E-Text: Book 3, Chapter 3 - The Uruk-Hai
Varnast Karnassos
work... for in some measure it is my fault, not Tribimat's, that things
turned out as they did. As Trib has no internet access ATM, it was my
job to act as watchdog until he returned home. I THOUGHT he would have
sufficient time to return, but 'Two Pages' Brady caught me off-guard.
Never mind, for here is...
Chapter 3: The Uruk-Hai
by Tribimat
Pipsqueak lay in a dark and troubled dream: it seemed that he could
hear his own small annoying voice echoing in black tunnels,
calling ‘Frodo, Frodo! Gimme that biscuit!’ But instead of Frodo
hundreds of hideous, nasty, mean and vicious goblin-faces grinned at
him out of the shadows, displaying bridgework that made him cringe.
Where was Morrie (and his dentist’s drill) when you needed him?
He woke. Cold air blew on his face. He was lying on his back. Evening
was coming and the sky was growing dim. He turned and found that the
dream was little worse than the waking, except that he had shut up. His
wrists, legs and ankles were tied with string. Beside him Morrie lay,
asleep, with a knotted handkerchief over his face to keep the flies
off. All about them sat or stood a great company of goblins.
Slowly in Pipsqueak’s aching head memory pieced itself together and
became separated from dream-shadow. Of course: he and Morrie had run
off into the woods leaving Boromir™ to the goblins; they had run a long
way screaming – he could not remember how far or how long, his mind
having blanked out that rather embarrassing detail; and then suddenly
they had crashed into the same group of goblins, having described a
perfect circle: they were standing listening to Boromir™ play his horn,
several beating a syncopated rhythm on nearby trees and swaying
appreciatively to the mellow tones. The goblins did not appear to see
him or Morrie until they had drawn their swords and given five of them
Bywater smiles*. Then they yelled and dozens of other goblins had
sprung out of the trees (literally), but they did not wish to fight,
and only tried to stop the hobbits from killing any more by grabbing
hold of them, even when Morrie drew a miniature repeating crossbow from
his waistcoat and started shooting them in certain parts. Good old
Morrie!
Then Boromir™ finished the jazz number and started playing one of
Schoenberg’s lesser-known works: this slew many of them and the rest
fled. But they had not gone very far on the way back when they were
attacked again, by a hundred music critics at least, some of them very
scathing, and they hurled an acid rain of sarcastic reviews: always at
Boromir™. Boromir™ had blown his great horn till the woods rang, and at
first the critics had been deafened and had drawn back; but when no
answer but the echoes came, they knew they had no full orchestra to
contend with and attacked more fiercely than ever. Pipsqueak did not
remember much more. His last memory was of Boromir leaning against a
tree, muttering something about them all regretting it when his debut
album was released; then darkness fell suddenly.
“I suppose I was knocked on the head,” he said to himself. “Knowing
Morrie, I doubt he got hurt. What has happened to Boromir™? Why didn’t
the goblins try to kill us? Why am I here? What is 2+2?”
He could not answer the questions. He felt cold, sick, stupid and
hungry. “I wish Gandalf had never persuaded El Rond to let us come,” he
thought. “What good have I been? Just a nuisance: a passenger, a
messenger, a mariner that should have tarried in Arvernien, a piece of
luggage. And now I have been stolen and I am just a piece of luggage
for the goblins. I wonder if I’m insured? I hope Strider or someone
will come and claim us! But ought I to hope for it? Won’t he just cash
in on the policy and forget about us? I wish I could think of a less
depressing metaphor!”
He struggled a little, quite uselessly. Whoever had tied this string
was an expert with ligatures (which made him think of Sam and his
family’s skill with rope, something that had proved especially useful
to the Bywater lynch mob when they strung up three Shiriffs who were in
the pay of the Grumbleguts family), and also knew that he was about as
strong as Bree-land lager. One of the goblins sitting near laughed and
said something to Morrie in an abominable accent with ridiculous-
sounding vowels: Morrie chuckled sleepily. “Rest while you can, you
frightful little oik,” he said then to Pipsqueak in the Common Speech,
which he still managed to to make almost as bizarre as his own
language. “Rest while you can! We’ll find a use for your feeble little
legs before long. You’ll wish you had none before we get back to Tower.
Not used to a brisk cross-country run, I expect.”
“If I had my way, you’d wish you were expelled now,” said the
other. “I’d make you squeak, you pathetic squib.” He stooped over
Pipsqueak, bringing his yellow, uneven fangs close to his face. He wore
a purple tie with a crest on it, and had a cane with a long, whiplike
switch in his hand. “Lie quiet, or I’ll tickle you with this,” he
hissed. “Don’t draw attention to yourself and disturb your betters, or
I may forget my orders. Curse the Guards! Cedríc in glasshouse the
bootless Aruman-tick handman blood”: he passed into a long angry speech
in his own tongue that slowly died away into muttering and snarling.
Terrified Pipsqueak lay still, though the pain in his head and bladder
was growing and the stones beneath him were boring into his back. To
take his mind off himself he listened intently to all he could hear.
There were many voices round about, and though goblin-speech sounded at
all times full of hate and argot, it seemed plain that something like a
quarrel had begun, and was getting hotter.
To Pipsqueak’s surprise he found that much of the talk was
intelligible; many of the goblins were using ordinary language.
Apparently the members of two or three quite different schools were
present, and they could not understand one another’s clique-speech.
There was an angry debate concerning what they were to do now: which
way they were to take and what should be done with the ‘new boy’.
“There’s no time to initiate him properly,” said one. “No time for
tradition on this trip.”
“That can’t be helped,” said another. “But why not enrol him quick,
enrol him now? We’re in a hurry. Evening’s coming, and we ought to get
a move on if we don’t want to lose house points and face the Run.”
“Orders,” said a third voice in a deep growl. “Kill all but not the
Halflings; they are to brought back uninitiated as quickly as possible
for extra credit. That’s my orders.”
“What are they wanted for?” asked several voices. “Why uninitiated? Are
they good at sport?”
“Not likely: they look about as promising as Johnson minor. I heard
that one of them has got something, something that’s wanted for the
Season, some elvish plot or other. Anyway, they’ll both be interviewed.”
“Is that all you know? Why don’t we search them and find out? We might
find something that we could use ourselves: some drinks, or some weed,
or something like that.”
“That is a very interesting remark,” sneered a voice, softer than the
others but more evil. “I may have to report that. The new pupils are
not to be searched or molested: those are my orders.”
“And mine too,” said the deep voice. “Alive and as recruited. That’s my
orders.”
“Not our orders!” said one of the earlier voices. “We have come all the
way from the Mines to kill, and avenge our shocking loss on points. I
wish to kill, then go up north.”
“Then you can wish again,” said the growling voice. “I am Cedríc. I am
the senior prefect. I return to Guard School by the shortest road.”
“Is Aruman the headmaster or the Great Eye?” said the evil voice. “We
should go back at once to Tower.”
“If we could cross the Great River, we might,” said another voice. “But
there are not enough of us to venture down to the bridges, and these
new boys won’t have got their Swimming colours yet.”
“I came across,” said the evil voice. “A winged Nazdaq awaits us
northward at the East Bank: he’s just calling in a few of Pater’s
debts.”
“Maybe, maybe! Then you’ll fly off with the new pupils, and get all the
kudos and house points for Tower, and leave us to hike as best as we
can through the golf-country. No, we must stick together. These lands
are dangerous: full of foul parvenus and new money with no form.”
“Yah, we must stick together,” growled Cedríc. “I don’t trust you
little Mines House swine. You’ve no standards outside your own sties.
But for us you’d all have run away. We are the Uruk-Hai prefects! We
destroyed the confidence of the great musician. We recruited the new
boys. We are the pupils of Aruman the Wise, the White Hand Gang. We
came out of Guard House and led you here, and we shall lead you back by
the way we choose. I am Cedríc. I have spoken.”
“You have spoken more than enough, Cedríc,” sneered the evil voice. “I
wonder how the masters would like it in Tower. They might think that
Cedríc’s neck needed relieving of a prefect tie. They might ask where
his strange ideas come from. Did they come from Aruman, perhaps? Who
does he think he is, setting up on his own with his filthy white House
badges? They might agree with me, with Clarénce their trusted bridge
club secretary; and I Clarénce say this: Aruman is a fool, and a dirty
treacherous fool. But the Head has his Eye on him.
“Swine, is it? How do you boys like being called swine by the muck-
rakers of a dirty little Chem master?”
Many loud yells in goblin-argot answered him, and the whispering swish
of canes being brandished. Cautiously Pipsqueak rolled over, hoping to
see what would happen. His guards had gone to join in the fray. In the
twilight he saw a large goblin, probably Cedríc, standing facing
Clarénce, a short crook-legged creature with no chin. Round them were
many smaller goblins. Pipsqueak supposed that these were the ones from
the North. They had drawn their canes and wet towels, but hesitated to
attack Cedríc.
Cedríc shouted, and a number of goblins of nearly his own size ran up.
Then suddenly, without warning, Cedríc sprang forwards, and with two
swift strokes caned the hands of two of his opponents. Clarénce stepped
aside and vanished into the shadows. The others gave way.
“Boys, put those canes away or I’ll thrash you,” snarled Cedríc. “And
let’s have no more nonsense! We go straight west from here, and down
the stair. From there to the downs, then along the river to the forest,
then three laps around the playing field. Along the Cadet Training
Course and back to Guard House in time for prep. That clear?”
The goblins were getting ready to begin the cross-country run again,
but some of the Northerners were still unwilling, and the Guards
prefects caned two more before the rest were cowed. There was much
confusion. For the moment Pipsqueak was unwatched. His legs were
securely bound, but his arms were only tied about the wrists, and his
legs were in front of him. He could move them both together, though the
bonds were cruelly tight. He tried gnawing through the string, then
remembered the knife that Morrie had convinced him to wear up his
sleeve ‘just in case’. He waved his arms in what he hoped was an
inconspicuous, I’ve-got-cramp sort of way until the tiny blade worked
loose from its sheath: the edge snicked his arm, and then slid down his
wrist. Pipsqueak whimpered: he hated the sight of blood, particularly
his own, but steeling himself he drew the knot of the wrist-cord up and
down against the blade of the knife. The string was cut! Quickly
Pipsqueak took it in his fingers and knotted it again into a loose
bracelet of two loops and slipped it over his hands. Then he lay very
still.
“Pick up those new boys!” shouted Cedríc. Don’t play any tricks with
them! If they are not in alive when we get back, it’ll be detentions
and the glasshouse all round till someone owns up. Remember the good
name of your House and school.”
A goblin seized Pipsqueak like a sack, tied a horrid brown tie round
his neck, grabbed his arms and forced him into a disgusting green
blazer with gold piping; then it gave him a good kick “for your own
good, you detestable midget” and picked him up by the ears while others
swished canes meaningfully. Morrie yawned, got up and put on the
uniform with every appearance of enthusiasm: the goblins were almost
deferential to him. Pipsqueak looked at Morrie in horror, as he
suddenly realised who must have hit him over the head, and tied those
knowingly mocking knots. Morrie glanced at him, and smirked. Pipsqueak
shut his eyes and slipped back into evil dreams. Most of them involved
Morrie and sharp implements.
Suddenly he was thrown onto the stony floor again. It was early night,
but the slim moon was already falling westward. They were on the edge
of a cliff that seemed to look out over a sea of pale mist. There was a
sound of water falling nearby.
“The scouts have come back at last,” said a goblin close out hand.
“What a relief,” hissed another, and the sound of water ceased.
“Well, what did you discover?” growled the voice of Cedríc.
“We had to destroy a couple of villages to get them, sir, but we’ve got
enough feather beds for the senior prefects, and breakfast for the
entire cross-country party. All’s well now.”
“Now, I daresay. But how long? You fools! You should have kept a few of
the yokels alive to carry the beds for us. Now we’ll just have to leave
them here. Damn you all to hell!”
“Yes, sir,” said the scout.
A shadow bent over Pipsqueak. It belonged to Cedríc. “Sit up!” said the
prefect. “My bloods are tired of lugging you about. We have got to
climb down, and you must use your legs. Be a man now. No crying, no
slacking, follow the principles that have made Guard House old boys
great. Let’s see if you make the grade in one of our smaller tests,
shall we?”
He cut the string round Pipsqueak’s legs and ankles, picked him up by
his ears and stood him on his feet. Pipsqueak fell down, and Cedríc
dragged him up by his ears again. Morrie laughed. Cedríc thrust a flask
between his teeth and poured some burning liquid down his throat, while
the goblins chanted, “Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!” Pipsqueak managed to
drain the whole bottle, and the goblins cheered. Cedríc looked
impressed. Pipsqueak felt a hot fierce glow flow through him. The pain
in his legs and ankles vanished. He could stand, although walking in a
straight line proved surprisingly difficult.
“Where’s mine?” Morrie demanded. Cedríc glowered and looked about to
draw his cane, then thought better of it and signalled for another
flask. Morrie looked him in the eye, then unstoppered it and positively
guzzled the contents. The goblins were flabbergasted. “These Halflings
are damned good drinkers, I’ll say that for them,” one of them
muttered, sipping gingerly at an alcopop.
Morrie stood up, looking calm and relaxed, as though being proffered
drinks by goblins was nothing out of the ordinary. “Where do we get bed
and breakfast?” he demanded.
“Do I look like a scout?” Cedríc snapped. “Ask them, it’s none of my
business.”
“Suit yourself,” Morrie said languidly. “But I don’t expect my father
will be very pleased once he hears that I haven’t been treated well.
Why, he may even choose to withdraw his generous donation to the Guard
House trust fund…”
Pipsqueak could hardly believe his ears (which were now throbbing and
approximately three times as big as they had been at the start of
the ‘cross-country run’). Morrie’s father was notoriously tight-fisted
(he was known as Sorrowduck Snatchgold, or ‘Sorrie’ for short) and in
addition had not been seen by anyone outside his family for three
years: Gaffer Gamgee had voiced a commonly-held opinion that ‘young
master Morrie’ had been rather previous in assuming control of the
household, resigning himself to the notion with the phlegmatic
observation that ‘it won’t matter one whit when the Revolution comes,
you mark my words’. Yet here was Morrie using his father’s alleged
munificence as a bargaining tool with the creatures of the Enemy, and
getting away with it! He watched Cedríc back down with a muttered
apology and a summons to the nearest scout to give ‘Mister Brandybuck’
all the information he wanted. The scout promised obsequiously
that “you’ll get bed and breakfast all right, sir, more than you can
manage.”
“I doubt that,” Pipsqueak said out loud, and was caned for speaking out
of turn.
The party began to descend a narrow ravine leading down into the misty
plain below. Morrie and Pipsqueak, separated by a dozen or more smaller
goblins who were busily toadying up to the new boy who could cheek
Cedríc the Guard blood and get away with it, climbed down with them. At
the bottom they stepped onto grass, and Pipsqueak’s heart rose: he
could feel the fine-trimmed green of a golf course of Rohan under his
feet, and he remembered the old story about Bandyknees the Bullshitter
and King Golfball the goblin, drawing confidence from the connexion
with the hobbit who walked off with the first Masters trophy with a
staggering 61. He then remembered that the Bullshitter had been lynched
by a distinctly biased crowd, and that Golfball had given his name to
the sport for a very good reason, and suddenly felt a lot colder.
“Now straight on!” shouted Cedríc. “West and a little north. Follow
Eustáce. Let’s trample their precious golf courses a little, that’ll be
a good prank, eh boys?”
“But what are we going to do at sunrise?” some of the northerners
asked.
“We shall sing the school song, give three cheers for the Headmaster
and Aruman his Deputy, and cane Plowman Minimus for picking his nose
and eating it when he thought no-one was looking,” Cedríc replied
promptly: Pipsqueak could see how he had ended up as senior
prefect. “Then go on running. What do you think? Sit on the green and
wait for the nouveaux riches to tee off?”
“But we can’t run in the sunlight: we have allergies, and sick-notes
from our parents.”
“You’ll run with me behind you, you loathsome slugs,” said
Cedríc. “Allergies? You pathetic frogspawn make me sick, with your
excuses and your weak chests and your heart conditions. No wonder Guard
House has thrashed you in every game of rugger for the last eighteen
seasons. You’re not fit to wear those ties, you hear me? Now get out of
my sight. Allergies, my foot!” He raised the aforementioned extremity
and booted the nearest northerner into a bunker. It was then that
Pipsqueak noticed that, like hobbits, the Guards pupils wore no shoes,
and that their feet extruded little studs, and were toeless, being
fitted with steel toecaps instead.
Then the whole company began to run with the long loping strides of
goblins. They kept no order, thrusting, jostling and cursing: several
goblins got studded in the confusion, and elbows were used without
mercy. This was clearly an important run, as the prefects from each
house went up and down the line, beating those among their fellows who
could not match the pace. Pipsqueak, who was far back in the line
hiding among a group of no-hopers and hoping that Cedríc would not spot
him, gathered that an important trophy was at stake. He could not see
Morrie. He wondered how long he would be able to go on at this pace: he
had had no food since the morning. But at present the goblin-liquor
(‘ghash-water’ as they called it) was still hot in him.
Every now and again there came into his mind an unbidden vision of the
fat face of Strider bending myopically over a dark trail, and waddling,
waddling behind. More vivid, however, was the image of the gigantic
five-headed hamster waving a sickle and singing “My Balrog lies over
the ocean” out of tune, and he began to sweat profusely and shiver at
the thought of its evil little eyes and its malicious whiskers.
They had gone only a mile or so from the cliff when the course sloped
down into a wide shallow depression, where the ground was soft and wet:
the goblins busied themselves knocking down the boundary fence. The
dark shapes of the goblins in front grew dim, and several were
swallowed up.
“Damn it all! Quicksand!” shouted Cedríc from the rear.
Pipsqueak could stand it no more. If the quicksand did not swallow him
up, the mutant hamster certainly would. He swerved aside to the right,
and fell headfirst into the mist. “Come back here, you snivelling
little toerag!” Cedríc roared.
Pipsqueak sprang up and ran screaming, divesting himself of his clothes
as he ran.
“This’ll shake that monster of the scent a little!” he reasoned. He
tore off his tie and blazer, then threw away his waistcoat and undid
his silver belt, which began to deliver a tinny rendition of “Happy
birthday to you” in Elvish. He moved to take off his trousers, but long
arms and hard claws seized him and he came to his senses.
Strangely, the goblins refrained from punishing him, and he found
himself regarded with a degree of awe by the northerners; even the
Guards left him alone.
“I don’t know why I did it,” he whispered to Morrie, who was now
jogging next to him. “It seemed to make sense at the time.”
“You’ve got guts, I’ll say that for you,” Morrie replied. “Either that
or you’re even dafter than I thought. Haven’t you heard anything about
public schoolboys? Still, I imagine they’ll leave you alone for now. I
may make a Took of you yet, cousin!”
“What do you mean?” Pipsqueak demanded. Morrie smiled, but said
nothing.
Neither Pipsqueak nor Morrie remembered much of the latter part of the
journey, since they were treated to copious quantities of Ghash-water
by their fellow runners. They veered, and zigzagged, and fell over, but
if they halted or stumbled they were picked up and carried by the
northerners, who had unofficially adopted them. The Guards prefects
scowled, but said nothing. There was still no sign of Clarénce.
The warmth of the latest flask had gone, and Pipsqueak was sick again.
Suddenly he fell face downwards on the turf. An hour and a half later,
the company noticed he was missing and sent a party back to retrieve
him. Whatever kudos his panicked streaking had won him evaporated: he
was carried in a sack and darkness was about him.
“I’m suffocating in here!” he yelled, but to no avail.
Dimly he became aware of voices clamouring: many of the more unfit
goblins were demanding a rest. Cedríc was shouting. He felt himself
flung to the ground, and he lay as he fell, until black dreams took
him. At three in the morning the company was woken by cries of “Clowns
are climbing through the window!” and an irate prefect kicked the sack
until Pipsqueak was silent once more.
Slowly he came back to the waking world with a bleeding nose and
bruised ribs. Orders were shouted (he heard Morrie bellow “Ten bacon
sandwiches!”) and he was tipped out and thrown roughly on the grass.
There he lay for a while, fighting with nausea. His head swam, but from
the heat in his body he guessed that he had been another draught. His
vision blurred. A scout stooped over him and flung him some bread with
a strange, oddly-coloured circle of meat in the middle. He ate the
sesame seed bun hungrily, but not the meat: he was famished, but not
yet so famished as to eat a hamburger, the flesh of he dared not guess
what creature.
He sat up and looked about. Morrie was not far away. They were by the
banks of a swift narrow river. Ahead mountains loomed: a tall peak was
catching the first rays of the sun. A dark smudge of forest lay on the
lower slopes before them. There was no sign of any giant hamsters.
There was much shouting and debating among the goblins; a quarrel
seemed on the point of breaking out again between the northerners and
the Guards. Some were pointing back away south, and some were pointing
eastwards. One was pointing up in the air, but he was caned and
desisted.
“Very well,” said Cedríc. “Leave them to me then! If you want to throw
away what we’ve come all the way to get, throw it away! I’ll look after
it. Let the Uruk-Hai look after it, as usual. If you’re afraid of the
Whiteballs, run! Run! There’s the forest,” he shouted, pointing
ahead. “Get to it! It’s your best hope: it’s out of bounds. Off you go!
And quick, before I knock a few more teeth in, to put some sense into
the others.” No-one appeared to understand the last part, but they said
nothing.
There was some cursing and scuffling, and then most of the northerners
broke away and dashed off, over a hundred of them, running wildly along
the river towards the mountains and showing more athletic prowess than
they had demonstrated in the entire journey up to that point. The
hobbits were left with the Guard House contingent: a grim dark band,
four score at least of large, muscular, bone-headed jocks with great
canes and short tempers. A few of the larger and bolder northerners
remained with them.
“Now we’ll deal with that little rat Clarénce,” said Cedríc; but some
even of his fellow Guards were looking uneasily southwards.
“I know,” growled Cedríc. “The cursed polo-players have got wind of us.
But that’s all your fault, Jeffries. You and the other scouts ought to
have your wages docked. But we are the prefects. We’ll feast on
horseflesh yet, or something better. Filet mignon would suit me, but I
suppose we’ll have to see what’s on High Table.”
At that moment Pipsqueak saw why some of the troop had been pointing
eastward. From that direction there now came hoarse cries, and there
was Clarénce again, and at his back a couple of score of others like
him: long-limbed chinless goblins. They had a red eye on their prefect
badges. Cedríc stepped forward to meet them.
“So you’ve come back?” he said. “Thought better of it, eh?”
“I’ve returned to see that Orders are carried out and the new boys
safe,” answered Clarénce.
“Indeed!” said Cedríc. “Waste of effort. I’ll see that orders are
carried out in my prefecture. And what else did you come back for? You
went in a hurry. Did you leave anything behind?”
“I left a fool,” snarled Clarénce. “But there were some stout fellows
with him who were too good to lose, especially if that cricket rematch
against Gundabad hasn’t been cancelled. I knew you’d lead them into a
mess. I’ve come to help them.”
“Splendid!” laughed Cedríc. “But unless you’ve some guts for a scrap
with the hoi polloi you’ve taken the wrong way. Tower was your road.
The Whiteballs are coming. What’s happened to your precious Nazdaq? Has
he had another mount impounded by the police for speeding? Now, if
you’d brought him along, that might have been useful – if these Nazdaq
are all they make out.”
“Nazdaq, Nazdaq,” said Clarénce, shivering and licking his chops, as if
the word had a foul taste that he savoured painfully. “You speak of
what is deep beyond the reach of your muddy dreams, Cedríc,” he
said. “Nazdaq! Ah! All that they make out! One day you’ll wish that you
had not said that. Ape!” he snarled fiercely. “You ought to know that
they’re the apple of the Great Eye, you numbskull, but you clearly
haven’t done your Evil Economic Forces prep yet. But the winged Nazdaq:
not yet, not yet. He won’t let them show themselves across the Great
River yet, not before they’ve got their pilot’s licences. They’re for
the Season – and other purposes, such as sky-writing.”
“You seem to know a lot,” said Cedríc. “More than is good for you, I
guess. Perhaps those in Tower might wonder how, and why, not to mention
who, when, where and what. But in the meantime the Uruk-Hai of Guard
House can do the dirty work, as usual. Don’t stand slavering there! For
heaven’s sake get a handkerchief or something. You make me feel quite
faint. The other swine are legging it to the forest, and you’d better
follow. You wouldn’t get back to the Great River alive. Right off the
mark! Now! I’ll be on your heels, and that,” he stamped on a small
rock, which shattered completely, “will hurt.”
The Guards seized Pipsqueak and Morrie, much to the indignation of the
latter, who shouted something about his father. Then the troop started
off. Hour after hour they ran, slinging the hobbits from one carrier to
another, while others tried to tackle them. “No point wasting time that
can be used for rugger practice,” Cedríc boomed. The Guards gradually
passed through the Tower party, and soon they were gaining on the
northerners as well. The forest began to draw nearer.
Pipsqueak was bruised, torn, hung over and miserable. “Is this what all
public schools are like?” he thought to himself. His father had put his
name down for Dunharrow-on-the-Hill, but Pipsqueak had run away when he
found out. Morrie, of course, had been to Wood Eaton: Pipsqueak
supposed that he had learned his unquenchable self-confidence and
brutal habits there. Much good was it doing him now, though, being
thrown from one set of iron hands to another. This brought Pipsqueak
some consolation, until a penalty was declared and he was kicked fifty
yards through the air and bounced a further fifteen.
In the afternoon Cedríc’s troop overtook the northerners. They were
sneezing in the rays of the bright sun; their heads were down and their
tongues were lolling out. One of them was searching for his anti-
histamine spray.
“Maggots!” jeered the Guards. “You’re cooked. The Whiteballs will catch
you and kill you. They’re coming!”
A cry from Clarénce showed that this was not mere jest. Horsemen,
riding very swiftly, had indeed been sighted: still far behind but
gaining on the goblins. They were waving polo mallets in the air.
The Guards began to run with a redoubled pace that astonished
Pipsqueak, a terrific spurt it seemed for the end of a race. Then he
saw that the sun was sinking; shadows reached over the land. The Tower
contingent lifted their heads and also began to put on speed. The
forest was dark and close. The land was beginning to slope upwards, but
the goblins did not halt. Both Cedríc and Clarénce shouted, spurring
them on to a last effort.
“They will make it yet. They will escape,” thought Pipsqueak in
typically optimistic mood. Then his latest carrier managed to twist his
neck, so that he ended up (in severe pain) glancing back over his
shoulder. He saw that the riders away eastward were already level with
the goblins, galloping over the plain. The sunset gilded their riding
helmets and mallets. They were hemming the goblins in, preventing them
from scattering, and driving them along the line of the river.
He wondered very much what kind of folk they were. He wished now that
he had learned more at Rivendell, or indeed anywhere at all, and looked
more at maps and books and things; but in those days the plans for the
journey seemed to be in more competent hands, namely those of everyone
else, and he had never reckoned with being cut off from Gandalf, or
from Strider, or Frodo, or Boromir™, or…All that he could remember
about Rohan was that it was called Rohan. All things considered, that
was not very much help. But better than nothing, as far as it went.
“But how will they know that we are not goblins?” he thought, looking
at Morrie’s wicked and sly face, and the uniform that they had once
more forced him to wear. “I don’t suppose they’ve ever heard of hobbits
down here, and if they have they probably want to kill us anyway
because of our criminal network. I suppose I should be glad that the
beastly goblins look like being destroyed, but that isn’t really much
consolation is it?”
A few of the riders appeared to be golfers, judging from the squires
riding beside them bearing club-filled bags. Riding swiftly into range
and then dismounting, they hit volleys of white balls (Pipsqueak was
strangely relieved when he made the connexion) and the goblins that
straggled behind, coughing and wheezing. Several of them fell, although
given their level of fitness they were probably having heart attacks;
then the riders wheeled out of range of the answering ink-pellets and
paper aeroplanes of their enemies, who aimed wildly, not daring to
halt. This happened many times, and on one occasion balls fell among
the Guards. One of them, just in front of Pipsqueak, got hit in the
temple and did not get up again.
Night came down without the riders closing in for battle. Many goblins
had fallen, but fully two hundred remained. In the early darkness the
goblins came to a hillock, but did not know whether to eat it or talk
to it, and so left it alone. The eaves of the forest were very near,
probably no more than three furlongs away, but Pipsqueak didn’t know
how long a furlong was, so that wasn’t very helpful. The horsemen had
encircled them. A small band disobeyed Cedríc’s command, and began
playing a vigorous march, until they were caned into submission.
“Well, here we are,” sneered Clarénce. “Fine leadership! I hope the
great Cedríc will lead us out again.”
“Put those halflings down!” ordered Cedríc, taking no notice of
Clarénce. “You, Eustáce, get two others and stand guard over them!
They’re not to be killed unless the filthy Whiteballs break through.
Understand? As long as I’m alive, I want ’em.
But they’re not to cry out, and they’re not to be rescued. We were
entrusted to being the new boys back to Guard House, and that’s what
we’re going to do, whether they like it or not. Bind their legs!”
The last part of the order was carried out mercilessly. But Pipsqueak
found that for the first time he was close to Morrie. The goblins were
making a great deal of noise, shouting and swishing their canes, and
the hobbits managed to whisper together for a while.
“Get your hands off my neck!” Morrie croaked. “I’ll have you dumped in
the swamp with concrete shoes.”
“Hobbits don’t wear shoes!” Pipsqueak replied instinctively.
“A concrete waistcoat, then. Leave off!”
Pipsqueak let go. Morrie coughed for a while, then hissed: “What did
you expect? Look out for number one is my motto. They said they were
there to recruit us into their school, and they seemed to think that
tying you up was an appropriate initiation ritual. That’s public
schoolboys for you. Anyway, I need to get to Isengard quickly, and this
seemed like a good idea.”
“Isengard? Are you mad?”
“On the contrary, Isengard is the only reason I joined this stupid
expedition in the first place. Do I look like the altruistic type? Do
me a favour. Remember when my cousins Norbert and Clovis were found in
the Woody End riddled with holes? That was Sackville-Baggins work.
Young Lotho is getting some new kind of weapon shipped in from Isengard
in return for some high-quality weed, and I need to close it down
before we lose our investments in the Southfarthing completely.”
“You are mad. You’ve travelled halfway across the continent, just to
shut down a weapons smuggling operation? Well anyway, that’s all very
well, but why am I here?”
Just then, however, a savage kick warned Pipsqueak that the noise had
died down, and the Guards were watchful.
The night was cold and still. All round the knoll on which the goblins
were gathered little watch-fires sprang up, golden-red in the darkness,
a complete ring of them.
“There is nothing between me and the wheel of fire,” Pipsqueak thought.
They were within a long bowshot, but the goblins had no longbows. The
riders made no sound. Later in the night when the moon came out of the
mist, then they could occasionally be seen.
“They’ll wait for the Sun, curse them!” growled one of the Guards. “Why
don’t we get together and charge through? What’s old Cedríc think he’s
doing, I should like to know?”
“I daresay you would,” snarled Cedríc stepping up from behind. “Meaning
I don’t think at all, eh? That’s five hours’ detention for you,
Harrison. You’re just as bad as the other rabble: the maggots and the
apes of Tower. No good trying to charge with them: they’d just squeal
and bolt, and there are more than enough of these filthy middle-class
fools to mop up our lot on the flat. Still, there’s one thing these
fine fellows don’t know: Mauríce and his lads are in the forest, and
they should turn up any time now.”
Cedríc’s words were apparently enough to satisfy the Guards; but the
other goblins were both dispirited and rebellious. They posted a few
watchers, but most of them lay on the ground, resting in the pleasant
darkness. It did indeed become very dark: the fires brought no light to
the hillock, whatever it was. The riders were not, however, content
merely to wait for the dawn and let their enemies rest. A sudden outcry
on the east side of the knoll showed that something was wrong. It
seemed that some of the men had riden in close, slipped off their
horses, crawled to the edge of the camp and beaten several goblins to
death with their one-irons before fading away again. Cedríc dashed off
to stop a stampede.
Pipsqueak and Morrie sat up. The Guards had gone with Cedríc. But if
the hobbits had any thought of escape it was soon dashed. A long hairy
arm took each of them by the neck and drew them close together, Dimly
they were aware of Clarénce’s great head and hideous lack of chin
between them. He began to paw them and feel them. Pipsqueak shuddered
as hard cold fingers groped down his front.
“Well, my little ones!” said Clarénce in a soft whisper. “Enjoying your
nice rest? Or not? A little awkwardly placed, perhaps: canes and towels
on one side, and nasty mallets on the other! Little people should not
meddle in affairs that are too big for them.” His fingers continued to
grope. There was a light like a pale but hot fire behind his eyes.
The thought came suddenly into Pipsqueak’s mind, as if caught direct
from the urgent thought of the enemy: “Clarénce knows about the Ring!
He’s looking for it, while Cedríc is busy: he probably wants it for
himself. Good heavens, I hope that’s what he’s after.” Cold fear was in
Pipsqueak’s heart, yet at the same time he was wondering what use he
could make of Clarénce’s desire.
“I don’t think you will find it that way,” he whispered. “It isn’t easy
to find.”
“Find it?” said Clarénce: his fingers stopped crawling, much to
Pipsqueak’s relief, and gripped his shoulder. “Find what? What are you
talking about, little one?”
“For a moment Pipsqueak was silent. Then suddenly in the darkness he
made a noise in his throat: saddam, saddam. “Nothing, my precious,” he
added, for good measure.
The hobbits felt Clarénce’s fingers twitch. “O ho!” hissed the goblin
softly. “So that’s what he means, is it? Very ve-ry dangerous, my
little ones.”
“Perhaps,” said Morrie, now alert and aware of Pipsqueak’s
guess. “Perhaps, and not only for us. Still you know your own business
best. Do you want it, or not? And what you give for it?”
“Do I want it? Do I want it?” said Clarénce as if puzzled; but his arms
were trembling. “What would I give for it? What do you mean?”
“We mean,” said Pipsqueak, choosing his words carefully,”that it’s no
good groping in the dark. We could save you time and trouble. But you
must untie our legs first, or we’ll do nothing and tell all.”
“My dear tender little fools,” hissed Clarénce, “everything you have,
and everything you know, will be got out of you in due time:
everything! You’ll wish there was more you could do to satisfy the
Questioner, indeed you will: quite soon. We shan’t hurry the
experience. Oh dear no! What do you think you’ve been kept alive for?
My dear little fellows, please believe me when I say that it was not
out of kindness: that’s not even one of Cedríc’s faults.”
“I find it quite easy to believe,” said Morrie. “But you haven’t got
your prey home yet.And it doesn’t seem to be going your way, whatever
happens. If we come to Guard House, it won’t be Clarénce that benefits:
Aruman will take all the pupils he can find if it’ll help him pay the
rent. If you want anything for yourself, now’s the time to do a deal.”
Clarénce began to lose his temper. The name of Aruman seemed specially
to enrage him. Time was passing and the disturbance was dying down.
Cedríc or the Guards might return at any minute. “Have you got it –
either of you?” he snarled.
“Saddam, saddam!” said Pipsqueak.
“Untie our legs!” said Morrie.
They felt the goblin’s arms trembling wildly. “Curse you, you filthy
little vermin!” he hissed. “Untie your legs? I’ll untie every string in
your bodies. Do you think I can’t search you to the bones? Search you!
I’ll cut you both to quivering shreds. I don’t need the help of your
legs to get you away – and have you all to myself!”
“Wait!” shouted Pipsqueak. “Don’t you want our help in finding the
Ring?”
“Ring?? What on earth are you talking about, you pathetic shrimp?”
Clarénce snapped.
Pipsqueak was suddenly much, much more afraid.
Suddenly he seized them. He tucked them one under each armpit and
crushed them fiercely to his sides. Then he sprang forward, stooping
low. Quickly and silently he went, till he came to the edge of the
knoll. There, choosing a gap between the watchers, he passed like an
evil shadow out into the night, down the slope and away westward
towards the river that flowed out of the forest. In that direction
there was a wide open space with only one fire.
After going a dozen yards he halted, peering and listening. Nothing
could be seen or heard. He crept slowly on. Then he stood up, as if to
risk a sudden dash. At that very moment the dark form of a rider loomed
up in front of him. “Nazdaq!” he shouted in surprise and alarm. It was
his undoing. A polo mallet whistled through the air and dealt him a
sharp crack on the skull. He gave a hideous shivering cry and lay still.
The hobbits remained flat on the ground, too afraid to move.
At last Morrie stirred and whispered softly: “I don’t even want to know
what he was up to, but now we’ve got some sort of chance! But how are
we to avoid being walloped?”
The answer came almost immediately. From the yells and screeches that
were coming from the knoll they guessed that their disappearance had
been discovered. Then suddenly the answering cries of goblin-voices
came from the right, outside the circle of watch-fires. Mauríce had
apparently arrived and was attacking the besiegers with heavy-duty
riding crops and several cats o’ nine tails. The riders were drawing in
their ring close round the knoll so as to prevent any sortie, while a
company rode off to deal with the newcomers. Suddenly Morrie and
Pipsqueak realised that without moving they were now outside the
circle: there was nothing between them and escape.
“Now,” said Morrie, “if only we had our legs and hands free, we might
get away.”
“I was going to tell you: I’ve managed to free my hands. These loops
are only left for show.” Pipsqueak tugged at the string, only to find
that he had just unwittingly made the knot fast. Morrie said a word,
then pulled a stiletto from his heel (“Don’t ask,” he warned his
astonished cousin) and cut the bonds.
The hobbits then sat and ate two or three Twinkies, until Morrie
realised how stupid that was and gestured for Pipsqueak to get a move
on.
They crawled. The turf was deep and yielding, but it was a long slow
business. They reached the edge if the river, then looked back.
The sounds had died away. Evidently Mauríce and his lads had been
killed or driven off. Already the night was old. In the east the sky
was beginning to grow pale.
“We must get under cover,” said Pipsqueak, “or we shall be seen. It
won’t be any comfort to us if the riders only find out we aren’t
goblins when we’re dead. I could stagger on now. What about you,
Morrie?”
Morrie got up. “Yes,” he said. “I can manage it. Twinkies do put heart
into you: it must be all the life-enhancing E-numbers and
preservatives. Damn, I have such a hangover. I need a drink.”
They turned and walked side by side slowly along the line of the river.
“You seem to have been doing well for yourself, Master Took,” said
Morrie. “You aren’t a total moron after all! Your father will be
pleased.”
Pipsqueak looked puzzled.
“Do you not yet understand, Pipistrel Took? Your father paid me a
handsome sum to train you up to become a decent criminal mastermind
like the rest of your family. I thought he was throwing his money away,
but it looks as though you may shape up yet.
“But Cousin Brandybuck is going in front now, because for all that you
still have absolutely no idea where we are, do you? That’s what you get
for not getting a decent education. We are walking along the Entwash:
in front of us is Fangorn Forest.”
“Lead on, Moribund!” said Pipsqueak. “If you have any idea where you’re
going, which I doubt.”
”I am going to Isengard, as I told you,” Morrie snapped. “Now shut up
if you don’t want a dagger in your guts. We can take a short-cut
through the forest. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t,” said Pipsqueak, lighting a cigarette and throwing the lit
match away.
The two of them made their way into the forest under the huge branches.
They looked back across the river, and with the dawn the riders
charged, waving their mallets, and launching a rain of golf-balls.
“That’s what you get if you trample on the pride and golf courses of
the aspiring middle class,” Morrie observed. “The highest echelon of
goblin society has had it: Sam would be ecstatic.” He shuddered, and
turned away.
So it was that they did not see the last stand, when Cedríc was
overtaken and brought to bay at the very edge of Fangorn. There he was
slain at last by Eowynn, who dismounted and beat him repeatedly in the
head with a sand wedge.
Then when they had laid their fallen comrades in a mound, the riders
made a great fire and scattered the ashes of their enemies. So ended
the longest cross-country run in the history of public schooling, and
no news of it came ever back either to Tower or to Guard House.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Hey, look at this!” Morrie shouted. He pointed at a goblin that looked
as though it had been trampled to death by a pair of very large and
very heavy feet. Next to it was a violin-case. Morrie picked it up.
“It suits you,” remarked Pipsqueak, not knowing what else to say.
Morrie grinned.
He stood silent for a moment, then observed, “Didn’t those goblins seem
a bit stiff, or scratchy to you?”
“I don’t know any more than you do about that,” said Pipsqueak
innocently. “After all, you were the one who went to a public school.”
“What are you implying?” Morrie demanded querulously.
They disappeared into the forest.
*THE BYWATER SMILE
This was Shire slang for an expertly slit throat, not to be confused
with the Tuckborough grin, which under optimum conditions required a
corkscrew, an ell of twine and three enraged pigs, or the Scary
grimace, which was a particularly unnerving expression. In the past,
Morrie had crafted some great smiles. These were not up to his usual
standard, but still effective.
NOTES:
No, I didn’t go to a public school.
The ‘scouts’ are a reference to the cleaning staff of Oxford University
colleges, who go by that name. I don’t think they kill people anymore.
But I could be wrong.
Tribimat
... and there we go!
Varnast
--
Hurray!
Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/
Before you buy.
David Salo
<v_kar...@my-deja.com> wrote:
[Tribimat's stuff:]
> “Then you can wish again,” said the growling voice. “I am Cedríc. I am
> the senior prefect. I return to Guard School by the shortest road.”
> “Yah, we must stick together,” growled Cedríc. “I don’t trust you
> little Mines House swine. You’ve no standards outside your own sties.
> But for us you’d all have run away. We are the Uruk-Hai prefects! We
> destroyed the confidence of the great musician. We recruited the new
> boys. We are the pupils of Aruman the Wise, the White Hand Gang. We
> came out of Guard House and led you here, and we shall lead you back by
> the way we choose. I am Cedríc. I have spoken.
Very nice! I'm quite impressed. Also an excellent object-lesson for
anyone in charge of school outings...
DS
David Sulger
[snipped]
Not bad. This project is getting more and more twisted by the chpater.
I certainly hope the rest of Book 3 shows up soon, at least the next 4
chapters.
--Dave
Öjevind Lång
>I suppose some apology should hbe made for the tardy nature of this
>work... for in some measure it is my fault, not Tribimat's, that things
>turned out as they did. As Trib has no internet access ATM, it was my
>job to act as watchdog until he returned home. I THOUGHT he would [snip]
>Chapter 3: The Uruk-Hai
>by Tribimat
>
[snip]
This was extremely funny.
[snip the revealing study of public school orcs]
I loved it; I wonder what the public school think, though.
>“Hey, look at this!” Morrie shouted. He pointed at a goblin that looked
>as though it had been trampled to death by a pair of very large and
>very heavy feet. Next to it was a violin-case. Morrie picked it up.
>“It suits you,” remarked Pipsqueak, not knowing what else to say.
>Morrie grinned.
>He stood silent for a moment, then observed, “Didn’t those goblins seem
>a bit stiff, or scratchy to you?”
>“I don’t know any more than you do about that,” said Pipsqueak
>innocently. “After all, you were the one who went to a public school.”
>“What are you implying?” Morrie demanded querulously.
Now, what's this? I am curious.
A great chapter! But I think you should post it in AFT too, Varnast.
Öjevind
O. Sharp
A fine chapter! Quite demented, and certainly proof that the Orcs are
horribly, irredeemably evil. :)
Uhmmm... I'd be thankful, though, if other chapters would stray
considerably further away from the paragraph structure of the originals.
----------------------------------------------------------------
o...@netcom.com Aside from the legal issues, the sense of
_deja vu_ hurts my head. :)
----------------------------------------------------------------
o...@netcom.com Aside from the legal issues, the sense of
_deja vu_ hurts my head. :)
----------------------------------------------------------------
o...@netcom.com Aside from the legal issues, the sense of
_deja vu_ hurts . . . --Hey!
Morgil
O. Sharp kirjoitti viestiss+AOQ- +ADw-8mo8vh+ACQ-d7j+ACQ-1+AEA-slb7.atl.mindspring.net+AD4-...
+AD4-
+AD4-A fine chapter+ACE- Quite demented, and certainly proof that the Orcs are
+AD4-horribly, irredeemably evil. :)
+AD4-
+AD4-Uhmmm... I'd be thankful, though, if other chapters would stray
+AD4-considerably further away from the paragraph structure of the originals.
+AD4-
Plus it didn+ALQ-t match with the previous chapter written by ME+ACE- :-(
I know it was probably because of the circumstances, but I+ALQ-m
still bitter.
:-(
:-(
:-(
Morgil :-(
+AD4-
+AD4-----------------------------------------------------------------
+AD4-ohh+AEA-netcom.com Aside from the legal issues, the sense of
+AD4- +AF8-deja vu+AF8- hurts my head. :)
+AD4-
All right, I got over it. :-)
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-----------------------------------------------------------------
+AD4-ohh+AEA-netcom.com Aside from the legal issues, the sense of
+AD4- +AF8-deja vu+AF8- hurts my head. :)
+AD4-
All right, I got over it. :-)
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-
+AD4-----------------------------------------------------------------
+AD4-ohh+AEA-netcom.com Aside from the legal issues, the sense of
+AD4- +AF8-deja vu+AF8- hurts . . . --Hey+ACE-
All right. . .
+ACI-Deja vu means +ACo-They+ACo- have changed something...+ACI- - The Matrix.
Varnast Karnassos
"Morgil" <rim...@hotmail.com> wrote:
>
> O. Sharp kirjoitti viestiss+AOQ- +ADw-8mo8vh+ACQ-d7j+ACQ-1+AEA-
slb7.atl.mindspring.net+AD4-...
> Plus it didn+ALQ-t match with the previous chapter written by ME+ACE-
:-(
> still bitter.
> :-(
> :-(
> :-(
>
> Morgil :-(
Ah, but it did! All the little clues detected by the Three Runners will
of course be revealed as a trail left by Arwen, in a desperate attempt
to lead the Three into a trap from which she could rescue them. Don't
worry, Morgil, we're working on it!
> All right, I got over it. :-)
YAY! But we're still going to look after you, don't worry...
(Tribimat's been out of the country for two weeks, best he could do)
>Deja vu means they have changed something... The Matrix.
Um. Good point... I think what Tribimat was aiming for here was a
*true* parody, in that he changed only a few fundamental details (the
nature of the Orcs, the nature of the Rohirrim, Morrie's personality)
but let the actual story take exactly the same road, instead of making
several cosmetic changes and letting the story corkscrew away from the
original.
I'll try to take your comments on board when i write 'Treebeard',
though, Mr. Sharp.
The Varnast/Tribimat Co-Operative
--
'Cry, cry for death - but good win out in glory in the end.'
Aris Katsaris
Varnast Karnassos <v_kar...@my-deja.com> wrote in message
news:8mhrp1$ct$1...@nnrp1.deja.com...
> I suppose some apology should hbe made for the tardy nature of this
> work... for in some measure it is my fault, not Tribimat's, that things
> turned out as they did. As Trib has no internet access ATM, it was my
> job to act as watchdog until he returned home. I THOUGHT he would have
> sufficient time to return, but 'Two Pages' Brady caught me off-guard.
> Never mind, for here is...
>
>
> Chapter 3: The Uruk-Hai
> by Tribimat
[snip]
Kudos - there's some great stuff in here.
But I am afraid I also I have to mention that it was so long that I found it
tiresome and almost impossibly hard to read... People, let's try for
quality-over-quantity, okay? Large size isn't always for the best...
And unfortunately there's a much too large contradiction here to pass
unnoticed. For example, what happened to Pipsqueak's letter about them being
treated okay and stuff? Tribimat, sorry for saying this, but didn't you read
the immediately previous chapter before you wrote yours?
Aris Katsaris
Aris Katsaris
> In article <XrWj5.385$0c7....@read2.inet.fi>,
> "Morgil" <rim...@hotmail.com> wrote:
>
> >Deja vu means they have changed something... The Matrix.
>
> Um. Good point... I think what Tribimat was aiming for here was a
> *true* parody, in that he changed only a few fundamental details (the
> nature of the Orcs, the nature of the Rohirrim, Morrie's personality)
> but let the actual story take exactly the same road, instead of making
> several cosmetic changes and letting the story corkscrew away from the
> original.
> I'll try to take your comments on board when i write 'Treebeard',
> though, Mr. Sharp.
Just remember that we do know (atleast in part) what happened to
the Ent-wives... :-)
Aris Katsaris
Varnast Karnassos
"Aris Katsaris" <kats...@otenet.gr> wrote:
>
> Varnast Karnassos <v_kar...@my-deja.com> wrote in message
> > I suppose some apology should hbe made for the tardy nature of this
> > work... for in some measure it is my fault, not Tribimat's, that
things
> > turned out as they did. As Trib has no internet access ATM, it was
my
> > job to act as watchdog until he returned home. I THOUGHT he would
have
> > sufficient time to return, but 'Two Pages' Brady caught me off-
guard.
> > Never mind, for here is...
> >
> >
> > Chapter 3: The Uruk-Hai
> > by Tribimat
>
>
> Kudos - there's some great stuff in here.
>
> But I am afraid I also I have to mention that it was so long that I
found it
> tiresome and almost impossibly hard to read... People, let's try for
There's always someone, isn't there... Firstly, what do you
mean, 'quality over quantity'? Who died and put YOU in charge? Why not
aim for BOTH? Just because something is small doesn't mean it's good!
And what do you mean, 'you found it over-long and impossibly hard to
read'? You HAVE read LotR, haven't you? This should be easy. Come on,
Katsaris, the people expect more from hardcore RABTers like you.
> And unfortunately there's a much too large contradiction here to pass
> unnoticed. For example, what happened to Pipsqueak's letter about
them being
> treated okay and stuff? Tribimat, sorry for saying this, but didn't
you read
> the immediately previous chapter before you wrote yours?
>
> Aris Katsaris
>
>
<Varnast checks his earlier e-mail>
It's like this. The planning for this chapter took place quite some
time before the writing; in fact, an awful lot of collective thought on
the part of both myself and Tribimat have gone into our two chapters.
Trib had 'Uruk-Hai' all worked out, almost to the last detail. Once I
forwarded the previous chapters to him, though, it became clear that
Morgil had placed such restrictions upon him that simply would require
the entire chapter to be redesigned, and we simply didn't have time for
that (O.Sharp was screaming for the chapter as it was). A scene in
which the Orcs argue about if Balrogs have wings and then force Pippin
to write a message simply jars with the image of Orcs as we have here,
as well as rehashing that tired old joke about Wings (For god's sake,
it isn't funny any more!). ANYWAY, it can be assumed that the message
was in fact written by Arwen, who was cunningly leaving a trail for the
company to follow so as to get them caught in an Orcy trap that she
could rescue them from. In this kind of project, Katsaris, there's no
such thing as a contradiction. There's simply an alternative happening.
Although this places restrictions on the person who does eventually
reintroduce Arwen, well... if Morgil can do it, so can Tribimat. A
lesson to be learned here, I think...
Varnast Karnassos
--
'It's 106 miles to Mount Doom, we've got thirty ells of rope, half a
pack of lembas, you're drenched and I'm wearing mithril. Hit it!'
Aris Katsaris
> In article <8mss5g$gln$1...@newssrv.otenet.gr>,
> "Aris Katsaris" <kats...@otenet.gr> wrote:
> >
> > Varnast Karnassos <v_kar...@my-deja.com> wrote in message
> > news:8mhrp1$ct$1...@nnrp1.deja.com...
> > > work... for in some measure it is my fault, not Tribimat's, that
> things
> > > turned out as they did. As Trib has no internet access ATM, it was
> my
> > > job to act as watchdog until he returned home. I THOUGHT he would
> have
> > > sufficient time to return, but 'Two Pages' Brady caught me off-
> guard.
> > > Never mind, for here is...
> > >
> > >
> > > Chapter 3: The Uruk-Hai
> > > by Tribimat
> >
> >
> > Kudos - there's some great stuff in here.
> >
> > But I am afraid I also I have to mention that it was so long that I
> found it
> > tiresome and almost impossibly hard to read... People, let's try for
> > quality-over-quantity, okay? Large size isn't always for the best...
>
> There's always someone, isn't there... Firstly, what do you
> mean, 'quality over quantity'? Who died and put YOU in charge?
Ah, I see. Only people in charge have the right to state their opinions.
Can I guess that if people said it was the absolutely perfect size you
wouldn't have objected to that?
> Why not
> aim for BOTH?
Because often it's impossible.
>Just because something is small doesn't mean it's good!
It's far more difficult to tire someone out though.
> And what do you mean, 'you found it over-long and impossibly hard to
> read'? You HAVE read LotR, haven't you? This should be easy.
I have no inclination, desire or time to read a parody which
is three volumes long, as long as the original work itself.
It was also difficult to read because so many paragraphs were near copies
of the original with only the names changed. That also makes for tiresome
reading.
> > And unfortunately there's a much too large contradiction here to pass
> > unnoticed. For example, what happened to Pipsqueak's letter about
> them being
> > treated okay and stuff? Tribimat, sorry for saying this, but didn't
> you read
> > the immediately previous chapter before you wrote yours?
> >
> > Aris Katsaris
>
> <Varnast checks his earlier e-mail>
> It's like this. The planning for this chapter took place quite some
> time before the writing; in fact, an awful lot of collective thought on
> the part of both myself and Tribimat have gone into our two chapters.
> Trib had 'Uruk-Hai' all worked out, almost to the last detail.
Which shows why it is *bad* to work out a chapter allmost to the last
detail, before the previous ones have been posted.
> Once I
> forwarded the previous chapters to him, though, it became clear that
> Morgil had placed such restrictions upon him that simply would require
> the entire chapter to be redesigned, and we simply didn't have time for
> that (O.Sharp was screaming for the chapter as it was).
Which is also why smaller chapter have an advantage. Besides the jokes
coming
faster, they can also be designed and written quicker.
> A scene in
> which the Orcs argue about if Balrogs have wings and then force Pippin
> to write a message simply jars with the image of Orcs as we have here,
> as well as rehashing that tired old joke about Wings (For god's sake,
> it isn't funny any more!).
I admit that an entire 40K of parallels between Orcs and the education
system made that also unfunny to me...
> ANYWAY, it can be assumed that the message
> was in fact written by Arwen, who was cunningly leaving a trail for the
> company to follow so as to get them caught in an Orcy trap that she
> could rescue them from.
I hate being obvious here, but let's remember that Arwen believes they
have all gone to Gondor... I can't see how she could have done that.
> In this kind of project, Katsaris, there's no
> such thing as a contradiction. There's simply an alternative happening.
yeah, yeah... if someone doesn't later manage to acknowledge and use the
contradiction to the story's *benefit* (not just find a complex way to
explain
it but actually *use* it), then it's just a contradiction: a flaw to the
story. And
I don't think it's right to create a contradiction and then just
pass the burden of correcting it along to the next guy.
> Although this places restrictions on the person who does eventually
> reintroduce Arwen, well... if Morgil can do it, so can Tribimat. A
> lesson to be learned here, I think...
So according to you, we must dread writing anything in our chapter
lest it place restrictions. On the other hand *ignoring* what the other
guy wrote is a great way to attack his evil attitude of not consulting every
single other writer who may have disliked his contributions to the chapter..
You see no difference between a restriction to respect what others wrote,
and forcing others to somehow find a way to correct the
contradictions you created.
A lesson to be learned, indeed.
Aris Katsaris
Robert Brady
> There's always someone, isn't there...
When I first tried to read this, the broken quote marks[1] alone made
it impossible to read, so I gave up after a few paragraphs. Getting
this right is just basic orthography.
Fortunately, the HTML version on O Sharp's page seems to have
these fixed, so I read it from that.
> Firstly, what do you
> mean, 'quality over quantity'? Who died and put YOU in charge? Why not
> aim for BOTH? Just because something is small doesn't mean it's good!
Going for both is ok, but 'short but good' is better than 'long-winded and
crap' and 'good bits but too much filler', would you not agree?
> <Varnast checks his earlier e-mail>
> It's like this. The planning for this chapter took place quite some
> time before the writing; in fact, an awful lot of collective thought on
> the part of both myself and Tribimat have gone into our two chapters.
To invoke a Higher Authority -
"I'd recommend writing as little as possible before all the chapters leading up
to yours have been posted."
-- Steuard Jensen (Tolkien Newsgroups E-text: Writing guide)
> which the Orcs argue about if Balrogs have wings and then force Pippin
> to write a message simply jars with the image of Orcs as we have here,
> as well as rehashing that tired old joke about Wings (For god's sake,
> it isn't funny any more!).
This could have worked. Just have the Orcs treating the prisoners well,
perfectly following the Geneva Convention, and have the orc arguments be
that some Orcs wish to treat the prisoners better, by allowing them to
rest, as opposed to the other orcs, who wish to carry them even when
they are asleep. If done properly, this has the potential to be very
funny, especially when contrasted with the Company's prejudiced view
of Orcs.
> Although this places restrictions on the person who does eventually
> reintroduce Arwen, well... if Morgil can do it, so can Tribimat. A
> lesson to be learned here, I think...
So, this chapter imposes restrictions you expect to be honoured by future
authors, whilst totally ignoring the previous chapter? Interesting.
Please don't take this criticism too harshly, I enjoyed this chapter.
Taken by itself, it is excellent, and has many sidesplitting gags.
[1] You used non-standard characters for quote marks, which are forbidden
in Usenet messages. They appear as '?' on my screen.
Some software on Microsoft operating systems may display them as
intended, but this software will one day be fixed to also display
'?'.
--
Robert
Morgil
Varnast Karnassos kirjoitti viestissä <8n9ql9$l95$1...@nnrp1.deja.com>...
>> Kudos - there's some great stuff in here.
>>
>> But I am afraid I also I have to mention that it was so long that I
>found it
>> tiresome and almost impossibly hard to read...
I think I must agree with the length issue. I have printed out some of the
chapters and in the beginning they were only 3 pages or less. Then they
expanded to 5 pages long, then 7, and now they go over 10 pages. IMO
in this type of project, over 7 pages is simply too long to be comfortable.
Also it creates imbalance with earlier parts of the book. I strongly suggest
5 pages +/- 2 from now on, but feel free to disagree. :-)
>There's always someone, isn't there...
I think it´s a nice that someone dares to offer some constructive critisism
for a change. Usually, all you get is the same ol´ "Great chapter, bravo"
-stuff.(Not that they weren´t great, all of them, but you know what I mean.)
<snip>
>> And unfortunately there's a much too large contradiction here to pass
>> unnoticed. For example, what happened to Pipsqueak's letter about
>them being
>> treated okay and stuff?
>
><Varnast checks his earlier e-mail>
>It's like this. <snip> A scene in
>which the Orcs argue about if Balrogs have wings and then force Pippin
>to write a message simply jars with the image of Orcs as we have here,
>as well as rehashing that tired old joke about Wings (For god's sake,
>it isn't funny any more!).
You mean it wasn´t funny!?! Well I wanted some critisism, but not towards
ME for chrissake! ;-)
>ANYWAY, it can be assumed that the message
>was in fact written by Arwen, who was cunningly leaving a trail for the
>company to follow so as to get them caught in an Orcy trap that she
>could rescue them from. In this kind of project, Katsaris, there's no
>such thing as a contradiction. There's simply an alternative happening.
I suppose if we assume that Arwen got an Eagle to carry her, she could
have seen the Three Companions nearby, quickly get landed, write the
*very* disturbing message(for reasons unknown), and the get back on the
air in time for Lego-Lass to see her and mistook her for a Flying Balrog.
>Although this places restrictions on the person who does eventually
>reintroduce Arwen, well... if Morgil can do it, so can Tribimat. A
>lesson to be learned here, I think...
I think so too. And a good lesson too for the new writers. Feel free to mess
up the storyline if you believe it should be done. But don´t go too far, or
you
will be punished with Flergentumpfen(I think I got it right this time).
Morgil
Mia Kalogjera
> Feel free to mess
> up the storyline if you believe it should be done. But don´t go too far, or
> you
> will be punished with Flergentumpfen(I think I got it right this time).
It's PFUNDGEBEN! Means being spanked with a sword three times!
Anyway, guys.
It hurts me to see this E-text project, which is supposed to be a
lighthearted project carried out by a bunch of friends, or at
least people who respect one another and are non-stuffed enough to
approach Tolkien from a humorous POV, is starting to spawn more
and more disagreeances - not 'constructive criticism' but arguments
which might turn into something nastier. I see many people dislike
what other people did, there are problems about what is to be done,
what not and above all who gets to say what's good and what's not...
It's just not right. I think it would be best if RABT tried to
continue the project the way it started, simply for the sake of fun,
without all this bureaucracy, hierarchy and what not ending with y.
I know Mr. Sharpe is putting all on his page so he can choose what
to accept and what not, but I don't think there should be _anyone_
in charge of the project 'for real'. I don't want to offend anyone,
I just think that trying to introduce rules upon this project does
it no good. Personally, I'd be the happiest if people wrote their
chapters as parodies of corresponding LotR chapters - that way you'd
have no trouble about following the plotline, etc., and posted them
freely. Of course, with all that has happened this is now impossible
to do, so I guess new contributors will have to conform to how others
before them twisted the plot, but hell, even if they don't, who cares?
Isn't this supposed to be a parody? A work of comic? Fun? If you're
going to fret and argue over it, then it's just not worth it. IMHO.
Mia
O. Sharp
: It hurts me to see this E-text project, which is supposed to be a
: lighthearted project carried out by a bunch of friends, or at
: least people who respect one another and are non-stuffed enough to
: approach Tolkien from a humorous POV, is starting to spawn more
: and more disagreeances - not 'constructive criticism' but arguments
: which might turn into something nastier.
Agreed.
...A certain amount of disagreements are, of course, inevitable in any
project where multiple human beings are involved. :) But hopefully
everyone will remember that the E-Text is, basically, for fun, and
approach it in that spirit.
: I know Mr. Sharpe is putting all on his page so he can choose what
: to accept and what not,
I'm hoping to simply accept it all - it's the wild diversity of authors
and viewpoints, each building off the themes of the others, which keeps
it interesting to me. :) As long as a chapter doesn't include flagrant
violations of copyright or anything meant to be injurious to others, I
hope to let everyone work their own bizarre forms of magic. (Though I
have been known to offer heinous e-mailed suggestions from time to time.
<g>)
: but I don't think there should be _anyone_
: in charge of the project 'for real'. I don't want to offend anyone,
: I just think that trying to introduce rules upon this project does
: it no good. Personally, I'd be the happiest if people wrote their
: chapters as parodies of corresponding LotR chapters - that way you'd
: have no trouble about following the plotline, etc., and posted them
: freely. Of course, with all that has happened this is now impossible
: to do, so I guess new contributors will have to conform to how others
: before them twisted the plot, but hell, even if they don't, who cares?
: Isn't this supposed to be a parody? A work of comic? Fun? If you're
: going to fret and argue over it, then it's just not worth it. IMHO.
Christopher Tolkien wrote, in the Foreword to _Sil._: "A complete
consistency... is not to be looked for, and could only be achieved, if at
all, at heavy and needless cost." I don't think our consistency situation
is as difficult as his was, and trying for consistency with earlier
chapters makes many of the running jokes funnier and leads the
manuscript into odd and unexpected new directions. I like that; I think
it leads to a better narrative. But having said that, I'll add this: if we
have plot points which occasionally conflict with one another I admit that
I, for one, will not be losing any sleep over it. :)
Other opinions may (and doubtless will) be different. But please,
everyone, remember: the E-Text is not worth much argument, and definitely
not worth injuries. It's a toy. Play with it. :)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
o...@netcom.com "It is perhaps not possible in a long tale to please
everybody at the same points; for I find from the
letters that I have received that the passages or
chapters that are to some a blemish are all by others
specially approved."
-JRRT, in the Foreword to _LotR_. It's become
one of my favorite Tolkien quotes in the time
since we started this silly project. :)
Varnast Karnassos
Indeed, freedom of speech is always a factor to consider when existing
in RABT. But as for Telling us to write shorter chapters <'People,
let's try for quality over quantity'>, well - only people in charge can
do that. Or, rather, only people in charge can do that and expect to be
taken seriously.
To forestall any possible comments along the lines of 'that wasn't what
I meant', please bear in mind you appear to have completely misread MY
meaning towards the end of your post as well.
> > Why not
> > aim for BOTH?
>
> Because often it's impossible.
>
A quote I once heard on Star Trek:
'Things are only impossible until they are not.'
With a supreme effort on the part of every writer, I believe - and did
believe as soon I heard of this project - that such a thing could be
done; a parody of greatness, of side-splitting clarity, of masterful
humour. Do you disagree? After all, if something is 'often impossible'
that must translate as merely 'difficult'...
> >Just because something is small doesn't mean it's good!
>
> It's far more difficult to tire someone out though.
>
Um, sorry. I misjudged your enthusiasm level there. Won't make THAT
mistake again!
> > And what do you mean, 'you found it over-long and impossibly hard to
> > read'? You HAVE read LotR, haven't you? This should be easy.
>
> I have no inclination, desire or time to read a parody which
> is three volumes long, as long as the original work itself.
>
Ahh... that is where we differ, alas. I would much like to see a
perfect, crisp, well-planned parodical work of LotR, purely because as
a fan of the works such a thing would be enjoyable to read!
> It was also difficult to read because so many paragraphs were near
copies
> of the original with only the names changed. That also makes for
tiresome
> reading.
>
That was the point of the entire chapter... The parody dialogue runs so
close to the original because, as Tribimat found, much of the Orcs'
dialogue sounded as if it had been spoken by a group of public
schoolboys - and that was how the entire setting emerged!
And don't tell me you remember the exact wording of 'The Uruk-Hai' so
well that something cutting as close as this chapter did is 'tiresome'
to you!
> > > And unfortunately there's a much too large contradiction here to
pass
> > > unnoticed. For example, what happened to Pipsqueak's letter about
> > them being
> > > treated okay and stuff? Tribimat, sorry for saying this, but
didn't
> > you read
> > > the immediately previous chapter before you wrote yours?
> > >
> > > Aris Katsaris
> >
> > <Varnast checks his earlier e-mail>
> > It's like this. The planning for this chapter took place quite some
> > time before the writing; in fact, an awful lot of collective
thought on
> > the part of both myself and Tribimat have gone into our two
chapters.
> > Trib had 'Uruk-Hai' all worked out, almost to the last detail.
>
> Which shows why it is *bad* to work out a chapter allmost to the last
> detail, before the previous ones have been posted.
>
Like I say, the man was out of the country. We knew this. That was why
so much pre-planning was necessary. We were fools. We thought no-one
would try to mess with such an insignificant, isolated chapter as 'Uruk-
Hai'. We're so sorry we completely overestimated the professionalism of
the project.
> > Once I
> > forwarded the previous chapters to him, though, it became clear that
> > Morgil had placed such restrictions upon him that simply would
require
> > the entire chapter to be redesigned, and we simply didn't have time
for
> > that (O.Sharp was screaming for the chapter as it was).
>
> Which is also why smaller chapter have an advantage. Besides the jokes
> coming
> faster, they can also be designed and written quicker.
>
There's something very unsatisfying about small chapters, to my mind.
As for the speed of jokes, there's an easy solution to that - simply
include more of them! A longer chapter allows access to more subtle,
slightly more long-term jokes, as well.
Quick designing and writing is one thing, but a rush-job is another.
You've got to allow time for redrafting, proofreading and such. No-one
wants to read dross that was knocked together in half-an-hour's time,
now, do they?
> > A scene in
> > which the Orcs argue about if Balrogs have wings and then force
Pippin
> > to write a message simply jars with the image of Orcs as we have
here,
> > as well as rehashing that tired old joke about Wings (For god's
sake,
> > it isn't funny any more!).
>
> I admit that an entire 40K of parallels between Orcs and the education
> system made that also unfunny to me...
>
Oh, lord. Please, please let there be someone on this group who
actually thinks the 'Balrog Wings' running joke is now tired and old!
As for the education parallel gripe, I remember you saying right at the
beginning of your first post, 'Kudos - some great stuff in here.' The
Education parallel is practically the chapter. What great stuff were
you referring to? Has the fact that I have taken offense to your
feeling empowered to set the standards of length for this and all
future chapters completely changed your view of this writing? Or was
that simply insincerity on your part, to try and make your criticism
more persuasive?
> > ANYWAY, it can be assumed that the message
> > was in fact written by Arwen, who was cunningly leaving a trail for
the
> > company to follow so as to get them caught in an Orcy trap that she
> > could rescue them from.
>
> I hate being obvious here, but let's remember that Arwen believes they
> have all gone to Gondor... I can't see how she could have done that.
>
And yet Aragon, at one point, speculates he might have been aroused in
his sleep by Arwen. </sarcasm mode> Whatever made him think that, when
all logic points to Arwen travelling to Gondor?
If you think of a better way to redress this small mess, post it. It's
not either of our responsibilities to do so, but in the interests of
your peace of mind I recommend at least thinking about the problem; you
are obviously annoyed by it. It is an irritation to me - as you might
have gathered from my posts - but as far as I see it, there are far
more glaring errors that need more direct attention.
> > In this kind of project, Katsaris, there's no
> > such thing as a contradiction. There's simply an alternative
happening.
>
> yeah, yeah... if someone doesn't later manage to acknowledge and use
the
> contradiction to the story's *benefit* (not just find a complex way to
> explain
> it but actually *use* it), then it's just a contradiction: a flaw to
the
> story. And
> I don't think it's right to create a contradiction and then just
> pass the burden of correcting it along to the next guy.
<Note to self
>
> > Although this places restrictions on the person who does eventually
> > reintroduce Arwen, well... if Morgil can do it, so can Tribimat. A
> > lesson to be learned here, I think...
>
> So according to you, we must dread writing anything in our chapter
> lest it place restrictions. On the other hand *ignoring* what the
other
> guy wrote is a great way to attack his evil attitude of not
consulting every
> single other writer who may have disliked his contributions to the
chapter..
>
<Note to self - sarcasm does NOT work in print!>
It appears necessary now that I make it clear where I try to use my own
somewhat dry (well, certainly in need of a drink) brand of 'humour'.
You have, in fact, outlined my point. The lesson I referred to is that
there may be a dangerous trend emerging here, one we must bear in mind
from now on. As we will increasingly face chapters that refer to events
that have not yet happened in print in books 3 and 4, we must be very
careful not to trap another writer into following what we have dictated
to him. Such a thing is simly not fair! WE wouldn't like it if it was
done to us <hell, Tribimat didn't> so anyone with such a chapter must
attempt to work around the problem. It's good manners, if not anything
else. Trib saw someone else had attempted to dictate a scene in his
chapter; he had not been consulted beforehand; he saw no reason to be
constrained by what had been done.
So, YES, we must dread what we write! THIS is the benefit of putting
some real THOUGHT into writing - that we can forecast what the possible
knock-on effects in the rest of the chapter, in the knowledge that we
have something of a responsibility to others involved in this project.
Admittedly, the introduction of a character is undoubtely one major
exception here; the one who gets the chapter is the man who sets the
character personality, and this must be followed in order to maintain
the integrity of the story (even this fairly simple guideline hasn't
been followed to the letter in some places, alas). My main concern is
in the pre-setting of events. If someone is concerned that he/she will
end up stepping on another writer's toes <after all, this is precisely
what one is doing>, then post your concerns and have them dealt with!
Surely this is all common sense!
> You see no difference between a restriction to respect what others
wrote,
> and forcing others to somehow find a way to correct the
> contradictions you created.
>
> A lesson to be learned, indeed.
Perhaps I should point out that I haven't written anything yet. Don't
confuse me with Tribimat - it's happened before and I find it annoying.
I had some small input into 'Uruk-Hai', but not much.
Varnast the Ranter
--
'</Sarcasm mode>'? The man's mad!
Varnast Karnassos
"Morgil" <rim...@hotmail.com> wrote:
>
> Varnast Karnassos kirjoitti viestissä <8n9ql9$l95$1...@nnrp1.deja.com>...
> > "Aris Katsaris" <kats...@otenet.gr> wrote:
> >>
>
> >> Kudos - there's some great stuff in here.
> >>
> >> But I am afraid I also I have to mention that it was so long that I
> >found it
> >> tiresome and almost impossibly hard to read...
>
of the
> chapters and in the beginning they were only 3 pages or less. Then
they
> expanded to 5 pages long, then 7, and now they go over 10 pages. IMO
> in this type of project, over 7 pages is simply too long to be
comfortable.
> Also it creates imbalance with earlier parts of the book. I strongly
suggest
> 5 pages +/- 2 from now on, but feel free to disagree. :-)
>
It's always going to oscillate from now on, alas... no standard was
officially set in the beginning, so no standard will be set now, it is
likely. Ultimately, length is determined by the amount of effort a
writer puts into the work - a single page is obviously lazy, forty
pages is evidence of bad planning. I always thought 10 pages would be
nearer a kind of balance bewteen the need for speed and the need for
substance, but like you say, it's a personal thing.
> >There's always someone, isn't there...
>
> I think it´s a nice that someone dares to offer some constructive
critisism
> for a change. Usually, all you get is the same ol´ "Great chapter,
bravo"
> -stuff.(Not that they weren´t great, all of them, but you know what I
mean.)
>
Yeah, I get you. I just can't see why someone 'dared' to criticise THIS
one, though. I can't see anything wrong with it, honestly!
As for the usual 'bravo' spiel, that's alright as long as it's sincere,
in my book. It may not always have been.
> <snip>
> >> And unfortunately there's a much too large contradiction here to
pass
> >> unnoticed. For example, what happened to Pipsqueak's letter about
> >them being
> >> treated okay and stuff?
> >
> ><Varnast checks his earlier e-mail>
> >It's like this. <snip> A scene in
> >which the Orcs argue about if Balrogs have wings and then force
Pippin
> >to write a message simply jars with the image of Orcs as we have
here,
> >as well as rehashing that tired old joke about Wings (For god's sake,
> >it isn't funny any more!).
>
> You mean it wasn´t funny!?! Well I wanted some critisism, but not
towards
> ME for chrissake! ;-)
>
Hm, this actually worries me a little. I thought the view the joke had
worn off was the norm here. No criticism of your chapter was intended,
Morgil, for you were using a joke that was not your own.
> >ANYWAY, it can be assumed that the message
> >was in fact written by Arwen, who was cunningly leaving a trail for
the
> >company to follow so as to get them caught in an Orcy trap that she
> >could rescue them from. In this kind of project, Katsaris, there's no
> >such thing as a contradiction. There's simply an alternative
happening.
>
> I suppose if we assume that Arwen got an Eagle to carry her, she could
> have seen the Three Companions nearby, quickly get landed, write the
> *very* disturbing message(for reasons unknown), and the get back on
the
> air in time for Lego-Lass to see her and mistook her for a Flying
Balrog.
>
Hell, stranger things have already happened in this e-text. And, like i
say to Katsaris - I can't think of any other way to rectify the
problem. Some kind of Editor's Committee would really have been
helpful, perhaps...
> >Although this places restrictions on the person who does eventually
> >reintroduce Arwen, well... if Morgil can do it, so can Tribimat. A
> >lesson to be learned here, I think...
>
> I think so too. And a good lesson too for the new writers. Feel free
to mess
> up the storyline if you believe it should be done. But don´t go too
far, or
> you
> will be punished with Flergentumpfen(I think I got it right this
time).
>
Um... basically, yeah. Except for the bit about messing up the
storyline. There are already lotsa holes in this work <someone
mentioned to me on this group about 'already knowing what happened to
the Entwives' - I hadn't a clue what they meant, and that so panicked
me I went back and read every single chapter AGAIN in order to trakc
down the reference. Thankfully, it didn't take too long.
Varnast
--
There must be an easier way than this.
Varnast Karnassos
Mia Kalogjera <jer...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> Morgil wrote:
>
> > Feel free to mess
> > up the storyline if you believe it should be done. But don´t go too
far, or
> > you
> > will be punished with Flergentumpfen(I think I got it right this
time).
>
>
> Anyway, guys.
> ... Of course, with all that has happened this is now impossible
> to do, so I guess new contributors will have to conform to how others
> before them twisted the plot, but hell, even if they don't, who cares?
> Isn't this supposed to be a parody? A work of comic? Fun? If you're
> going to fret and argue over it, then it's just not worth it. IMHO.
>
Yikes... does this mean we have to scrap the whole thing now?
It is a shame that this project, by necessity, contains a healthy dose
of 'work' as well as a lot of 'fun'. Well, never mind... from a cosmic
perspective, this entire newsgroup means nothing...
Varnast
--
Spaced Out
Varnast Karnassos
Robert Brady <rwb...@zepler.org> wrote:
> Varnast Karnassos <v_kar...@my-deja.com> wrote:
>
> > There's always someone, isn't there...
>
> When I first tried to read this, the broken quote marks[1] alone made
> it impossible to read, so I gave up after a few paragraphs. Getting
> this right is just basic orthography.
>
> Fortunately, the HTML version on O Sharp's page seems to have
> these fixed, so I read it from that.
The pagination was fine when I posted the dratted thing... again, the
damn paragraphing was ruined once it was posted. I think there must be
some adverse reaction to cut'n'pasting something from a text program
into a post.
>
> > Firstly, what do you
> > mean, 'quality over quantity'? Who died and put YOU in charge? Why
not
> > aim for BOTH? Just because something is small doesn't mean it's
good!
>
> Going for both is ok, but 'short but good' is better than 'long-
winded and
> crap' and 'good bits but too much filler', would you not agree?
>
Getting the balance right will be tricky, no question - but it's
possible. And I refuse to believe there is a single person on this
board who isn't capable of getting it right!
> > <Varnast checks his earlier e-mail>
> > It's like this. The planning for this chapter took place quite some
> > time before the writing; in fact, an awful lot of collective
thought on
> > the part of both myself and Tribimat have gone into our two
chapters.
>
> To invoke a Higher Authority -
>
> "I'd recommend writing as little as possible before all the chapters
leading up
> to yours have been posted."
>
> -- Steuard Jensen (Tolkien Newsgroups E-text: Writing guide)
>
Nothing was actually WRITTEN until the previous chapters were read. The
preplanning was necessary, given the writer's absence out of the
country and lack of internet access.
> > which the Orcs argue about if Balrogs have wings and then force
Pippin
> > to write a message simply jars with the image of Orcs as we have
here,
> > as well as rehashing that tired old joke about Wings (For god's
sake,
> > it isn't funny any more!).
>
> This could have worked. Just have the Orcs treating the prisoners
well,
> perfectly following the Geneva Convention, and have the orc arguments
be
> that some Orcs wish to treat the prisoners better, by allowing them to
> rest, as opposed to the other orcs, who wish to carry them even when
> they are asleep. If done properly, this has the potential to be very
> funny, especially when contrasted with the Company's prejudiced view
> of Orcs.
>
<sucks in breath> That was considered, actually. But then Tribimat
pointed out that if Orcs had a Geneva Convention, or some other version
of it, then that might mess with Frodo's capture, the Hobbit pair's
force-marching in Mordor, and the Mouth of Sauron's speech regarding
the treatment of prisoners.
You see? THIS is what I mean by forecasting the effects of what you do!
> > Although this places restrictions on the person who does eventually
> > reintroduce Arwen, well... if Morgil can do it, so can Tribimat. A
> > lesson to be learned here, I think...
>
> So, this chapter imposes restrictions you expect to be honoured by
future
> authors, whilst totally ignoring the previous chapter? Interesting.
>
Again, my meaning is let down by the impossibility of translating
sarcasm into text. What I meant was practically what you just said.
> Please don't take this criticism too harshly, I enjoyed this chapter.
> Taken by itself, it is excellent, and has many sidesplitting gags.
>
> [1] You used non-standard characters for quote marks, which are
forbidden
> in Usenet messages. They appear as '?' on my screen.
>
> Some software on Microsoft operating systems may display them as
> intended, but this software will one day be fixed to also display
> '?'.
>
Dang! I was going to use the WordPad version, but that converted all
the letters with accents into solid blocks. Hey ho, you learn something
new every day...
Varnast
--
?That's one very odd screen you have there!?
Aris Katsaris
> In article <8n9v4d$391$1...@newssrv.otenet.gr>,
> "Aris Katsaris" <kats...@otenet.gr> wrote:
> >
> > Varnast Karnassos <v_kar...@my-deja.com> wrote in message
> > news:8n9ql9$l95$1...@nnrp1.deja.com...
> > > In article <8mss5g$gln$1...@newssrv.otenet.gr>,
> > >
> > > mean, 'quality over quantity'? Who died and put YOU in charge?
> >
> > Ah, I see. Only people in charge have the right to state their
> opinions.
> > Can I guess that if people said it was the absolutely perfect size you
> > wouldn't have objected to that?
> >
>
> Indeed, freedom of speech is always a factor to consider when existing
> in RABT. But as for Telling us to write shorter chapters <'People,
> let's try for quality over quantity'>, well - only people in charge can
> do that. Or, rather, only people in charge can do that and expect to be
> taken seriously.
It's an advice, not an order. Advice should be considered coming from
anyone.
> A quote I once heard on Star Trek:
>
> 'Things are only impossible until they are not.'
>
> With a supreme effort on the part of every writer, I believe - and did
> believe as soon I heard of this project - that such a thing could be
> done; a parody of greatness, of side-splitting clarity, of masterful
> humour. Do you disagree? After all, if something is 'often impossible'
> that must translate as merely 'difficult'...
It's possible, yes. I admit that I consider O.Sharp's chapters to be perhaps
the greatest in this whole parody, and they are both long and excellent.
But when that isn't successful, it's better to go for quality-over-quantity.
I
enjoyed "The Departure of Boromir" almost as much even though it was
short. Short but great.
> > It was also difficult to read because so many paragraphs were near
> copies
> > of the original with only the names changed. That also makes for
> tiresome
> > reading.
> >
>
> That was the point of the entire chapter... The parody dialogue runs so
> close to the original because, as Tribimat found, much of the Orcs'
> dialogue sounded as if it had been spoken by a group of public
> schoolboys - and that was how the entire setting emerged!
> And don't tell me you remember the exact wording of 'The Uruk-Hai' so
> well that something cutting as close as this chapter did is 'tiresome'
> to you!
You managed to remind it to me. Quite a bit of dialog (Grishnakh's searching
Pippin for example) was so close that even I, Aristotelis "Copyright be
damned"
Katsaris, felt vaguely uneasy... I'd hate to know how the real
copyright-worriers
must have felt...
> > Which shows why it is *bad* to work out a chapter allmost to the last
> > detail, before the previous ones have been posted.
> >
>
> Like I say, the man was out of the country. We knew this. That was why
> so much pre-planning was necessary. We were fools. We thought no-one
> would try to mess with such an insignificant, isolated chapter as 'Uruk-
> Hai'. We're so sorry we completely overestimated the professionalism of
> the project.
<sigh> you knew that the previous chapter includes Aragorn, Gimli and
Legolas
finding clues about the hobbits and what happened there. Noone messed your
(plural) chapters, they simply wrote their own. There's no conspiracy here.
> > Which is also why smaller chapter have an advantage. Besides the jokes
> > coming
> > faster, they can also be designed and written quicker.
> >
>
> There's something very unsatisfying about small chapters, to my mind.
I don't feel so. Not always atleast. The very first two chapter of the
parody
were great, so hilarious in fact that they instigated the writing of the
rest
of all this thing.
> As for the speed of jokes, there's an easy solution to that - simply
> include more of them! A longer chapter allows access to more subtle,
> slightly more long-term jokes, as well.
> Quick designing and writing is one thing, but a rush-job is another.
> You've got to allow time for redrafting, proofreading and such. No-one
> wants to read dross that was knocked together in half-an-hour's time,
> now, do they?
Shorter chapters allow better redrafting, proofreading and such...
> > I admit that an entire 40K of parallels between Orcs and the education
> > system made that also unfunny to me...
> >
>
> Oh, lord. Please, please let there be someone on this group who
> actually thinks the 'Balrog Wings' running joke is now tired and old!
> As for the education parallel gripe, I remember you saying right at the
> beginning of your first post, 'Kudos - some great stuff in here.' The
> Education parallel is practically the chapter. What great stuff were
> you referring to?
The entire first monologue of Pipsqueak was very funny. So was
the description of what happened to Baramir, the parallel with the luggage,
some of the discussions between him and Morrie, and his effort to run
away divesting himself of his clothes in the process. Perhaps other things
as well that I don't remember right now.
I found most of the education thingies to be boring...
> If you think of a better way to redress this small mess, post it.
<evil> Rewrite the chapter? </evil>
> It's
> not either of our responsibilities to do so, but in the interests of
> your peace of mind I recommend at least thinking about the problem; you
> are obviously annoyed by it. It is an irritation to me - as you might
> have gathered from my posts - but as far as I see it, there are far
> more glaring errors that need more direct attention.
So far there have been contradiction but all of them were mistakes, things
that writers hadn't noticed... As such they were small if annoying
contradictions.
This is a somewhat bigger problem because it's a very knowing contradiction.
You (plural) knew it was a big contradiction and chose to write it.
> > > Although this places restrictions on the person who does eventually
> > > reintroduce Arwen, well... if Morgil can do it, so can Tribimat. A
> > > lesson to be learned here, I think...
> >
> > So according to you, we must dread writing anything in our chapter
> > lest it place restrictions. On the other hand *ignoring* what the
> other
> > guy wrote is a great way to attack his evil attitude of not
> consulting every
> > single other writer who may have disliked his contributions to the
> chapter..
> >
>
> <Note to self - sarcasm does NOT work in print!>
>
> It appears necessary now that I make it clear where I try to use my own
> somewhat dry (well, certainly in need of a drink) brand of 'humour'.
> You have, in fact, outlined my point. The lesson I referred to is that
> there may be a dangerous trend emerging here, one we must bear in mind
> from now on. As we will increasingly face chapters that refer to events
> that have not yet happened in print in books 3 and 4, we must be very
> careful not to trap another writer into following what we have dictated
> to him.
We must always be careful not to trap another writer. But the only way
Morgil
trapped you is that you would be forced to set aside a measly little page
for
a Balrog-wings argument, or perhaps even a single paragraph, Pipsqueak
being taken aside and returning with a face filled with horror: "What's
wrong?", said
Morrie?" Pipsqueak gulped "They forced me to... write the unwriteable." he
said
and would speak no more.
On the other hand there's no better way to trap future writings than by
creating
uncorrectable contradictions.
>Such a thing is simly not fair! WE wouldn't like it if it was
> done to us <hell, Tribimat didn't> so anyone with such a chapter must
> attempt to work around the problem. It's good manners, if not anything
> else. Trib saw someone else had attempted to dictate a scene in his
> chapter; he had not been consulted beforehand; he saw no reason to be
> constrained by what had been done.
I'd wish that Tribimat posted his own thoughts on this. It's help to know if
he's
really annoying or whether you just present him as such.
> So, YES, we must dread what we write! THIS is the benefit of putting
> some real THOUGHT into writing - that we can forecast what the possible
> knock-on effects in the rest of the chapter, in the knowledge that we
> have something of a responsibility to others involved in this project.
> Admittedly, the introduction of a character is undoubtely one major
> exception here; the one who gets the chapter is the man who sets the
> character personality, and this must be followed in order to maintain
> the integrity of the story (even this fairly simple guideline hasn't
> been followed to the letter in some places, alas). My main concern is
> in the pre-setting of events. If someone is concerned that he/she will
> end up stepping on another writer's toes <after all, this is precisely
> what one is doing>, then post your concerns and have them dealt with!
> Surely this is all common sense!
Do you speak on your behalf, or on Tribimat's behalf?
> > You see no difference between a restriction to respect what others
> wrote,
> > and forcing others to somehow find a way to correct the
> > contradictions you created.
> >
> > A lesson to be learned, indeed.
>
> Perhaps I should point out that I haven't written anything yet. Don't
> confuse me with Tribimat - it's happened before and I find it annoying.
> I had some small input into 'Uruk-Hai', but not much.
I sometimes forget when you post on his behalf and when you post on
yours ...
Aris Katsaris
Mia Kalogjera
> > <SNIP>
> > ... Of course, with all that has happened this is now impossible
> > to do, so I guess new contributors will have to conform to how others
> > before them twisted the plot, but hell, even if they don't, who cares?
> > Isn't this supposed to be a parody? A work of comic? Fun? If you're
> > going to fret and argue over it, then it's just not worth it. IMHO.
> >
> Yikes... does this mean we have to scrap the whole thing now?
Scrap? No.
BURN IT!!!
> It is a shame that this project, by necessity, contains a healthy dose
> of 'work' as well as a lot of 'fun'. Well, never mind... from a cosmic
> perspective, this entire newsgroup means nothing...
Ahh! I see you have learned your lesson, Paladin.
Mia
A highly enjoyable nothing, mind. :)
Morgil
Varnast Karnassos kirjoitti viestissä <8nfgi4$b9a$1...@nnrp1.deja.com>...
>> This could have worked. Just have the Orcs treating the prisoners
>well,
>> perfectly following the Geneva Convention, and have the orc arguments
>be
>> that some Orcs wish to treat the prisoners better, by allowing them to
>> rest, as opposed to the other orcs, who wish to carry them even when
>> they are asleep. If done properly, this has the potential to be very
>> funny, especially when contrasted with the Company's prejudiced view
>> of Orcs.
>>
>
><sucks in breath> That was considered, actually. But then Tribimat
>pointed out that if Orcs had a Geneva Convention, or some other version
>of it, then that might mess with Frodo's capture, the Hobbit pair's
>force-marching in Mordor, and the Mouth of Sauron's speech regarding
>the treatment of prisoners.
>You see? THIS is what I mean by forecasting the effects of what you do!
It seems to me, you are missing the point of two basic Joys of writing the
E-text chapters. One: To sruggle with obstacles created by the previous
writers that are in contrast with your points of view. And Two: Trying
sadistically to make life harder for the writers of the following chapters.
I mean, if you really had wanted Orcs to have a Geneva Convention type
of thing, you should have gone with it, and not care about what kind of
problems it would create in future. Trying to solve those problems then
would have become the pleasure of the writers of those chapters.
Morgil
Morgil
O. Sharp kirjoitti viestissä <8ndec8$alr$1...@slb7.atl.mindspring.net>...
>...A certain amount of disagreements are, of course, inevitable in any
>project where multiple human beings are involved. :) But hopefully
>everyone will remember that the E-Text is, basically, for fun, and
>approach it in that spirit.
Oh God! Now I feel I´ve become something like Monica on the "Friends".
-"Rules are Good! Rules help us *control* the fun!"
I don´t *wanna* take this too seriously, but sometimes I just can´t help
myself. Please remember, I do it because I *care*.
>Other opinions may (and doubtless will) be different. But please,
>everyone, remember: the E-Text is not worth much argument, and definitely
>not worth injuries. It's a toy. Play with it. :)
But...Isn´t arguing over it also a part of fun? And injuries. Injuries are
fun too.
<sigh> Fine. No injuries then, but hopefully we can still have this kind of
polite little discussions in the future too, as long as nobody takes them
personally...
Morgil
Öjevind Lång
>In article <Mfdm5.264$vY.1...@read2.inet.fi>,
> "Morgil" <rim...@hotmail.com> wrote:
[snip]
>> I think I must agree with the length issue. I have printed out some
>of the
>> chapters and in the beginning they were only 3 pages or less. Then
>they
>> expanded to 5 pages long, then 7, and now they go over 10 pages. IMO
>> in this type of project, over 7 pages is simply too long to be
>comfortable.
>> Also it creates imbalance with earlier parts of the book. I strongly
>suggest
>> 5 pages +/- 2 from now on, but feel free to disagree. :-)
>>
>
>It's always going to oscillate from now on, alas... no standard was
>officially set in the beginning, so no standard will be set now, it is
>likely. Ultimately, length is determined by the amount of effort a
>writer puts into the work - a single page is obviously lazy, forty
>pages is evidence of bad planning. I always thought 10 pages would be
>nearer a kind of balance bewteen the need for speed and the need for
>substance, but like you say, it's a personal thing.
I think 10 pages are a bit on the bloated side, actually. Bigger is not
always better. My personal opinion, of course.
Öjevind
David Sulger
>two basic Joys of writing the E-text
>chapters. One: To sruggle with obstacles
>created by the previous writers that are
>in contrast with your points of view.
I don't know is anything that's a struggle is actually a joy. Still,
most of us who have written parts after the first two or three chapters
had to work a lot of the really crazy changes in.
>And Two: Trying sadistically to make life
>harder for the writers of the following
>chapters.
I disagree there. The e-text was fairly smooth sailing through much of
Book One, due to the less than serious and dire elements of the
original. But we've now come to the serious parts, and parodying then
may be more difficult. Also, sustained humor isn't all that easy to
maintain. In any case, we shouldn't look for ways to intentionally make
things more difficult for future writers. I say the fun is in actually
writing the chapter, and being stuck with a lot of off-the-wall plot
twist could very well take the fun out of writing a chapter and make it
into a chore. Some us already had our fun with chapters, and so we
shouldn't deprive others here of the same.
Anyway, enough bitching. Let's get back to the project already. Who's
got Chapter 4?
--Dave
Aris Katsaris
David Sulger <or...@webtv.net> wrote in message
news:21839-39...@storefull-255.iap.bryant.webtv.net...
> Morgil wrote:
>
> >two basic Joys of writing the E-text
> >chapters. One: To sruggle with obstacles
> >created by the previous writers that are
> >in contrast with your points of view.
>
> I don't know is anything that's a struggle is actually a joy.
All games are based on the idea that struggling can be fun...
Aris Katsaris