The third chapter already and I'm not getting serious hatemail... Is this because hardly anyone is reading the story at all? (How about every reader leaving a note saying "read and hated" or "read and liked"? That takes 20 seconds!)

Tanks to my reviewers, the faithful La-Bella-Luna, Phoenixasending, whom I haven't mentioned in last chapter's 'thank-you's (Sorry! I hope you will like my version of Raistlin...), and Dalamar Nightson (who will certainly not love this chapter) for giving ideas. Thanks to you all! Your encouragement really helped me! I hope I won't lose your positive opinion with this chapter. It's evil, but remember, it's for fun and I love the characters just as much as you do. (cough -most of them- cough)

Disclaimer:

1) I don't own Caramon. I wouldn't really want him. I already have dogs. (I would take the lunch boxes though...)

2) I don't own Raistlin and Dalamar. If I did, I'd buy them an airplane-ticket and send them to Skull Bearer, who writes such (lack of better word) nice stories about them (winks) -and would probably drop dead seeing what I did to her mages if she ever read this... (Don't kill me, please! You know I love your stories and only make fun of the general cliché!)

3) I own the RRFGC, but anyone who likes may take it!

Warnings: Nonsense-overload, bad English... oh yes, and slash, but since it's a parody, it's only hinted... Maybe it'll finally get me my long-craved hatemail... (chuckle) Go on, folks, be offended!

-------------------------------------

Raistlin's Obsession? (you still don't expect anyone to be in character, do you?)

"Congratulations, Half-elven," the man with the staff in his hand remarks in a sarcastic hiss. "Reviving old habits, are you? Once again you are standing in front of half of Solace in a pink dress. If you start singing the next minute, it will be just like in the old days. I'm sure we can find some dvarves for you, as well."

Some chuckles from the corners can be heard, but they die down quickly. The mage's disdainful golden gaze says plainer than words that he hasn't meant to amuse anyone other than himself. He shoves the hood back from his head, revealing long white hair and an oddly metallic-tinged skin. "Raistlin Majere," some fear-and-awe-stricken whispers tell the few blissfully ignorant members of the AAA, who had mistaken him for a Bond-girl from the 'Goldfinger'-movie.

A second's silence passes. Then a sound mass panic breaks loose. Chairs are knocked over, drunken people trampled down and purses stolen by happy kender -which makes the would-be stampede only gain a more chaotic flair.

"Don't try," the archmage says, his tones rather bored. "I put a spell on the door." Very obviously, he can't repress the urge to raise his eyebrows and look at his fingernails in a satisfied display of false modesty. "By the way, Half-elven: I always knew." Raistlin takes a large step over Tanis, who lies on the floor, still dressed in pink and helplessly sobbing, because nobody listens to him, nobody loves him and the whole situation is simply humiliating.

"Oh, you're so wise, master!" the other mage whispers aloud in adoring tones, lovesick being the friendliest description of his facial expression. Long black hair, delicately pointed ears and beautiful elven features identify him as Raistlin's apprentice Dalamar.

Crysania has recovered from the groupie-syndrome a bit. "Raistlin," she breathes, "my one true love!" She ignores the hearty laughter from the crowd and the mock-pitying look from Raistlin's apprentice. "Have you finally come to claim me back?"

The mage scowled. "Back? I never wanted you in the first place!"

Crysania hesitates, then decides this must have been another joke she did not get and laughs artificially (even compared to her usual standards).

"I have come because I suffer from an obsession-problem," the archmage explains. His face, nose wrinkled in disgust, gives clues that he might have thought twice if he had known she would be there to strain his nerves.

Crysania attempts a pleasant smile, but her drugged and excited state spoils it, helping her to a cross-eyed goofy-face. "So love, then tell me who you are obsessed with..." Obviously she is expecting to hear her own name or at least an unlabeled (but nonetheless flattering) description of herself quite soon.

"I'm not here because I'm obsessed!" Raistlin hisses indignantly. "It's because someone is obsessed with me and I am trying to get rid of him, because he is really a nuisance."

The crowd turns like a single man to look at Dalamar. The pretty dark elf blushes violently.

Raistlin waves a dismissive hand. "Not him, you idiots! I'm fine with his obsession! You'd laugh if you knew what that makes him do for me..." His frown returns. "But that's entirely besides the point!"

Tas pops up from out of nowhere and dances a famous-but-annoying kender-dance around Raistlin. "Who is it? Who is it? Who is it?"

Raistlin puts the staff of Magius a little forward and smirks as the kender trips and falls.

"You didn't do that on purpose, did you?" Tas frowns up at him, then smiles his all's-already-forgiven smile. "One can never be sure with you black mages, since you're being evil and all. But come on, you can tell me! I've stopped being obsessed with you long ago. It were rather the interesting magical artifact thingies you had, than you as a person, anyway." A worried expression crosses his face. "But you're not offended by that, are you? We'll be staying friends, yes?"

Raistlin snorts and hits the kender over the head with his staff. The audience claps, all very politely, since cheering and whistling doesn't seem so advisable around a black robe. The mage sits down in the speaker's chair, careful not to spoil the perfectly draped folds of his plushy velvet attire. After the minute it has taken him to make himself comfortable, he takes a look around the audience to make sure they are all paying attention to him -which they do anyway, because there is only one more interesting thing in the room. (This is Dalamar's backside, but they are all too afraid of Raistlin to dare leering at it.)

"It's my brother," says the archmage gloomily. "Caramon is obsessed with me. No not that way!" he adds as some faces turn green and sympathetic glances search Tika. "His obsession is a bit different. Can you imagine he still visits me at least once a week to bring me lunch boxes and wash my living room curtains?"

Tas lifts his drowsy head from the floor. "But that sounds practical! Nobody has ever done these things for me! But then, I don't have a living room. Or curtains. However, some lunch boxes would really be a conveniance." Raistlin promptly knocks him out again.

"He travels all the way from Solace to Planthas only to wash my curtains," Raistlin continues. "Though I rarely ever use the living room and there's never blood anywhere, but on the carpets. Still he insists on travelling for hours and crossing my dangerous forest, just to wash those stupid old art-deco-curtains that the former master of the tower left there! Can you imagine that?"

"But the lunch boxes..."

Raistlin signals Dalamar to drop an anvil (or is it a heavy anvil-shaped lunch box?) on the kender's head, which the dark elf does without hesitation. Successful conditioning is everything in an apprentice.

"I would never eat anything I'm not sure where it comes from. My health is frail at best, I have a lecetine-allergy and you know... poison... Besides, Caramon is a miserable cook." Raistlin shakes his head. "I told him a dozen times I have the tower guardians to cook for me, not to mention Dalamar, who does the finest Elvish cuisine, and if all else fails, I can still conjure up some food or go to a Solamnic take-away and ask for a vegan chop-suey."

"But love," Crysania reprimands him in her most annoying singsong voice. "I'm sure your brother means to do good and he's such a nice man!"

"Which shows again what a cleric's opinions are worth!" Raistlin sneers.

"Perhaps we should just send someone to fetch..." Crysania starts, but is interrupted by the door crashing open. Raistlin has cast a spell to prevent people from escaping, not from coming in. A fatal mistake.

"RAIST!" Caramon, always overjoyed at seeing his brother, crosses the inn's large main room in a few long strides. His face is beaming with the happiness of a five-year-old when his favourite uncle comes visiting (in spite of that uncle calling him a worthless little shitter repeatedly). "I KNEW YOU WOULD COME HOME ONE DAY!"

The AAA-members jump out of his way. Some are knocked over; they will probably die of the various infections they are contracting from the dirty floor within the next two months.

Raistlin fights off his twin with the staff of Magius held horizontally. They circle each other around the speaker's chair. Crysania, Tika and Laurana drag the slumped forms of Tas and Tanis out of the way. Dalamar just watches them a little wide-eyedly.

Caramon's happiness gradually fades. "Why won't you let me hug you, Raist?" he whines. His lower lip has begun to tremble.

"You're like a dog, Caramon," Raistlin hisses, "I kicked you, chained you out in the cold without food and even left you to die several times. Still you are stupid enough to always come back to me!"

"Maybe we should have tied his hands when we left him behind the highway motel the other day," Dalamar suggests helpfully.

Caramon nodds. "Right. You should try that next time. Freeing myself was really easy."

"That is no reason to pretend the whole thing has never happened!" Raistlin is boiling.

"But I'm sure you did not want to kill me in earnest! There's still a lot of good in you! You are my brother! I will always love you!"

Raistlin's lips curl a little. "Whom are trying to convince with that?" he inquires and sounds genuinely curious.

Caramon -confused by being asked a serious question- returns to his whining. "We've not seen each other for soooo long and now you don't even want to hug me!"

"Long? You came to the tower last Wednesday. Remember? You insisted on swiping the floors in my study in that ridiculous rose-print apron of yours."

"But you didn't even say hello then!"

"How should I? I was conjuring a demon from another plane of existence!"

"You could have..."

Muffled sounds come from the door. Parts of the audience have tried to sneak out the once open door and now run back in, frightened by a danger worse than Krynn's most feared black mage.

From somewhere, merry music wafts in. A long line of anorexic blond girls in swirling black-and-pink-with-golden-hems mini-skirts and tight pink tricots, decorated with golden hourglasses, comes dancing in, waving big fluffy-flurry things that look like pink floor mops. They run once around the room -an admirable accomplishment in boots with five-inch heels and with all the drunkards lying spawled everywhere. Then they start another dance in front of Raistlin, running on the spot, drawing their knees up almost to their chins (thereby displaying pink underwear Raistlin had not wanted to see) and waving the mops more fiercely, chanting "Raist-lin, Raist-lin, Raist-lin!" all the time.

Caramon's face lights up. "They've come!"

Raistlin looks mildly bewildered. "What does this mean, Caramon? Where do all the girls come from?"

Caramon grins happily. (The only thing he's really good at.) "They're from the RRFGC!"

Raistlin is beginning to look confused, particularly because the girls have started dancing and waving a large black-and-gold RRFGC-banner. "The what?"

His twin wiggles enthusiastically. A dog would have wagged its tail. "The Rabid Raistlin Fan Girl's Club!"

Raistlin flinches back, half startled, half frightened. "I've got fangirls?" Then he becomes angry. "Why didn't I have fangirls when I was fifteen?"

Tika has meanwhiles stepped forward, hands on her hips. She eyes her husband's brother very coldly. "Because you were unpopular, boring, a bookworm, physically weak, had creepy hobbies and a weird haircut?"

Raistlin -despite his giant IQ (he had inherited the larger part of what had been planned for his brother in addition to his own)- still hasn't sorted the whole affair out. "But I'm like that still -and I do have that very same haircut! Only now my hair is white and I've also gotten a bad bloody cough and hourglass eyes to go with it."

"But you've also become the master of Past and Present!" Caramon pats the mage's shoulder and ignores the dirty looks he is shot from Raistlin as well as from Tika. "And you've got lovely golden skin! Not to mention that you're the most powerful mage who has ever lived! That's why the girls and me started this club-thing."

Though he is more than a foot shorter, Raistlin somehow manages to look down on his twin. "I don't exactly understand why a megalomanic lifestyle -due to massive inferiority complex- and an unhealthy skin-colour, that is most probably the result of a liver-dysfunction, suddenly make me more attractive. I'm also incapable of understanding why it gives me a bunch of brainless, mini-skirt-clad chicks that rot -very nicely indeed- in front of my eyes, but there's another problem that worries me far more: Caramon, why THE ABYSS are you in a fangirls' club?"

The big man seems surprised. "Why? But I started the whole campaign! I was your very first fan after all. And I'm still the most rabid!"

"Do you even know what 'rabid' means?" Raistlin inquires, but is spared from the predictable answer by Dalamar who tugs his robes from the side. "Maaaasteeeer?"

The archmage turns and almost smiles at his apprentice. Just in time he notices the girls the dark elf is holding in his arms and sends each of them a death glare, as well as those who are crowding up behind.

"May we keep them?" Dalamar asks sweetly, making his very cutest face. He even tilts his head a little and flutters his long eyelashes. "At least two or three?"

Raistlin's voice is patient but firm. "No, darling, they are rotting. And they'd just ruin our nice, peaceful life at the tower, don't you think? But the next time you find a stray kitten, you can keep it. And no sacrifices to demons this time, I promise."

Dalamar lets go of the girls and pouts.

Raistlin frowns. "What would you do with them, anyway? They are only girls!"

The dark elf still looks miffed. "Sleep with them of course! They are thin, they are blond, they are stupid, which means they are sexy..."

"And they are rotting."

"I'm not like you, master," Dalamar sulks. "To me they look pretty attractive and I sometimes need a girl..."

Crysania misinterprets this a little. "That's it, love! You should take your apprentice as a good example! A female influence in your life could do you a world of good! If you like, I can..."

"I am absolutely certain, I do NOT need a female influence or anything else related to you in my life," Raistlin ensures her coldly. "And my apprentice sports an overactive sex-drive, that's all. I have caught him mating with the strangest things imaginable and no, I do not think I will ever take him as an example. Even sleeping with him is enough of a strain!"

Crysania lets out a shriek. "You are sleeping with him?" The cleric's expression is horrified.

"Not right now, as you can see, but I've made a habit of doing that quite regularly, yes," Raistlin explains patiently.

Crysania collapses in Laurana's arms, helplessly sobbing. The pointy-eared baby that she cries on, makes sympathetic little noises but doesn't dare to scream for fear of enraging its slowly calming mother anew.

Dalamar hasn't given up yet. "If you won't let me have my own girls, master, I'll start an affair with your sister!"

"Kitiara? How do you know she would be interested? I mean, something besides the fact that she's interested in every handsome male between here and Sanction -and in practically every other direction."

"She sends me love-letters." He stops pouting and looks very smug instead, holdig up a piece of paper covered in a neat and fluent writing and signed K iT in disorderly crayoned letters of different sizes.

"She can write? Let me see!" Raistlin snatches the letter from his apprentice. "As far as I can see, that is Lord Soth's handwriting. Also, the lipstick-marks must be his -they are sort of toothy. And Kitiara does not own any lipsticks, as far as I can remember. Besides, since the word 'love' is never once mentioned, while I can make out at least seventeen different slang words for genitalia on a quick scan, I would rather call your love-letter a porn-letter."

The dark elf smiles. "I'm sure she'd come round if I invited her..."

Raistlin arched his eyebrows. "You won't. I would make the guardian spirits kill her!"

"You told them to kill Caramon as well..."

"Several times, but he is my twin after all, maybe we are too much alike for them to distinguish." He laughs a sarcastic little laughter.

The RRFGC (excluding Caramon) starts a new dance. "E-vil Raist-lin, e-vil Raist-lin, e-vil Raist-lin!"

Raistlin shakes his head. "Nobody ever liked me because I behave antisocially and try to kill my brother! You girls are not normal. You worry me."

Dalamar puts his head on the archmage's shoulder and smiles up at him adoringly. "I like you, master!"

"Because you are antisocial yourself. And no, you still may not keep them. Go on, get rid of them."

Dalamar sighs deeply, but he knows when he has lost. He produces some spell components from his pocket and concentrates. A lightning bolt shoots from his fingers and burns the girls to cinders.

For a moment everyone -including Raistlin- is startled.

"Stacy! Carol! Daisy! Mary-Ann! Lucinda!" Tears streak Caramon's face as he falls to his knees amidst the ashes. "Rose! Lindsey! Violet! Betty!"

Tika smiles weakly. "At least you can't spend your evenings with all those girls anymore."

Raistlin pays them no attention. He eyes his apprentice on whose face the smirk of catlike satisfaction from moments ago has been replaced by his usual innocent and slightly stupid smile. "Dalamar?" The mage's voice has a nasty little edge to it. "Where exactly did you learn that spell?"

"In Wayreth, master." Pure innocence. "When the conclave trained me as a spy to find out your secret goals."

"Uhm... Are you supposed to tell people that?" Caramon, used to being the most stupid person around and therefore careful of criticizing mistakes in others, asks carefully, with a sideways glance at his scowling twin.

The dark elf's face goes blank. Then he remembers. "'Spy-rule #1: Never tell people you're a spy.'" Dalamar hits his forehead with one hand. "Oh shit, I forgot the first rule again!"

Raistlin rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Look at your chest! That's why I burnt the five Everbleeding Marks (TM) in there!"

The dark elf looks down on his feet instantly -a gesture perfected during long years of repeated exercising- his face a lovely blush, his hands fingering the front of his robes.

Raistlin watches him fondly and Crysania fiercely fights the impression that he is only inches short of reaching out and pinching his apprentice's cheek approvingly.

"I'm so sorry, master..." the dark elf whispers. His voice is far too throaty and betrays far too much feeling.

The cleric definitely doesn't like this. If she weren't such a friendly, gentle and thoroughly good person, she would most probably hate him. On second thought: screw the holy-cleric pretence! She hates him!

He has actually started to curl a strand of his perfect, splissless, raven-coloured hair around one finger. Then he stops dead in mid-movement. The blank expression returns. The audience realizes that it means he is thinking. Trying to think. "Sorry master," he finally says, "but I'm afraid I didn't forget... The marks were not a reminder! I'm pretty sure you did them on a Friday... " He smiles up at Caramon, explaining, "Friday is our tie-the-apprentice-to-the-bed-and-punish-him day." Caramon's jaw drops and stays open. Dalamar chatters on happily, now clinging to Raistlin's arm. "Do you remember master? You said I had been a very naughty elf that week and you really had to do something about it..."

Raistlin fakes an extremely well-timed coughing fit.

Suddenly a roar and then a crash can be heard outside. Kitiara jumps in through the window. "Sorry, but I forgot something! Tanis? Tanis, where are you?" She spots the sobbing bundle of half-elf, wrapped fetus-like around himself. "There! Aw! What a perfectly nice dress! You always look so lovely in pink!" She lifts him up without much effort and carries him to her waiting dragon.

Laurana hisses impolite Elvish words and seems about to launch into a catfight, to take revenge for her roses, but she doesn't know where to put the baby and is not ready to trust Raistlin's uncharacteristically genial smile in this regard. There are too many rumours about black magic and babies' blood. And she is secretly glad to be rid of her husband. Ansalon has state support for single mothers, after all.

Raistlin watches his sister tie the weakly struggling half-elf to the saddle of her dragon. "Consenting adults..." he mutters. "Come Dalamar, we're going home. It's Friday, I recall."

His apprentice takes out a battered pocket calendar, PR-gift from 'Velvet Dreams', Krynn's most successful mail-order catalogue for mage's robes of all colours. The people standing close to him can see that it is covered in Raistlin-fanstickers and little pink hearts. Inside, the dark elf's girly handwriting has carefully replaced all weekdays with calligraphed FRYDEYs in different colours. "Oh yes, master!" he beams. "And I've been so naughty again!"

---------------------------------------------

(Sorry, Dalamar... It wasn't me... Argh!)

That was pretty strange again, wasn't it? Are you still alive? Glad you're through? Then leave a review (or a flame telling me I'm sick), please! See me begging? Pleeeeaaase!

Shall I write another chapter (maybe with Bupu in it)? In that case I need ideas! Badly! Who else of the DL-heroes needs being mean to and deserves an uncovering of obsessions or ...uhm... strange bed-habits? Come on, be creative!