows. All outside was black until a flash of lightning
illuminated the countryside. He could just make out a lithe figure in
camouflage riding away on a stout horse. Some of the local Hobbits were
dashing out with bows and arrows. It seemed less terrifying outside,
somehow. The Horn-call of Bucklebeltland, unheard for over a hundred
years except on gramophone, rang out again.
_G-Men! Shirriffs! A Hit! No Witnesses!_
In a flash Fredegar realized the source of his terror. Wood table,
wood sill, wood-planked walls, floor and ceiling. He was surrounded by
wood! Like being surrounded by trees, only more cunning! So they
domesticated themselves, the evil bastards! And now we _rely_ on them!
Only a matter of time till they kill us all. It all made sense, that
perfect kind of sense that only comes with excessive drinking. A dawn of
understanding came to Fredegar. Visions of a brick house, with a stucco
ceiling and wrought-iron patio furniture, came to him as visions of
peace. No longer would anyone have to fear slivers! In a flash his
purpose was clear. His mind resolved, Fredegar Bolger stood and went to
the closet. Inside behind the bowling balls and collections of pocket
lint was the great Axe. With a grim chuckle he hefted the steel-handled
Axe over his shoulder and walked towards the door. There could be no
compromise. Deforestation was the only answer.
Bolger smashed open the wooden door and walked into the night.
Frodo awoke from a deep sleep. Something heavy and pointed had
rammed him im the side. He looked up to see Strider standing over him,
holding a finger over his lips and making a _shush_ing noise. With quick
precision Strider went to each of Frodo's three companions, kicking each
in turn with his steel-tipped boots and motioning them to silence. When
he reached Morrie and kicked him Morrie instinctively sensed the movement
and pulled a knife, motioning to cut a throat which turned out to be
Strider's ankle.
"Good instinct there," Strider whispered, examining the ankle of his
boot. "That's the sort of instinct which will help you out in the Wild."
Silently they packed their few belongings, along with several of
Butterball's towels and souvenir ashtrays. Strider urged them on,
emphasizing the need for haste. When they were ready, however, he stopped
and led them quickly to their own rooms. The hobbits gasped as they
surveyed the wreckage: the beds cut and mangled, the table actually
burned to ashes, piles of crockery broken and smashed. With a motion
Strider reached down and picked up one of the many pieces of paper
littering the floor.
"_Nazdaq,_" he whispered solemly. "The Riders. It is as I feared!
This is but one receipt of many; they have broken in during the night and
run up a massive room-service tab. We must escape from Bree before they
come to us with the hotel-bill. To the stables! Quickly!"
They went to the stables as quickly as they dared, being careful not
to wake the greedy Butterball, or his servants, who would undoubtedly
demand a gratuity. Once inside they went directly to their ponies. But
disappointment held them fast again. Around each of the ponies' necks was
a slender steel cable, attached to barrels of lead painted with the
legend IMPOUNDED. Strider swore.
"Fie!" Strider cursed, "It is as I feared. They have taken them in
lieu of a deposit. We Rangers travel light, and seldom carry
bolt-cutters. I fear we must leave them behind."
"But how will we carry all our food, and these towels?" Pipsqueak
whined.
"We'll have to improvise," Strider answered. He led them out through
the back door of the stable and into the early dawn light. _Four good
ponies!_ he thought. _They could have fetched a good price. And what have
we got in exchange? Towels! One thing Arwen's not going to be glad to see
me with, it's extra towels._
The tall Ranger led the puny Hobbits through Bree by many back-ways,
helping them over the occasional fence, till he reached a particularly
squalid house by the edge of town. Rusting appliances and tipsy sawhorses
littered the yard. Motioning the others to wait, Strider snuck up to the
barn and expertly picked the lock. In a flash he was inside. After a long
moment he emerged leading a large donkey. "I don't think old Ferny will
miss this," Strider whispered confidentially to the others. "He stole it
himself from a Southerner only four days before." They placed their
possessions onto the ass and led it quietly out of Bree. At the gates it
seemed positively cheerful, as if happy to get out of the small
rat-infested village.
"It seems to like gates," Sam said stupidly, and then named the ass
Gates for no particularly clear reason.
After an hour Strider led them off onto a narrow side-trail. "It
would be good for us to get off the Road," he said. "The Riders I fear,
but not half so much now as the Bree law-enforcement. I fear it will go
hard for any Ranger who strays into the _Pony_ for some time."
The way was easy all that day. Whether by Strider's skills or sheer
dumb luck the trail was quiet and pleasant, and the sun was out. At
Pipsqueak's request Sam fished out the bottle of suntan lotion from his
pack, and they passed it from hand to hand; even the tall Man took some
for his neck and the bridge of his nose. When the bottle returned to Sam
it was empty. "You should have brought two bottles, Sam," Frodo said
gaily. "Or perhaps three! After all, the servant class should better
anticipate the needs of its masters. Anyway, you'll just have to burn,
and do without."
"Oh, I'm burnin', all right," Sam muttered quietly to himself.
That night they spent under the stars. As the others fell asleep
Frodo condescended and offered to let Sam suck on his fingers for a time,
but Sam declined. _No point,_ Sam thought irritably. _Nobody'll be likely
to wake up and witness it. No witnesses, no blackmail. Where's the point
in that?_ He rolled the other way, pulled a stolen inn-towel over himself
and fell quickly asleep.
The proceeding days turned more difficult. Strider began taking them
across rougher country, leading them through rocky vales and marshlands
full of carnivorous insects. The ass Gates, while content and useful on
easy and well-worn paths, became sluggish and uncooperative on any path
that required effort. Often it would stop with a blue scream and refuse
to budge forward until someone booted it. It began to fear the sight of
Strider's heavy boots. "Couldn't you have stolen something more
cooperative?" Frodo asked plaintively.
"I'd rather we had bought a good pony than taken this for free, even
if we had to go into debt to do it," Pipsqueak laughed.
"Do not speak of such things!" Strider said quickly, and with
surprising earnestness.
They journeyed on. Mosquitos the size of small ducks began to harass
them. Gates continued going slower and slower, consuming their resources
at an alarming rate. After a day or so Strider found a trail fenced by
high hedges and trees. "Here is an ancient path of my people," he said.
"It is cunningly hidden and well-protected. It will take us East towards
Gambletop, where perhaps we may figure out what the hell we're doing."
"This feels like the country we were in a week or two ago," Morrie
noted. "Are there Barrow-wights around here?"
"Not here," Strider answered, and Frodo felt oddly disappointed.
"Though the Exiles from Atlantis once lived here. Upon Gambletop there
was once a watch-tower, set as a defence against the Leech-king of old.
Many generations it stood. It is said that Isildur himself once stood
upon it, waiting for Gil-Gallamine, at the time of the Last Relaxing."
"Who was Gil-Gallamine?" Pipsqueak asked. After a moment a voice
began quietly singing:
_I dreamed I saw Gil-Gal-la-mine,
Alive as you or me.
'I thought they killed you, Gil,' I said,
Said Gil, 'I did not flee;'
Said Gil, 'I did not flee.'
'You went to Mor-dor, Gil,' I said,
'To fight mon-o-po-ly,
And kill the Rob-ber Bar-on there,
And end the Bour-geoi-sie;
And end the Bour-geoi-sie.'
'I went there, sure, and fought His greed;
I went there, sure,' said he.
'And with me went brave I-sil-dur
And wor-kers brave and free;
And wor-kers brave and free.'_
The voice fell silent. Suddenly they realized the voice had been
Sam's! "Don't stop there!" Pipsqueak said. "Keep going!"
"Uh, I don't think I should," Sam answered quickly. "You might not
like the rest."
"I wonder what the song means by _robber baron_?" Frodo asked. "And
_workers brave and free_. Honestly, the stuff they write into these old
songs. They don't make any sense. Give me a nice simple tune about ale
and fox-hunting any day, that's for me!"
Pipsqueak and Morrie mumbled agreement, and proceeded with Frodo
down the path. Strider gave Sam a short and knowing glance before walking
away, then left him and Gates to fend for themselves.
Travel was easier on the path. By morning of two days later they say
Gambletop shortly ahead of them, a great rounded hill with a broken
circle of old mortarwork upon its crown. Strider urged them on more
quickly, wanting to get out of the long travel exposition as soon as
possible.
They made it to the foot of the hill by midday, and by sunset were
nearing its summit. Just short of the top they found a small dell, fenced
round on three sides by rocky outcrops; there they left Sam to set up
camp, gather some wood, light a fire, prepare the meals, air out their
belongings, set a watch and tend to Gates while they went on to explore a
bit.
At the hill-top they found the circle of broken stone. In the middle
of it was the remains of a campfire, and a handful of fist-sized stones.
Strider examined the remains of the fire expertly. "Someone else was
camping here," he said, "and recently. I suspect it may have been
Gandalf! This fire was started by burning old Racing Forms, as is often
his way."
"You mean Gandalf was here in the last few days?" Frodo snapped.
"And didn't even stay to wait for us? That cantankerous old bastard still
has my money, too!"
"And lo!" Strider continued, lifting up one of the larger stones. A
soggy note was beneath it. Pipsqueak reached for it, only to be hit by
Strider with the rock. "A note on stationery stolen from the _Prancing
Pony_," Strider continued, picking the note up himself. "It's Gandalf, I'd
put money on it. If I had any."
Frodo craned in to look. "What does it say?" he asked.
Strider held the note up and squinted at it intently. "I can't make
it out at all," he answered. "His scrawling was torturous in the best of
times. He wrote this in a hurry, and it's all wet and smudgy. But here is
the G-rune for Gandalf," he added, pointing at a particularly messy
ink-smudge.
"This word near the middle of the letter could be _trap,_" the
Ranger continued slowly. "And this word just before it might be
_Gambletop_. And I think this little bit here in the Feenamintian runes
could be... uhm... _nazdaq_. Yes! Yes, that's it."
With a curious sinking feeling the four of them looked past the rim
of the hill and out into the falling night. On the ground far away they
could just make out three dark shapes some leagues distant, who seemed to
be pointing straight at them and gesticulating wildly.
"I'm sure we're perfectly safe," Strider said confidently, back at
the campfire. "They were a long way away. They'd never find their way up
here until tomorrow afternoon at least, and by then we'll be long gone.
Nope, way too hard for them to climb this hill in the dark. Yep,
absolutely safe, I'm certain of it. No need to set a watch even.
Absolutely, one hundred percent safe, without a doubt, no question."
Reassured by Strider's optimism, the hobbits relaxed and roasted
marshmallows and told ghost-stories as the night descended.
"Tell us more about old Gil-Gallamine," Pipsqueak said to Sam.
"Can't remember," Sam said curtly and evasively.
"Old Bilbo used to sing some of that stuff," Frodo said, "though he
never explained it afterwards. As I remember it, Gil-Gallamine and
Isildur, and his sons Elendil and Annarggion, got together a huge army to
attack Mordor. And the siege lasted for nine years, and five hundred
thousand Men were brutally murdered, and five hundred thousand Elves were
brutally murdered, and Gil-Gallamine was brutally murdered, and Isildur
was brutally murdered, and Annarggion was bru-"
"Uh, yeah, maybe we should just skip that tale for now," Strider cut
in, looking quickly towards the edge of the dell. "It's time to all go to
bed and dream of sugarplums and dancing cornflakes or something."
"But we want a tale of the Ancient Days!" Pipsqueak whined
obnoxiously. "Do you know any tales of the Ancient Days, Strider?"
"All too many," Strider said wearily. "For I have lived in the house
of El Rond, where one may hear them all endlessly and to one's great
weariness. But I will tell you the tale of Trollopiel, in brief, and only
if you all shut up afterward." And once they had all agreed to his terms,
the tall Ranger sat up and began singing quietly:
_In Dors-o-loch, in ancient time,
The luckless wand'ring Bluto lay;
His hands were smeared with blood and grime
From battles fought in wandering.
He came to Dos-o-loch that day
Though being there was held a crime;
In desperation sought his way
Though Elves said he was trespassing.
What evil luck, what evil fate
Had come upon his mortal name!
In Dors-o-loch he might abate
The headache he had simmering.
And so beneath the fence he came,
Not knowing that he'd find a mate
In Elvenhome's most lovely dame,
A lass of sexy quivering!
One night beneath the Moon he spies
Fair Lustianne upon a hill,
A sight too good for Mortal eyes,
And no clothes there a-covering.
With inhibitions running nil,
And Bluto's heart a-tantalize,
He calls out: _Fair Trollopiel!_
She shrieks, and runs for costuming.
Now blind and looking for that lass
He hunts for her for twenty days,
With mem'ry of that shapely ass
That set his hormones quivering.
And all that time inside she stays,
So frightened some would think her crass
For her nocturnal naughty ways
In quiet starlight shimmering.
But hormones call, as hormones will,
And out one night she goes again
To dash through Nature, wearing nil
But dew upon her, glistening.
And Bluto sees, and calls again!
_Trollopiel! Trollopiel!_
Though common sense tells her to run,
She stands there, naked, listening.
Then Bluto does, lust-shaking, walk
To Lustianne with gentle care,
For if by sudden move she balk,
Another month of wandering!
But Lustianne somehow will dare
To wait for him. And so they talk,
Then touch, then grope, then passion's flare
Consumes, and leaves them foundering.
Next morning naked they were found
By guards of old King Thinowilld.
(And Lustianne, by Bluto, bound!
The sergeants stood there sniggering.)
The mighty King is fury-filled.
A Man, have Lustianne ungowned!
His daughter, looking lust-fulfilled!
His rage is now a-triggering.
But Mirilou, the Queen, recalls
To him their coursthip long before,
And how he chased her through the halls
And took her 'twixt the curtaining.
How nat'ral that their child adore
That lusty joy, that now appalls
The King! If now one oath he swore,
She says, a Royal Divorcing!
So Thinowilld is stuck at last,
And says to Bluto, mortal Man,
That now his anger is all past
And this new guest he's welcoming.
But also now he plots a plan
To rid him of this horny guest
who dares to take his Lustianne!
His thoughts are dark and troubling._
Strider stopped for a long moment, wrapped in some inner lust. "That is
but a part of a long tale," he said, "in an ancient Elvish mode which
requires rhyming three syllables on every fourth line, for which rhyming
dictionaries are bloody useless. It tells of the meeting of Bluto, son of
Bearhand, one of the First Men to come out of the factory, and Lustianne,
by far the sexiest and most kick-ass of the Elves. Her father Thinowilld
gets all huffy and makes a barroom bet with Bluto that he can't steal a
_slipcast_ from the Iron Fist of Mordred. Bluto takes him up on it, and
though Thinowilld locks up all of her clothes Lustianne goes with Bluto
anyway. They have many adventures. I think there's a set of children's
books about it. Anyway, after a long while they settled down and raised a
family. Elysium the Mariner was of their kin, and El Rond and Earohed his
children. El Rond you know of. Earohed was the first King of Atlantis,
and from his lineage comes the great Sea-Kings, and Isildur, and the
great and unfailing line of truly just and noble kings who rightfully
should hold undying Godlike dominion over every little bit of
Middle-earth by divine right."
The hobbits looked at Strider. There seemed to be a fiery light in
his eyes and a nobility in his face and a power-mad tremble in his lip
which they had never noticed, or at any rate had been able to somehow
ignore, till now.
"Wow, must be about four in the morning," Morrie said, eager to
change the subject. "Look: the Moon is setting. And there's three or four
dark meanacing figures beginning to make their way into the dell."
Strider leaped to his feet. "Keep close to the fire!" he shouted.
"Take out those cheap little swords I gave you, and stand ready! Oh, if I
hadn't been reciting that damn poem I could have been on the other side
of the Hill by now."
The dark shapes came closer. In them Frodo seemed to perceive a
hatred of all _living_ things, a darkness beyond darkness, a soulless
Void without light, mercy or hope. Or maybe it was just dinner catching
up with him. Morrie and Pipsqueak were collapsing into a blind terror, so
horrified that they could barely laugh. Sam stood off to one side, his
eyes wide, barely able to concentrate on the dishes. Strider alone stood
bravely, holding a flaming stick in his right hand and pointing
surreptitiously towards Frodo with the left. The horrific black shapes
drew nearer and nearer.
And suddenly Frodo got the urge to put on the Ring. Not with any
plan in mind, not to turn invisible and certainly not to seduce them, but
just to put it on. The calling seemed to come from outside him. Perhaps
it was a venomous, fell voice of Doom; perhaps it was the whisper of the
wraiths, carried terrifyingly by the frail wind; perhaps it was just Sam
whispering "Puuut the Rinnng onnnnn..." in a deceptive whisper. Frodo could
not tell. Finally succumbing to his terror, he slipped on the Ring.
The world of light faded, and Frodo suddenly saw the black shapes
for what they were: nightmarish victims of other Rings, their souls
forever enslaved, and not just minorities after all. One of them wore a
pale crown. Yet even as he saw them they surged forward.
The Ringwraiths pressed a small envelope into Frodo's hand, then
stepped back. Frodo opened it, looked briefly at the page then fell back
with a cry of despair. With his last strength he refolded the letter
before blackness overtook him.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
o...@netcom.com ...Cliffhanger! Cliffhanger! :)
Steuard Jensen
> Ahhhh, nothing like complicated verse structure on short notice. :)
> BOOK I, CHAPTER XI: A STAB IN THE BACK
That was absolutely fantastic! :) Wonderful! Beautiful!
Lust-filled! I loved it! (Nasty cliffhanger, too...) The hints of
socialist revolution to come... the myriad references to earlier
chapters... the lust...
But say, I've got to get to bed... Goldberry is waiting. :) Ojevind,
your turn! (Back at last, back at last, our beloved etext is back at
last!)
Steuard Jensen
Prembone
> In a flash Fredegar realized the source of his terror. Wood
> table, wood sill, wood-planked walls, floor and ceiling. He
> was surrounded by wood! Like being surrounded by trees, only
> more cunning! So they domesticated themselves, the evil
> bastards! And now we _rely_ on them! Only a matter of time
> till they kill us all.
Oh, help me.... (LMAO)
> It all made sense, that perfect kind of
> sense that only comes with excessive drinking.
Or excessive surfing of looney conspiracy sites on the net.
> "It seems to like gates," Sam said stupidly, and then named
> the ass Gates for no particularly clear reason.
A touch of Frodo's Foretelling must have, uh, rubbed off on him.
> That night they spent under the stars. As the others fell
> asleep Frodo condescended and offered to let Sam suck on his
> fingers for a time, but Sam declined. _No point,_ Sam thought
> irritably. _Nobody'll be likely to wake up and witness it. No
> witnesses, no blackmail. Where's the point in that?_
Ah. Good twist. ;-) I think you must've been reading my mind.
> The ass Gates, while content and useful on easy and well-worn
> paths, became sluggish and uncooperative on any path that
> required effort. Often it would stop with a blue scream and
> refuse to budge forward until someone booted it.
Heh.
> "This feels like the country we were in a week or two ago,"
> Morrie noted. "Are there Barrow-wights around here?"
> "Not here," Strider answered, and Frodo felt oddly
> disappointed.
Thank you. ;-) (Prem takes a bow.)
> "Though the Exiles from Atlantis once lived here.
Patrick Duffy? ("It's SCUZZLEBUTT!!!")
> Honestly, the stuff they write into these old songs. They
> don't make any sense. Give me a nice simple tune about ale and
> fox-hunting any day, that's for me!"
> Pipsqueak and Morrie mumbled agreement, and proceeded with
> Frodo down the path. Strider gave Sam a short and knowing
> glance before walking away, then left him and Gates to fend
> for themselves.
The Revolution is a-comin'.... ;-)
I loved both of the songs, BTW. The Subtextual Tilde wriggled
its way quite nicely between the lines of *this* installment.
> The Ringwraiths pressed a small envelope into Frodo's hand,
> then stepped back. Frodo opened it, looked briefly at the page
> then fell back with a cry of despair. With his last strength
> he refolded the letter before blackness overtook him.
This could be good. Was Ojevind the next in line?
Many thanks for getting this happy train rolling again...
Prembone
..whose novel *is* progressing, despite her fascination with
the unfolding saga of the LOTR e-text.
--
God was my co-pilot, but our plane crashed in the mountains
and I had to eat him.
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