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b2memB2MeM Challenge: First Lines ("It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.."-Dickens)
Format: Ficlet 600 words.
Genre: Humor
Rating: G
Warnings: This borders on crackfic, although I'm subtly addressing serious stuff underneath.
Characters: Huan, Tilion, Iarwain Ben-Adar
Summary: Title says most of it. Iarwain guest spot.
A chapter of a longer piece, but can be read on its own. Whole story archived at SWG as "A Story of a Hound."
The asterisks denote facetious “footnotes;” which are inserted in brackets directly after the germane paragraph, as there are no pages as such to put them at the bottom of.
__________
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. On the one paw, we were all very pleased that the Children had awoken. Not that we knew where they’d awoken, for Oromë hadn’t found them yet. But we felt it–one must know of what I speak–the way one just feels betimes that something good is about to happen, or feels that something heavy or sticky is about to fall on one’s head.
On the other hand, we had yet to locate the Children, and Melkor’s servants were roaming about Endórë killing life as fast as Yavanna’s and Vána’s folk could sneak around bringing it back.
This profound danger to the Children caused of a good deal of worry and bickering among the Valar, and everyone in Valinor was getting cranky and edgy. Aulë and Yavanna rarely slept in the same bed or even in the same region of Aman–not that that was anything new–and visitors to Lórien complained that the quality of their dreams had decreased significantly, and Tulkas pounded tables and chair-arms to emphasize his points* even more than usual.
[*Tulkas actually had only one oft-reiterated point.]
While the Valar debated whether or not to bring war upon Melkor, Oromë sent many of his Maiar out to patrol the lands of Endórë, hunting down foul creatures and keeping an eye out for the Children. Tilion and I usually worked together. Because I had learned to use my hound-form’s senses as well as a natural born hound could, we didn’t bring any of the regular hounds with us.
One day* we ran into Iarwain, who had been seen little since the fall of the old Lamps. He still lived in the same river valley he’d claimed long ago, and his fashion sense had not improved with time or isolation from the rest of society.
[*There were of course no days upon Endórë in those days, but sometimes people spoke thus in the poignant hope that competence would one day visit itself upon the Ainur in the form of a day-and-night regulating device.]
“Hey do, merry dol, Tilion and Huan! What be ye a-seeking with your readied fangs and bow drawn?” said Iarwain.
“You know me?” I said.
“Well, of course I do, my lad, Iarwain might rhyme but he’s not a bloody halfwit,” replied Iarwain, commencing a merry little caper.
“It’s that we’re just a bit used to everyone mistaking Huan for a hound, you see,” explained Tilion as Iarwain tossed his feather cap up in the air and caught it. “Usually people come up and ask me what my hound’s name is, and then they get in Huan’s face and start in with ‘Who’s a gorgeous boy? Who’s a special boy?’ before either of us can get a word in edgewise.”
Iarwain stopped and grew serious for a moment. “And has the world already grown so old that all things now look like what they are? Time was when everyone was like Iarwain, and saw what a thing is, not what it looks to be. Well now, I must be off. Happy hunting to you.” And he danced away singing.
“Strange fellow,” I said.
“They say* he inhaled too much helium when he tried to manifest back before the atmosphere was properly installed,” shrugged Tilion.
[*Numerous theories have been advanced to account for Iarwain Ben-Adar’s eccentricities, including but not limited to: excess helium intake, unadulterated joie de vivre, schizophrenia, being the godhead’s very avatar, soul-breaking solitude, being “in the now,” and special mushrooms.]
We later learned that, while we were having this conversation with Iarwain, Oromë was discovering where the Firstborn had awoken on the shores of a tranquil bay.
Format: Ficlet 600 words.
Genre: Humor
Rating: G
Warnings: This borders on crackfic, although I'm subtly addressing serious stuff underneath.
Characters: Huan, Tilion, Iarwain Ben-Adar
Summary: Title says most of it. Iarwain guest spot.
A chapter of a longer piece, but can be read on its own. Whole story archived at SWG as "A Story of a Hound."
The asterisks denote facetious “footnotes;” which are inserted in brackets directly after the germane paragraph, as there are no pages as such to put them at the bottom of.
__________
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. On the one paw, we were all very pleased that the Children had awoken. Not that we knew where they’d awoken, for Oromë hadn’t found them yet. But we felt it–one must know of what I speak–the way one just feels betimes that something good is about to happen, or feels that something heavy or sticky is about to fall on one’s head.
On the other hand, we had yet to locate the Children, and Melkor’s servants were roaming about Endórë killing life as fast as Yavanna’s and Vána’s folk could sneak around bringing it back.
This profound danger to the Children caused of a good deal of worry and bickering among the Valar, and everyone in Valinor was getting cranky and edgy. Aulë and Yavanna rarely slept in the same bed or even in the same region of Aman–not that that was anything new–and visitors to Lórien complained that the quality of their dreams had decreased significantly, and Tulkas pounded tables and chair-arms to emphasize his points* even more than usual.
[*Tulkas actually had only one oft-reiterated point.]
While the Valar debated whether or not to bring war upon Melkor, Oromë sent many of his Maiar out to patrol the lands of Endórë, hunting down foul creatures and keeping an eye out for the Children. Tilion and I usually worked together. Because I had learned to use my hound-form’s senses as well as a natural born hound could, we didn’t bring any of the regular hounds with us.
One day* we ran into Iarwain, who had been seen little since the fall of the old Lamps. He still lived in the same river valley he’d claimed long ago, and his fashion sense had not improved with time or isolation from the rest of society.
[*There were of course no days upon Endórë in those days, but sometimes people spoke thus in the poignant hope that competence would one day visit itself upon the Ainur in the form of a day-and-night regulating device.]
“Hey do, merry dol, Tilion and Huan! What be ye a-seeking with your readied fangs and bow drawn?” said Iarwain.
“You know me?” I said.
“Well, of course I do, my lad, Iarwain might rhyme but he’s not a bloody halfwit,” replied Iarwain, commencing a merry little caper.
“It’s that we’re just a bit used to everyone mistaking Huan for a hound, you see,” explained Tilion as Iarwain tossed his feather cap up in the air and caught it. “Usually people come up and ask me what my hound’s name is, and then they get in Huan’s face and start in with ‘Who’s a gorgeous boy? Who’s a special boy?’ before either of us can get a word in edgewise.”
Iarwain stopped and grew serious for a moment. “And has the world already grown so old that all things now look like what they are? Time was when everyone was like Iarwain, and saw what a thing is, not what it looks to be. Well now, I must be off. Happy hunting to you.” And he danced away singing.
“Strange fellow,” I said.
“They say* he inhaled too much helium when he tried to manifest back before the atmosphere was properly installed,” shrugged Tilion.
[*Numerous theories have been advanced to account for Iarwain Ben-Adar’s eccentricities, including but not limited to: excess helium intake, unadulterated joie de vivre, schizophrenia, being the godhead’s very avatar, soul-breaking solitude, being “in the now,” and special mushrooms.]
We later learned that, while we were having this conversation with Iarwain, Oromë was discovering where the Firstborn had awoken on the shores of a tranquil bay.
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Date: 2012-03-11 11:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 11:04 pm (UTC)