Warning: Silmarillion references, albeit rather dodgy ones. (If you notice a glaring fault in my LoTR mythology, please tell me!)
Author's Notes- Well, this started out as a Mary Sue pisstake, but seeing as they've become as prolific as the Mary Sues themselves (how post-modern), it's mutated into some strange (supposedly humorous)LoTR and Silmarillion pisstake thing. Partly based on "A New Shadow", from Volume Twelve of the History of Middle Earth. Thus the strange language. Avert your eyes, children.
...and so it was that at the End of Ages, a great darkness of the soul was come across Middle Earth. The line of the Dunedain was grown weak and Men turned from the light in heart and mind, for the poisoned touch of the Enemy of the World was upon them once more.
This sickness spread throughout the lands, leaving no race untouched. Men dabbled in the Dark Arts, until at last they felt themselves grown so mighty as to be above the Old Ways (as they deemed them), and things once sacred were treated with scorn and derision. Men grew so proud as to seek dominance over all the peoples of Middle Earth, weak or strong, good or evil, wise or foolish, until at last they turned against even the Elves.
Many kings had passed from the throne since the Elves sailed to the West, to the land no mortal can find unaided, but still some remained in the lower realm of Middle Earth. They were the first to be hunted, for a terrible envy had been placed in the hearts of men, an envy which in time grew to fear and hate. Forgetting all that was owed to the Firstborn, black-hearted Followers sought them in their haven in the Western Lands at the end of time, and with the aid of fell magic wrought by the Dark Lord, the Fair Ones were brought once more to the land they had left behind. There, in their jealousy of the fair folk, Men sought to bring them low, and with cruelty and torment they at last succeeded. The Elves were enslaved, now mere playthings and labourers for mortals. It seemed that thus would the days of the Firstborn end; not, as they had hoped, in peaceful eternal twilight, but in ignoble torment at the hands of those they had so loved.
But it came to be prophesied that in the very darkest days, Hope would at last come, and the true order of Middle Earth would once more be restored. This Hope, it was said, would be one steeped in mystery, hidden until the eleventh hour. It would come from the last stars before dawn. And lo, at the ending of the Ages known, the Hope of the Firstborn was come to Middle Earth. And as the prophecy had foretold, it fell from the stars.
"WHHHOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGH-oof!"
Verily did the Saviour of the Quendi fall into a small grove of bushes, landing on its Sacred Arse, and lay still.
"Bugger," quoth the Chosen One.
* * * * *
Fosco Tighfield was not happy. It was his custom, indeed the custom of all hobbits, to bring a halt to their business (whatever it may be) at 10:55 precisely, so that the far more serious undertaking of elevenses could be considered. It was a tradition Fosco could find no fault with, and thus applied himself vigorously to the task as often as possible. Today, however, it seemed that this tradition was not to be upheld, owing to the lack of any digestible items about his person. He conducted a final search of all the pockets he could find, in the unlikely hope that he had somehow overlooked a crust of bread or scrap of cheese, and sighed. It seemed the fates had decreed that Fosco was to remain in that most wretched of states for a hobbit: hungry.
He sat down heavily upon the banks of the small brook, and trailed his fingers in the bright, clear water, streaked with gold from the midday sun. A fine state of affairs, he thought miserably; far from home, footsore and weary, with nothing to eat since breakfast. It was enough to make any sensible hobbit regret his recklessness in leaving the Shire, and Fosco was certainly having second thoughts. It was all very well to wish for excitement like this when one was safe and snug in one's own hobbit hole, but once things were underway travelling wasn't nearly as dashing as it was made out to be. Quite the opposite, in fact; it was dull, tiring, hot and dusty. He lay down with his hands behind his head, gazing up through the branches at the sky, and wondered whether he might not find some mushrooms, if he searched around under those trees-
A clump of bushes near him shook violently, and Fosco looked up in alarm. The next moment, the bushes were ripped from the ground as an enormous Orc, filthy and battle-scarred, ploughed through them. It whipped its great head around, trying to peer in all directions at once, and its beady little eyes closed upon Fosco. It leapt forward clumsily to land in front of him, and knelt there, slavering in a manner that, with a considerable stretch of imagination, could almost be called respectful. The hobbit sighed. "Good-day, Lardang."
"Grakka," muttered the Orc.
Fosco frowned. "Pardon?"
"'s m'name, Sir," said the Orc, a little louder. "Grakka. Lardang's m' brother."
Fosco rolled his eyes and heaved himself up to a sitting position. "Very well, Grakka. I suppose you have a jolly good reason for leaving the others with the caravan, what? Who's minding the elves?"
"Mazag's on 'em. Got sent see yous, Sir. Krillig says that 'cause me the new one, me gots to tell you th' bad news," Grakka continued in a clumsy perversion of the common speech, his guttural accent making the words harsh and unpleasant.
"Oh?" said Fosco, frowning. "And what news might that be, eh?"
The Orc looked shifty, but said nothing.
"Grakka," Fosco warned.
"Wonortuofthelvesscaped.," growled Grakka, shifting from foot to foot.
Fosco blinked. "What?"
"Hem," the Orc cleared its throat nervously, "'said, One or two'f the elves escaped, like. Run orft." Fosco sighed, and Grakka went on hurriedly. "Not me fault, Sir! They just bolted, like. We couldn't stop 'em."
"Which ones?" asked Fosco wearily.
"Um, some of the good 'uns. Wunnov the pretty boys ann'a girrrrrl." The Orc rolled the rrrrr's hungrily, a nasty light glowing in its slit red eyes. "Lardang's already gawn t'look ferr'em."
"Well, you'd best go and help him, hadn't you, eh? There's a good lad." Fosco smiled encouragingly at his minion, who, after a moment of confusion, lurched off to whence he came.
The hobbit closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, moaning slightly. Typical elves, never giving a moment's consideration to anyone but themselves. Just when they were so close to Bree, the silly beasts had to go on with their silly "Death before dishonour" nonsense and try to escape. His uncle would *not* be pleased; it had taken well over a week for Fosco to persuade his formidable relative that despite his few years of experience (Fosco was barely out of his tweens), he was quite capable of managing an entire slaving convoy all the way to Bree. Fosco had to admit his uncle's fear appeared to be well founded, as the expedition had been somewhat less than a roaring success. So far, four elves had committed suicide rather messily (swallowing hot coals did not lend itself to an easy death), two of the labouring-class slaves had dropped dead from hunger and fatigue, and his best "entertainment" half-elven boy had caught a quite spectacular disease from a bit of quick and nasty business in an inn just outside Gondor. Fosco wrinkled his nose with distaste at the thought of that one. The Orcs had kept it alive for a few days so they could watch the pus form, but they soon grew bored with the elf's wailing and dashed its brains out against a tree. The hobbit did not wholly approve of such behaviour, but the fellows had been having such a marvellous time he hadn't the heart to tell them off. He picked idly at a clump of nearby grass, musing on the fact that while a drop of Firstborn blood was enough to condemn a man to a lifetime of servitude and humiliation, it didn't do a damn thing against a dose of pox.
Fosco heard another bush meet its untimely doom and looked up. Grakka had reappeared and was standing before him, drooling patiently. "What is it now, Grakka? It's frightfully hard to get any rest with you stomping around the woods like this, what?"
Grakka shifted uncomfortably. "Yessir, but I forgotto arsk: wha'should I do wiv t'elves once I finds 'em?"
Fosco sighed. "Well, obviously try not to damage the goods."
"An' if'n they doan wanna come?" Grakka grinned nastily.
The hobbit waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, I don't know, old boy, you think of something. You said one of them was a gel, yes? Well, give her a little slap and tickle, hmmm? Make her think twice before running off again."
"Yessir. Thankee sir."
"Quite alright, Grakka." Fosco watched the retreating figure of the Orc as it lumbered at speed through the hapless undergrowth. "The people one meets in this business," he muttered to himself. As if it wasn't bad enough hauling such a volatile cargo around the countryside, he had only three assistants of dizzyingly low intellect (for even an Orc) to help him. He only hoped that the load would fetch a decent price once they got to Bree, although with the present troubles there he doubted it would even cover the expenses of the journey. Perhaps it was time to move on, thought Fosco, picking himself up from the bank. The elf-trade was growing less and less profitable, and soon-
There was a cry from the direction Grakka had crashed off in, followed by a scuffling struggle, a sickening crack of bone, and a dull thud as what was presumably a week's wages worth of elf fell to the ground. Surrendering to the amazingly resourceful stupidity of the companions which Fate had seen fit to burden him with, Fosco went off to see about some mushrooms.
* * * * *
Randall moaned and sat up. This necessitated a swift return trip to the ground, where he lay for a minute, blinking and gasping. He spat out a mouthful of shrub and did a quick limb-and-vital-organ check. Two arms, two legs. Head- Randall winced as he gingerly probed the base of his skull, and felt the sticky wetness in his hair. He slowly raised himself once more and sat for a minute, licking the blood off his fingers thoughtfully. He gazed around the clearing: it was rather a pretty spot, with soft, springy turf and small clutches of wild flowers around the perimeter. It was, however, most definitely not Brisbane, Australia.
"Oh, fanbloodytastic," sighed Randall, not really terribly upset. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up sore, bloody and confused in a strange place, and he had all his clothes and eyebrows and genitals, so it wasn't as bad as it might have been. He felt in the back pocket of his pants for his wallet, and found what little cash he had was still present. Yay me, he thought happily. And I didn't piss myself, either. The day was looking fine.
He got to his feet a little uncertainly and swayed in place for a moment before weaving off to find something greasy to demolish. Possibly a Jaffle of some ki-
"Lim! Noro! Noro!"
Randall spun around in time to see a young girl crash through the brush and barrel into him, bearing them both to the ground.
"Holy sh-ARGH!"
The two writhed on the turf, the girl kicking frantically and jabbering at him, Randall trying desperately not to look too much like he was raping her.
"Ow! Ow! Get off, gerrof, that's my- OW! CHRIST!" Randall threw himself free of the tangle of limbs and fell back onto the ground, panting. The girl whimpered, and he propped himself up so as to glare at her more efficiently.
"Hey, what the bloody hell was that? You trying to-" Blonde hair, blue eyes, tits out 'till Tuesday, long legs, cherry lips, clothes torn to show more than a necessary amount of bosom. "Uh, are you okay? Miss?" Randall added hopefully, and then started as a second form tumbled into the clearing. It was a young man, who looked around wildly for a second before sighting the girl. He certainly looked like her other half, Randall noted with some dismay. That is to say, disturbingly attractive, in a Hitler-Youth-campaign-poster sort of way. Still, he also looked distinctly like He Came From The Planet Of The Pooves, so perhaps there was hope yet. Randall decided that they were probably Norwegian, for the simple reason that it was the only Nordic country he could actually remember.
The young man had grabbed hold of the girl's arm. He dragged her awkwardly for a few steps before she cried out in pain, her ankle buckling beneath her. Randall watched with interest; it didn't look like she was about to get molested, but you could never tell with these Netherlands types. Those people had far too much high-quality nude volleyball porn to be entirely stable. Not that he was complaining.
"Hey, Ken, put Barbie down, alright? Don't think she wants to play today," said Randall, wondering whether he'd have to get up and douse them in cold water or something.
The youth's head whipped up as he noticed Randall's (obviously unwelcome) presence. Spitting a few angry words he started towards him, but the girl clutched at his leg. The young man glared at Randall for just long enough to show he wasn't scared or anything, then turned back to the girl, who was sobbing quietly. He knelt and stroked her hair back, whispering something in her ear. Her very long, pointed ear...Randall shook his head, and when he looked back the girl's golden hair had fallen forward once again. The young man had pulled her up and was desperately trying to move her once again, but her ankle had obviously been seriously hurt. Randall stood unsteadily and walked towards the pair.
"Hey, is she okay?" He stretched out a hand to help, then pulled it back as the young man snarled violently at him. "Christ! Jesus, mate, I'm sorry, she just came running out of the bushes at me. Bloody Norwegian backpackers. Hang on," his face clouded, "are you guys in trouble? Look, if you need a safe house or something, my mate Simon-"
He was cut off by a hideous screech and the thrashing of still more foliage. "Poor bushes," thought Randall sadly (he always took the side of the vegetation, claiming he had more in common with it). "I wonder if-" At that point he stopped feeling sorry for the flora, being rather more concerned with the great ugly grey thing which was suddenly waving a bloody big sword at him and yelling quite a lot. So Randall yelled back, ran like a weasel, tripped over the blonde and the nancy-boy behind him and went A over T back onto the grass.
Vision wonky. Can't see. Need drink. Girl? Ugly thing holding girl by hair! "You bastard!" said Randall unsteadily, trying to hold on to the ground. The girl squealed as the Bastard wrenched her upwards. It was almost obscene seeing the two faces so close that she could have licked the thing if she'd had a mind. Hers was pure, smooth, damasked white and rose; the thing's a misshapen lump, like a melted grey waxwork covered in grease and phlegm. It leered at the girl (although that was possibly its customary expression), and she strained backwards, wincing as her hair was gripped tighter. The Bastard leaned closer, then jerked backwards as a howl of fury, swiftly turning to a fearsome battle cry, sounded in the clearing. It appeared the young man had found his feet. He catapulted across the clearing, launched himself deftly at the Bastard's back and clung there like a demented limpet.
Legs clamped firmly around the ugly bloke's middle, the suspiciously acrobatic Norwegian backpacker covered the Bastard's eyes with one hand and groped for the sword with the other. The Bastard grunted and swung wildly, still clinging to the screaming girl's hair. Randall stared open-mouthed at the spectacle (good street theatre being in short supply after the Great Mime Purges). The ugly Bastard was unlike any man he'd ever seen, with the exception of this one bouncer, but that bloke'd been on the 'roids for sure. "I should probably be doing something right about now," he thought. The Bastard grasped one of the young man's, and twisted it backwards with a sound to make a physio weep. "Then again, wouldn't want to get involved in a multicultural dispute," Randall added hastily to himself.
The young man on the Bastard's back seemed not to notice the loss of one hand, but continued to grab for the cumbersome sword. In desperation, he brought a swift sudden blow down upon the Bastard's upraised sword arm. It probably would have had very little effect save had the great ugly thing's elbow been at precisely the right angle to go *ker-SNAP!* rather nastily. The Bastard raised its head and howled in a tone which touched a primal root of fear deep within Randall. He shivered. The young man struck again, making the Bastard's arm spasm wildly.
The sword spun, the sunlight shining in a streak of muted lightning across the dull metal blade. It landed, hilt upwards, in the ground next to Randall. He looked at the sword.
He looked at the Bastard.
He looked at the beautiful young girl, and the handsome young man with the long flowing hair, fighting desperately for their lives.
Randall knew what he had to do. So he picked up a rock and chucked it at the bastard.
Who didn't notice a damn thing.
"Well, that's them pretty much buggered," said Randall to himself.
It was then he noticed that the young man was babbling in some weird-arse language at him and pointing frantically at the sword with his injured hand, while trying to gouge out the eye of the Bastard with the other. "What?" said Randall. The guy's eyes were points of blue steel, hard with terrible resolve as he clung desperately to the Bastard's back. The thing jumped and bucked like a wild stallion, and the boy spat another mouthful of words. "What?" said Randall again. "You want a rock? You- oh, right." He grabbed the hilt of the sword, clenched his teeth and pulled. Nothing happened. "Sorry, mate," shrugged Randall. "Why don't you stay here, and I'll...um...get help, I 'spose."
The young man looked with mute horror at the girl as the Bastard swung her roughly by the hair, great clumps coming loose in its hands and flecking her porcelain face with spots of red. "Oh, bugger me. Time to be manly, mate." Randall tugged on the sword a little harder, almost falling over backwards as the blade slid suddenly from the dirt. "Oof! Hey, do I get to be king now?" He grinned at the guy on the Bastard's back. The poor bugger was not amused, as his girlfriend was rapidly losing consciousness. He released one hand long enough to make some frantic gestures and gibber a little more. "Oh, speak English. Tool," muttered Randall. He studied the Bastard. "Alright, you Big Ugly Bastard. I dunno what's up with your face, but there's no need to take it out on the lady." He glanced at the young man's long golden hair. "Ladies," he corrected. "Now, are you going to let them go, or do I have to wave this thing and quote Highlander?" The young man opened his mouth to yell again, but never got the chance.
The Bastard was sick of this. Sick of the niggling thing on it's back. Sick of the scruffy little Boy-Child that had taken it's sword and was waving it clumsily. Most of all, it was sick of the screeching girl. Transferring it's powerful hands to her shoulders, the Bastard hefted her up and hurled her across the clearing. "Jesus!" yelled Randall, staring at the girl's flailing figure. Her wailing stopped suddenly, punctuated by a horrible, unmistakable crack as she ploughed into a tree. Hard. The mass of blonde hair spilled across the ground and she lay horribly still, her long, elegant neck at a very wrong angle. Her sightless eyes were as blue as the sky they stared up at. A trickle of blood from the corner of her red lips. A look of mild surprise on her lovely face.
"Oh, my God," said Randall quietly. His limbs felt as dead as the girl, and he let the sword slip from his grasp to fall on the turf. A few steps towards the body before his legs froze up, then he turned, slowly, to face the other two. The young man was sheer white, shaking, burning. As Randall watched, he slid from the Bastard's back and ran towards the fallen girl. The boy never made it. Moving far too quickly for something of its size, the Bastard lunged for the sword and brought it around in one fluid movement. There was a silken, muffled *snick*, and a lump, trailing gold stained with blood, rolled across the ground. It came to a stop a little way from Randall's feet. He watched as though very from far away as the Bastard ambled over to him, picked up the head, sniffed it, and bit into it with a little pleased noise.
"Oh," said Randall. Then he dropped to his knees and was violently ill. Head spinning blood cracking golden blood the screamingwhiteburningbloodrollinggoldenfireblood...He spat the bile from his mouth, and shakily got to his feet. Head spinning, black dots before his eyes, he prayed he was dreaming. The Bastard was looking at him curiously, chewing slowly and messily. Randall swallowed, wincing at the bitter taste. He knew it was probably the last thing he would ever taste. The Bastard walked towards him, still with an expression of mild interest, raised its sword, and ponderously brought the hilt down on his head. "Well," thought Randall as earth swallowed him, "That could've gone a bit better."
Author's Notes- Well, this started out as a Mary Sue pisstake, but seeing as they've become as prolific as the Mary Sues themselves (how post-modern), it's mutated into some strange (supposedly humorous)LoTR and Silmarillion pisstake thing. Partly based on "A New Shadow", from Volume Twelve of the History of Middle Earth. Thus the strange language. Avert your eyes, children.
...and so it was that at the End of Ages, a great darkness of the soul was come across Middle Earth. The line of the Dunedain was grown weak and Men turned from the light in heart and mind, for the poisoned touch of the Enemy of the World was upon them once more.
This sickness spread throughout the lands, leaving no race untouched. Men dabbled in the Dark Arts, until at last they felt themselves grown so mighty as to be above the Old Ways (as they deemed them), and things once sacred were treated with scorn and derision. Men grew so proud as to seek dominance over all the peoples of Middle Earth, weak or strong, good or evil, wise or foolish, until at last they turned against even the Elves.
Many kings had passed from the throne since the Elves sailed to the West, to the land no mortal can find unaided, but still some remained in the lower realm of Middle Earth. They were the first to be hunted, for a terrible envy had been placed in the hearts of men, an envy which in time grew to fear and hate. Forgetting all that was owed to the Firstborn, black-hearted Followers sought them in their haven in the Western Lands at the end of time, and with the aid of fell magic wrought by the Dark Lord, the Fair Ones were brought once more to the land they had left behind. There, in their jealousy of the fair folk, Men sought to bring them low, and with cruelty and torment they at last succeeded. The Elves were enslaved, now mere playthings and labourers for mortals. It seemed that thus would the days of the Firstborn end; not, as they had hoped, in peaceful eternal twilight, but in ignoble torment at the hands of those they had so loved.
But it came to be prophesied that in the very darkest days, Hope would at last come, and the true order of Middle Earth would once more be restored. This Hope, it was said, would be one steeped in mystery, hidden until the eleventh hour. It would come from the last stars before dawn. And lo, at the ending of the Ages known, the Hope of the Firstborn was come to Middle Earth. And as the prophecy had foretold, it fell from the stars.
"WHHHOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGH-oof!"
Verily did the Saviour of the Quendi fall into a small grove of bushes, landing on its Sacred Arse, and lay still.
"Bugger," quoth the Chosen One.
* * * * *
Fosco Tighfield was not happy. It was his custom, indeed the custom of all hobbits, to bring a halt to their business (whatever it may be) at 10:55 precisely, so that the far more serious undertaking of elevenses could be considered. It was a tradition Fosco could find no fault with, and thus applied himself vigorously to the task as often as possible. Today, however, it seemed that this tradition was not to be upheld, owing to the lack of any digestible items about his person. He conducted a final search of all the pockets he could find, in the unlikely hope that he had somehow overlooked a crust of bread or scrap of cheese, and sighed. It seemed the fates had decreed that Fosco was to remain in that most wretched of states for a hobbit: hungry.
He sat down heavily upon the banks of the small brook, and trailed his fingers in the bright, clear water, streaked with gold from the midday sun. A fine state of affairs, he thought miserably; far from home, footsore and weary, with nothing to eat since breakfast. It was enough to make any sensible hobbit regret his recklessness in leaving the Shire, and Fosco was certainly having second thoughts. It was all very well to wish for excitement like this when one was safe and snug in one's own hobbit hole, but once things were underway travelling wasn't nearly as dashing as it was made out to be. Quite the opposite, in fact; it was dull, tiring, hot and dusty. He lay down with his hands behind his head, gazing up through the branches at the sky, and wondered whether he might not find some mushrooms, if he searched around under those trees-
A clump of bushes near him shook violently, and Fosco looked up in alarm. The next moment, the bushes were ripped from the ground as an enormous Orc, filthy and battle-scarred, ploughed through them. It whipped its great head around, trying to peer in all directions at once, and its beady little eyes closed upon Fosco. It leapt forward clumsily to land in front of him, and knelt there, slavering in a manner that, with a considerable stretch of imagination, could almost be called respectful. The hobbit sighed. "Good-day, Lardang."
"Grakka," muttered the Orc.
Fosco frowned. "Pardon?"
"'s m'name, Sir," said the Orc, a little louder. "Grakka. Lardang's m' brother."
Fosco rolled his eyes and heaved himself up to a sitting position. "Very well, Grakka. I suppose you have a jolly good reason for leaving the others with the caravan, what? Who's minding the elves?"
"Mazag's on 'em. Got sent see yous, Sir. Krillig says that 'cause me the new one, me gots to tell you th' bad news," Grakka continued in a clumsy perversion of the common speech, his guttural accent making the words harsh and unpleasant.
"Oh?" said Fosco, frowning. "And what news might that be, eh?"
The Orc looked shifty, but said nothing.
"Grakka," Fosco warned.
"Wonortuofthelvesscaped.," growled Grakka, shifting from foot to foot.
Fosco blinked. "What?"
"Hem," the Orc cleared its throat nervously, "'said, One or two'f the elves escaped, like. Run orft." Fosco sighed, and Grakka went on hurriedly. "Not me fault, Sir! They just bolted, like. We couldn't stop 'em."
"Which ones?" asked Fosco wearily.
"Um, some of the good 'uns. Wunnov the pretty boys ann'a girrrrrl." The Orc rolled the rrrrr's hungrily, a nasty light glowing in its slit red eyes. "Lardang's already gawn t'look ferr'em."
"Well, you'd best go and help him, hadn't you, eh? There's a good lad." Fosco smiled encouragingly at his minion, who, after a moment of confusion, lurched off to whence he came.
The hobbit closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, moaning slightly. Typical elves, never giving a moment's consideration to anyone but themselves. Just when they were so close to Bree, the silly beasts had to go on with their silly "Death before dishonour" nonsense and try to escape. His uncle would *not* be pleased; it had taken well over a week for Fosco to persuade his formidable relative that despite his few years of experience (Fosco was barely out of his tweens), he was quite capable of managing an entire slaving convoy all the way to Bree. Fosco had to admit his uncle's fear appeared to be well founded, as the expedition had been somewhat less than a roaring success. So far, four elves had committed suicide rather messily (swallowing hot coals did not lend itself to an easy death), two of the labouring-class slaves had dropped dead from hunger and fatigue, and his best "entertainment" half-elven boy had caught a quite spectacular disease from a bit of quick and nasty business in an inn just outside Gondor. Fosco wrinkled his nose with distaste at the thought of that one. The Orcs had kept it alive for a few days so they could watch the pus form, but they soon grew bored with the elf's wailing and dashed its brains out against a tree. The hobbit did not wholly approve of such behaviour, but the fellows had been having such a marvellous time he hadn't the heart to tell them off. He picked idly at a clump of nearby grass, musing on the fact that while a drop of Firstborn blood was enough to condemn a man to a lifetime of servitude and humiliation, it didn't do a damn thing against a dose of pox.
Fosco heard another bush meet its untimely doom and looked up. Grakka had reappeared and was standing before him, drooling patiently. "What is it now, Grakka? It's frightfully hard to get any rest with you stomping around the woods like this, what?"
Grakka shifted uncomfortably. "Yessir, but I forgotto arsk: wha'should I do wiv t'elves once I finds 'em?"
Fosco sighed. "Well, obviously try not to damage the goods."
"An' if'n they doan wanna come?" Grakka grinned nastily.
The hobbit waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, I don't know, old boy, you think of something. You said one of them was a gel, yes? Well, give her a little slap and tickle, hmmm? Make her think twice before running off again."
"Yessir. Thankee sir."
"Quite alright, Grakka." Fosco watched the retreating figure of the Orc as it lumbered at speed through the hapless undergrowth. "The people one meets in this business," he muttered to himself. As if it wasn't bad enough hauling such a volatile cargo around the countryside, he had only three assistants of dizzyingly low intellect (for even an Orc) to help him. He only hoped that the load would fetch a decent price once they got to Bree, although with the present troubles there he doubted it would even cover the expenses of the journey. Perhaps it was time to move on, thought Fosco, picking himself up from the bank. The elf-trade was growing less and less profitable, and soon-
There was a cry from the direction Grakka had crashed off in, followed by a scuffling struggle, a sickening crack of bone, and a dull thud as what was presumably a week's wages worth of elf fell to the ground. Surrendering to the amazingly resourceful stupidity of the companions which Fate had seen fit to burden him with, Fosco went off to see about some mushrooms.
* * * * *
Randall moaned and sat up. This necessitated a swift return trip to the ground, where he lay for a minute, blinking and gasping. He spat out a mouthful of shrub and did a quick limb-and-vital-organ check. Two arms, two legs. Head- Randall winced as he gingerly probed the base of his skull, and felt the sticky wetness in his hair. He slowly raised himself once more and sat for a minute, licking the blood off his fingers thoughtfully. He gazed around the clearing: it was rather a pretty spot, with soft, springy turf and small clutches of wild flowers around the perimeter. It was, however, most definitely not Brisbane, Australia.
"Oh, fanbloodytastic," sighed Randall, not really terribly upset. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up sore, bloody and confused in a strange place, and he had all his clothes and eyebrows and genitals, so it wasn't as bad as it might have been. He felt in the back pocket of his pants for his wallet, and found what little cash he had was still present. Yay me, he thought happily. And I didn't piss myself, either. The day was looking fine.
He got to his feet a little uncertainly and swayed in place for a moment before weaving off to find something greasy to demolish. Possibly a Jaffle of some ki-
"Lim! Noro! Noro!"
Randall spun around in time to see a young girl crash through the brush and barrel into him, bearing them both to the ground.
"Holy sh-ARGH!"
The two writhed on the turf, the girl kicking frantically and jabbering at him, Randall trying desperately not to look too much like he was raping her.
"Ow! Ow! Get off, gerrof, that's my- OW! CHRIST!" Randall threw himself free of the tangle of limbs and fell back onto the ground, panting. The girl whimpered, and he propped himself up so as to glare at her more efficiently.
"Hey, what the bloody hell was that? You trying to-" Blonde hair, blue eyes, tits out 'till Tuesday, long legs, cherry lips, clothes torn to show more than a necessary amount of bosom. "Uh, are you okay? Miss?" Randall added hopefully, and then started as a second form tumbled into the clearing. It was a young man, who looked around wildly for a second before sighting the girl. He certainly looked like her other half, Randall noted with some dismay. That is to say, disturbingly attractive, in a Hitler-Youth-campaign-poster sort of way. Still, he also looked distinctly like He Came From The Planet Of The Pooves, so perhaps there was hope yet. Randall decided that they were probably Norwegian, for the simple reason that it was the only Nordic country he could actually remember.
The young man had grabbed hold of the girl's arm. He dragged her awkwardly for a few steps before she cried out in pain, her ankle buckling beneath her. Randall watched with interest; it didn't look like she was about to get molested, but you could never tell with these Netherlands types. Those people had far too much high-quality nude volleyball porn to be entirely stable. Not that he was complaining.
"Hey, Ken, put Barbie down, alright? Don't think she wants to play today," said Randall, wondering whether he'd have to get up and douse them in cold water or something.
The youth's head whipped up as he noticed Randall's (obviously unwelcome) presence. Spitting a few angry words he started towards him, but the girl clutched at his leg. The young man glared at Randall for just long enough to show he wasn't scared or anything, then turned back to the girl, who was sobbing quietly. He knelt and stroked her hair back, whispering something in her ear. Her very long, pointed ear...Randall shook his head, and when he looked back the girl's golden hair had fallen forward once again. The young man had pulled her up and was desperately trying to move her once again, but her ankle had obviously been seriously hurt. Randall stood unsteadily and walked towards the pair.
"Hey, is she okay?" He stretched out a hand to help, then pulled it back as the young man snarled violently at him. "Christ! Jesus, mate, I'm sorry, she just came running out of the bushes at me. Bloody Norwegian backpackers. Hang on," his face clouded, "are you guys in trouble? Look, if you need a safe house or something, my mate Simon-"
He was cut off by a hideous screech and the thrashing of still more foliage. "Poor bushes," thought Randall sadly (he always took the side of the vegetation, claiming he had more in common with it). "I wonder if-" At that point he stopped feeling sorry for the flora, being rather more concerned with the great ugly grey thing which was suddenly waving a bloody big sword at him and yelling quite a lot. So Randall yelled back, ran like a weasel, tripped over the blonde and the nancy-boy behind him and went A over T back onto the grass.
Vision wonky. Can't see. Need drink. Girl? Ugly thing holding girl by hair! "You bastard!" said Randall unsteadily, trying to hold on to the ground. The girl squealed as the Bastard wrenched her upwards. It was almost obscene seeing the two faces so close that she could have licked the thing if she'd had a mind. Hers was pure, smooth, damasked white and rose; the thing's a misshapen lump, like a melted grey waxwork covered in grease and phlegm. It leered at the girl (although that was possibly its customary expression), and she strained backwards, wincing as her hair was gripped tighter. The Bastard leaned closer, then jerked backwards as a howl of fury, swiftly turning to a fearsome battle cry, sounded in the clearing. It appeared the young man had found his feet. He catapulted across the clearing, launched himself deftly at the Bastard's back and clung there like a demented limpet.
Legs clamped firmly around the ugly bloke's middle, the suspiciously acrobatic Norwegian backpacker covered the Bastard's eyes with one hand and groped for the sword with the other. The Bastard grunted and swung wildly, still clinging to the screaming girl's hair. Randall stared open-mouthed at the spectacle (good street theatre being in short supply after the Great Mime Purges). The ugly Bastard was unlike any man he'd ever seen, with the exception of this one bouncer, but that bloke'd been on the 'roids for sure. "I should probably be doing something right about now," he thought. The Bastard grasped one of the young man's, and twisted it backwards with a sound to make a physio weep. "Then again, wouldn't want to get involved in a multicultural dispute," Randall added hastily to himself.
The young man on the Bastard's back seemed not to notice the loss of one hand, but continued to grab for the cumbersome sword. In desperation, he brought a swift sudden blow down upon the Bastard's upraised sword arm. It probably would have had very little effect save had the great ugly thing's elbow been at precisely the right angle to go *ker-SNAP!* rather nastily. The Bastard raised its head and howled in a tone which touched a primal root of fear deep within Randall. He shivered. The young man struck again, making the Bastard's arm spasm wildly.
The sword spun, the sunlight shining in a streak of muted lightning across the dull metal blade. It landed, hilt upwards, in the ground next to Randall. He looked at the sword.
He looked at the Bastard.
He looked at the beautiful young girl, and the handsome young man with the long flowing hair, fighting desperately for their lives.
Randall knew what he had to do. So he picked up a rock and chucked it at the bastard.
Who didn't notice a damn thing.
"Well, that's them pretty much buggered," said Randall to himself.
It was then he noticed that the young man was babbling in some weird-arse language at him and pointing frantically at the sword with his injured hand, while trying to gouge out the eye of the Bastard with the other. "What?" said Randall. The guy's eyes were points of blue steel, hard with terrible resolve as he clung desperately to the Bastard's back. The thing jumped and bucked like a wild stallion, and the boy spat another mouthful of words. "What?" said Randall again. "You want a rock? You- oh, right." He grabbed the hilt of the sword, clenched his teeth and pulled. Nothing happened. "Sorry, mate," shrugged Randall. "Why don't you stay here, and I'll...um...get help, I 'spose."
The young man looked with mute horror at the girl as the Bastard swung her roughly by the hair, great clumps coming loose in its hands and flecking her porcelain face with spots of red. "Oh, bugger me. Time to be manly, mate." Randall tugged on the sword a little harder, almost falling over backwards as the blade slid suddenly from the dirt. "Oof! Hey, do I get to be king now?" He grinned at the guy on the Bastard's back. The poor bugger was not amused, as his girlfriend was rapidly losing consciousness. He released one hand long enough to make some frantic gestures and gibber a little more. "Oh, speak English. Tool," muttered Randall. He studied the Bastard. "Alright, you Big Ugly Bastard. I dunno what's up with your face, but there's no need to take it out on the lady." He glanced at the young man's long golden hair. "Ladies," he corrected. "Now, are you going to let them go, or do I have to wave this thing and quote Highlander?" The young man opened his mouth to yell again, but never got the chance.
The Bastard was sick of this. Sick of the niggling thing on it's back. Sick of the scruffy little Boy-Child that had taken it's sword and was waving it clumsily. Most of all, it was sick of the screeching girl. Transferring it's powerful hands to her shoulders, the Bastard hefted her up and hurled her across the clearing. "Jesus!" yelled Randall, staring at the girl's flailing figure. Her wailing stopped suddenly, punctuated by a horrible, unmistakable crack as she ploughed into a tree. Hard. The mass of blonde hair spilled across the ground and she lay horribly still, her long, elegant neck at a very wrong angle. Her sightless eyes were as blue as the sky they stared up at. A trickle of blood from the corner of her red lips. A look of mild surprise on her lovely face.
"Oh, my God," said Randall quietly. His limbs felt as dead as the girl, and he let the sword slip from his grasp to fall on the turf. A few steps towards the body before his legs froze up, then he turned, slowly, to face the other two. The young man was sheer white, shaking, burning. As Randall watched, he slid from the Bastard's back and ran towards the fallen girl. The boy never made it. Moving far too quickly for something of its size, the Bastard lunged for the sword and brought it around in one fluid movement. There was a silken, muffled *snick*, and a lump, trailing gold stained with blood, rolled across the ground. It came to a stop a little way from Randall's feet. He watched as though very from far away as the Bastard ambled over to him, picked up the head, sniffed it, and bit into it with a little pleased noise.
"Oh," said Randall. Then he dropped to his knees and was violently ill. Head spinning blood cracking golden blood the screamingwhiteburningbloodrollinggoldenfireblood...He spat the bile from his mouth, and shakily got to his feet. Head spinning, black dots before his eyes, he prayed he was dreaming. The Bastard was looking at him curiously, chewing slowly and messily. Randall swallowed, wincing at the bitter taste. He knew it was probably the last thing he would ever taste. The Bastard walked towards him, still with an expression of mild interest, raised its sword, and ponderously brought the hilt down on his head. "Well," thought Randall as earth swallowed him, "That could've gone a bit better."