What Shagrat did next.

Dunadan · 01-17-2003, 07:06 AM

I'm not familiar with how things work in this part of the forum, but another thread got me thinking about Mordor, orcs, and what happened after ROTK.

What I've got in mind is not so much an RPG as a turn-taking story-telling. Someone writes a section, then someone else writes a bit, and so on.

The theme would be light-hearted take-off. Here goes

Dunadan · 01-17-2003, 07:08 AM

Shagrat collapsed at the gates of Lugburz, exhausted from his three-day sprint from Cirith Ungol carrying his sack of “trinkets”. The stench of hobbit sweat emanating from the sack had been making him retch all the way from Gorgoroth. He walked up to the ticket machine and took a small piece of parchment with the number 9,273 on it. A large illuminated sign above the door said “Next customer ticket number: 8”.

He cast a baleful eye over the vast queue of ring-bearers and swarthy types which stretched back over the horizon. At the front of the queue, a large troll with a larger pile of expenses claim forms was staring at his ticket with a quizzical expression on his face.

Quick as a flash, Shagrat snatched the troll’s ticket and kicked it in the goolies. The troll blinked stupidly and drew back his club to swing, catching the dragon behind him squarely in the jaw. In the inevitable melee, Shagrat approached the small window beside the doorway, brandishing ticket number 8.

“Uuurg …water…” he moaned to the officious-looking doorwarden.

“You may know the password, but have you filled in the requisite application for a request hearing to get a permit for informal refreshment supplies?” demanded the filthy humanoid from behind his reinforced plexi-glass pane.

“Aarg … just a mo” Weakly, he fumbled in the fluff-filled pockets of his soiled biker jacket. Morgothdam that Gorbag. He must’ve swiped my permit before I gutted him!

“Look, they know me here.” he croaked. “I’ve got important, if rather smelly, stuff in this here sack. They’ll not be happy with you if …”

The doorwarden sighed and rolled his eye. “No, you look. It’s more than my job’s worth to go around handing out filthy water to anyone who asks for it. All you can have is from that cooler over there.” He pointed to a large dispenser of distilled water on the other side of the doorway with the inscription “Clean-O Office Supplies” on it.

Shagrat moaned. “Never mind. Here.” He dumped the sack on the counter. “One manky mithril shirt, one reeking mail shirt, one weapon of mass destruction. FAO the Eye. And here are my orders, my confirmation of orders papers, descriptions of each item, signed and countersigned in triplicate ad nauseam” he added, shoving a large A4 binder through the letter box at the bottom of the window. “Receipt please.”

There followed a flurry of docket signing, counter-signing and receipt acknowledgement filing. The dragon kindly took time out of chewing the troll’s spleen to witness the documents.

Finally, the Warden said “This may take some time. Wait here.” with grim satisfaction. He hung a hand-painted sign saying “Position closed” over the window and disappeared in a puff of brown smoke.

01-17-2003, 07:06 AM	#1
Dunadan The Quite Querulous Quendi Join Date: Sep 2002 Location: Oxon, UK Posts: 638	What Shagrat did next. I'm not familiar with how things work in this part of the forum, but another thread got me thinking about Mordor, orcs, and what happened after ROTK. What I've got in mind is not so much an RPG as a turn-taking story-telling. Someone writes a section, then someone else writes a bit, and so on. The theme would be light-hearted take-off. Here goes

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01-17-2003, 07:08 AM	#2
Dunadan The Quite Querulous Quendi Join Date: Sep 2002 Location: Oxon, UK Posts: 638	Shagrat collapsed at the gates of Lugburz, exhausted from his three-day sprint from Cirith Ungol carrying his sack of “trinkets”. The stench of hobbit sweat emanating from the sack had been making him retch all the way from Gorgoroth. He walked up to the ticket machine and took a small piece of parchment with the number 9,273 on it. A large illuminated sign above the door said “Next customer ticket number: 8”. He cast a baleful eye over the vast queue of ring-bearers and swarthy types which stretched back over the horizon. At the front of the queue, a large troll with a larger pile of expenses claim forms was staring at his ticket with a quizzical expression on his face. Quick as a flash, Shagrat snatched the troll’s ticket and kicked it in the goolies. The troll blinked stupidly and drew back his club to swing, catching the dragon behind him squarely in the jaw. In the inevitable melee, Shagrat approached the small window beside the doorway, brandishing ticket number 8. “Uuurg …water…” he moaned to the officious-looking doorwarden. “You may know the password, but have you filled in the requisite application for a request hearing to get a permit for informal refreshment supplies?” demanded the filthy humanoid from behind his reinforced plexi-glass pane. “Aarg … just a mo” Weakly, he fumbled in the fluff-filled pockets of his soiled biker jacket. Morgothdam that Gorbag. He must’ve swiped my permit before I gutted him! “Look, they know me here.” he croaked. “I’ve got important, if rather smelly, stuff in this here sack. They’ll not be happy with you if …” The doorwarden sighed and rolled his eye. “No, you look. It’s more than my job’s worth to go around handing out filthy water to anyone who asks for it. All you can have is from that cooler over there.” He pointed to a large dispenser of distilled water on the other side of the doorway with the inscription “Clean-O Office Supplies” on it. Shagrat moaned. “Never mind. Here.” He dumped the sack on the counter. “One manky mithril shirt, one reeking mail shirt, one weapon of mass destruction. FAO the Eye. And here are my orders, my confirmation of orders papers, descriptions of each item, signed and countersigned in triplicate ad nauseam” he added, shoving a large A4 binder through the letter box at the bottom of the window. “Receipt please.” There followed a flurry of docket signing, counter-signing and receipt acknowledgement filing. The dragon kindly took time out of chewing the troll’s spleen to witness the documents. Finally, the Warden said “This may take some time. Wait here.” with grim satisfaction. He hung a hand-painted sign saying “Position closed” over the window and disappeared in a puff of brown smoke.