Ok, listening to good old Filk Radio and one of my favorite artists came on: Tom Smith, singing his "Divine Irregularity" and in hopped a plot bunny, looking like Tom (that's a little scary in and itself). Anyway, the Smith-Bunny sat down at the bar (of course I have a bar in my head, doesn't everybody?) he ordered a drink, tuned his guitar and said "What are you going to do about it? Go on, hop to it." I had no choice. When a large, harrier-than-usual, drunk, guitar-toting rabbit tells you to do something in pun, you do it. So, what happens when a stupid fan-chick writes a fandom piece about a musical fandom piece and relates it to her own brand of fandom?
Mandatory thingy: I don't own the basic plot, that's Tom Smith, filker and punster. Tolkien owns the characters, except, of course, for Gordon Dickson's Dorsai Irregulars, they belong to anyone willing to pay them (note to those who Con, yes the name is like the often berated and always bereted people who do what they do, but here is what they wish to be).
It was late night in a dusty pub, the sign outside read "Y Llychlyd Tafarn" but this is not the point of this story; it is merely set dressing. This tale, lads and lasses, starts when a large figure in a blue cloak sat down at the bar, twirled the stool around a few times and then signaled the bartender to throw over a tall one. Then two tall ones, before the moon had moved a fingernail's length the count was 16 tall ones, 27 short ones and 4 medium ones.
But who's counting? The figure thought to himself as he ordered a not-so-tall-but-slightly-larger-than-medium drink and downed it, but knew that too soon he'd be upping it. Ah, but isn't that some sort of grand philosophy, about how life…a screw it, Bourbon and deep thinking don't mix. The man in blue slinked to the floor, Finally, he thought as he succumbed to black.
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He didn't know how much later it was when he awoke I think I've awoken. If so, why is it still black? He reached his hand out to try and lever himself up, he encountered something too substantial to be air and too flimsy to be the bar or the floor. Then logic would state that... I must still be drunk. It finally registered that the black was cloth of some kind.
"Are you the Istar?" a voice asked.
"Huh-yeh-deba," he replied intelligently.
"She asked if you were the Istar, drunken sot." A different voice joined the conversation.
"And I said 'Huh-yeh-deba'," the blue man said, finally sitting against the bar.
The new man snorted, "Come Delphine, dearest, this is a waste of time, we'd be better off trying to find the White One."
"I've told you, I'm NOT going back west" the maid in black unsheathed a wicked looking sword and raised it to the neck of a tall boy with white hair, "Now shut-up before I cut the tips off those ears of yours." She lowered the blade to the man in blue who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. Or perhaps the contented smile had something to do with the half-full bottle he had just found. "I ask you once more, are you one of the Istari?"
The man on the ground held up a hand, finished the bottle off, threw it to the side and tried to rise. He was pretty successful until he fell. Giving up he looked at the woman, "Yeah. I've been called better but.."
"But not lately, it would seem" the elf smirked.
"Varicose, I swear on my father's horn, you will be silent. If I need to make it a permanent silence, so be it. Now, good sir Istar, may I speak with you?"
The Istar got to his shaky legs, finally, and looked the girl over. He almost lost his footing again. She was beautiful, dressed all in black. With leather, lots of leather, the man in blue could feel other parts of him that he hadn't used in a long time start to grow, but he shut it off totally and immediately. Well, maybe not totally, but this sounds like a job, a big one, and I don't need to, uh 'muck' around with a sword toting shield maiden and an annoying, and protective, elf. He finally realized he was starring and started talking, "Well, if you'll pay the tab, my ear is yours." With that he left the bar, Always let the customer come to you, it's rule one of wizardry. He paused at the door of the pub. Huh, perhaps that's why we don't make any money.
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Diolch, da boch chi