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The World-Famous (to some people) online-novels of Lark and Musings, for you to sit back and enjoy in the quietness of your own home. Warning, all novels may contain traces of nuts, and insanity in large doses. (Reading hint: For more enjoyment and less wanting-to-die-from-how-stupid-it-all-is, L&M Blognovels are suggested read in smaller doses, rather than in one sitting).

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Deep in the Helms of War

Moments later we arrive, the Capital city of Wilsonia/Rogeroneria being situated suprisingly close to the candy village. In stereotypical seiged city style its walls are huge and thick, and there are no weaknesses, apart from a single culvert at the base of the wall, which could be breached only by a suicidal orc with a sparkler, after a heroic attempt to shoot him down by a blond-haired elf who would go on to be a pirate and a Paris, among other things.
There seems to be no other way in, except for a huge pair of gates at the top of a long ramp that would be easily defended by a ranger-king from the north and a tossed dwarf from the east, but it is apparent that it would take an army of tens of thousands of specially made orc/uruk-hai warriors to take the city, and unfortunately I have no such army.

All I have are about 20 candy-coated large-headed warrior, 5 column-shift elephants, a short balding ex-gaelic-speaking spy, and a psychotic policewoman who still reminds me of Ana-Lucia off Lost before her tragic and untimely death (oh yeah, watch out, there is a spoiler for Season 2 Lost fans just in front of this bracketed section).

I decide to challenge the Roger-elves, and approach the gates on my classic 1973 Pachyderm Cunctor. As I do, 347 elvish heads peer over the wall suspiciously.

"Pharoah, let my people go!" I yell dramatically, getting completely caught up in the moment, and raising the giant lollypop stick I am using as a staff over my head (as I do that, a nearby rock magically turns into a bunny and goes hip-hopping-heavily away. A strange coincidence).

There is a moment of whispered conference amongst the Roger-elves.
Eventually the spokesman for the elves (Lets call him Roger) replies: "I do not know this Pharoah. Neither will I let your people go."

"Then," I say forbodingly, "Prepare to feel the wrath of about 20 candy-coated large-headed warrior, 5 column-shift elephants, a short balding ex-gaelic-speaking spy, a psychotic policewoman who still reminds me of Ana-Lucia off Lost before her tragic and untimely death (oh yeah, watch out, there's another spoiler around), and myself, Prince Pete Wilson, son of the late Princess Trevor!"

For some reason, the elves don't appear too concerned.

And so, the seige begins...

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