PLAYER 1 - Xavier Pendragon

No Blurb Submitted As Yet.

Contact Xavier Pendragon at mjdobson@juno.com

PLAYER 2 - Inquisitor

 Ages past, the Halflings were an innocent race, known for their love of
food and merriment. But the other peoples of the world were jealous of that
happiness, and sought to enslave them. The Halflings, being of a peaceful
nature, were overwhelmed by the onslaught of the larger races and it looked
as though the culture and cities of the Little People would become nothing
more than a memory.
 One by one the Halfling shires were destroyed and the people forced into
servitude. Finally, the other races began massing their armies for an
assault on Cropers Wood, the last stronghold of the Halflings.
 But, just as the walls of the city were breached, and the last defenders
were falling under the swords of the enemy, a beam of pure white light
struck the earth, and from it stepped a single Halfling, wearing a simple
robe.
 "My people," he said, and his voice boomed like thunder,"I am sent by the
Gods to save you, because you are the Chosen People, and muched loved by
Them. But you must always remember the Truth of the nature of the other
races and protect yourselves against them, for the Gods will only help you
once. You must make yourselves strong, and rid yourselves of weakness and
excess. Seek the Truth."
 Suddenly a blinding flash filled the air, and when it faded the enemy
armies were gone, and only empty fields remained where they had camped...
 Thus were the Halflings saved, and thus began the Inquisition. Led by the
Lord Inquisitor, the members of the Scacred Order of the Inquisition roam
the lands, purging weakness and excess whenever they find it, and always
ensuring that the lesson of the Gods is not forgotten.
                 -from the Book of Truth, chapter 2 verse 7.

Contact Inquisitor at asam@pvnet.com.mx

PLAYER 3 - Mestoph

No Blurb Submitted As Yet.

Contact Mestoph at martin.bergstrom@prevas.se

PLAYER 4 - Arrbakk

No Blurb Submitted As Yet.

Contact Arrbakk at fl8m@netzero.net

PLAYER 5 - Khamul the Easterling

No Blurb Submitted As Yet.

Contact Khamul the Easterling at mcintosh@brookfields.co.nz

PLAYER 6 - Constantine

No Blurb Submitted As Yet.

Contact Constantine at tp7016@qmw.ac.uk

PLAYER 7 - Megilor

	Long ago, in the beginning of time, the elves were born.  They were
given gifts by the gods, gifts of longevity and creation.  They are masters
of the seas, crafters of magic, and their bowmen have no equal.

	For many years the elves lived in peace.  During these golden years
they made beautiful things of light and gold, spun magics through creations
of wonder, composed beautiful musics.  They made many things, and they are
all lost.  For with the first coming of "The Evil One" as he is named all
changed.

	The Evil One destroyed all, drawing everything beatuiful into his
grasp and then corrupting it with his power.  He killed, mamed, decicrated.
He almost captured all.

	Finally, when almost all had lost hope, a final uprising of free
peoples were able to over throw the dark cloud that shadowed their lives.
Dwarven axes cleaved, elvish bows sang, and swords of bright steel gleamed
in the light of a  new found sun.  And the people rejoyced in their victory.

	But much was lost for that final battle.  The elven hosts of old
were cut to a mere shadow.  Many wandered aimlessly, forever under the spell
of the defeated Evil one.  Others formed small bands, with no direction and
barely able to survive the harshness of winter.

	One such band came upon a small peninsula.  The forest that covered
it was lush, and not scarred from the wars.  It still held some of the magic
of old, allowing the elves some minor defense while they attempted to
rebuild their lives.  They named the forest Naenorquilion, which means
Starlight in the tongue of old.

	Many long ages have passed since that time.  The Elves of the
Starlight (as they call themselves) have grown and prospered.  It has not
been a peaceful time, for after the wars against the Evil One the alliance
of all races broke down, and many fought each other.  The Elves of the
Starlight finally decided that they did not wish to continue in these
battles against imperialistic foes, and, with the last of the magics that
they still retained, set up a boundary against most intruders.

	For several hundred years that boundary has held.  Since it's rising
a new King has taken the throne of the forest.  His name is Megilor, and it
is he who first foresaw the coming of a new enemy.  He has begun the
rebuilding of his armies, and the elven navy again begins it's rise to
greatness.  The boundary has decayed, and the elves again find themselves in
the middle of a war for their freedom.

	Megilor would like to request a council with all of those who would
oppose this new terror.  He requests a rebuilding of the Great Alliance.
The elven bows will sing against their foe once more.

Contact Megilor at randy.hammer@weyerhaeuser.com

PLAYER 8 - Hyregoth

Trader's Point Dervishes
The plainsmen of Trader's Point have once again assembelled under the great tents of their leader Hyregoth. The nomadic Dervishes have gathered early this spring to prepare for seige against the evil scourge Arragoth. Using their vast food supply and warrior horsemen they hope to aid the armies of the Isles in the coming apocolypse. The peoples of the Isles will prevail.

The great chief Hyregoth is confident of victory by the free peoples over the Evil Arragoth. Else all is in vain. But every great leader must prepare his people for the future. This is why the Dervish Chieftans are storing food and training the horses for battle. Once the sound of warfare has died down, what then? Will peace come to the Isles or will the age old rivalries surface and fighting break out anew? The plainsmen are ready to offer shelter, food and wisdom to all whom ask. Our tents are open and our hospitallity legendary. For it is a true saying "A guest is a gift from the Lord."
If peace does not come to our land, know this, the Dervish people will not walk like sheep into slavery. We will fight along side those who will defend their families and way of life. Remember this when the wheels of your war wagons touch the plains. We hope to meet you soon and exchange our goods as well as food and friendship. Until then.

E-Mail the Nomad King Hyregoth

Contact Hyregoth at tnmurra@ibm.net

PLAYER 9 - dan the great

No Blurb Submitted As Yet.

Contact dan the great at dsjj00@hotmail.com

PLAYER 10 - Gorn al'Talmon

    

        
 
    
    

        
 
        
        
Greetings, traveller. 
        
Welcome to the castle of the mighty wizard
        Lord Gorn al'Talmon . Behold the splendor of Farawayfromorl, and find joy in finding true beauty at
        last. Let the world know that a new power has risen, and
        that is friendly yet harsh. Lord
        Lord Gorn al'Talmon is not a
        man to be trifled with. 
        
Let me tell you some of myself. I come
        from a country far away, magically teleported here by my
        father, the great Archmage D'Ascunxion
        . I was senthere to unite this war-torn
        continent, and to bring peace and prosperity to all races
        in the realm of Isles of Arragoth. My means are primarily
        diplomacy, but I have been granted the right to use force
        if needed. I shall grant entry, with open arms, to any
        emissary that seek to enter my lands. Potential allies
        need not fear, but strive to make haste here and seek me
        out. I am hard but fair. Never cross me, if you wish to
        see tomorrow's daylight. 
        
I am more than willing to trade, with all
        races and all leaders. Under dwarves, Dervish, High Elves,
        come to me and we shall make our trade a profitable one.
        I would be surprised if I cannot offer you something. 
        
Let the world know I am here. 
        
Only in harmony we shall prosper . 
        
- Lord
        Gorn al'Talmon - 
        
 
        
    
    

        
 
        
    
    

        


        

        
Gnomes  Without
        doubt, gnomes are the wisest of the races of New Moon and
        their longevity is surpassed only by the elves.
        Inquisitive by nature, gnomes are great hoarders of
        information and are steeped in the history and lore of
        New Moon. The majority of gnomes reside deep underground
        in the natural subterranean caverns of New Moon and in
        the intricate tunnel and cave complexes carved out by
        their master rocksmiths. A few gnomes have ventured above
        the surface to set up small towns and villages among the
        "big people" but usually they shy away from the
        aggression of the "bigger folk". Small, weak
        and fragile, gnomes aren't much use in a fight, but their
        exceptional wisdom and above-average intelligence means
        they are powerful wielders of magic and faith. 
        
The Deep
        Dwellers 
        
Tinker tink, and splatter and splink

        crash bash, tatter and trash

        many sounds fourth did comes from the gnomes

        inventing and creation they did in there homes

        for throughout there many years

        the gnomes thought up of many ideas

        technology was to there liking you see

        just as watching tv was to you and to me

        -Elvish song of the Gnomes

        

        
        

        


         
        

        


        
        


        In the
darkness of Erth, after the
        death of the Foundation, a stout group of Taern humans
        hid in the mountainous southlands, in what the Taerns and
        gnomes called the Andes. In a world torn by the wars of
        the two great races of Orc and Taern, the land they chose
        was at least untouched by the direct effects of the
        battle. No battles were fought over uninhabitable ice and
        rock. Only slowly did the poisons of war creep into their
        bones and bloodlines, and they survived. 

        
The
        gnomish race was born of ice and darkness, and of
        fire and rock. In the southern mountains, they survived
        only by dint of careful maintainance of the resources
        they had, and by hiding in the cracks in the rock and
        glaciers that warped over the millenia. As other races
        headed south, the gnomes headed deep; into rock and ice,
        building life around the geothermal ventings of an earth
        rent by war, and cultivating the few living things that
        survived in and under the ice, fungi, fish, and the
        occasional hardy alpine plant all became grist for the
        gnomish mill. 
        
They were aided by
        their heritance, for those who went south went armed with
        the latest technology of the Foundation days, which wore
        out only slowly. And the survival of this southern race
        depended on its maintainence. They lost the robust height
        of their Foundation forefathers, being compressed by the
        dual demands of their tiny living space and minimal
        resources. The poisons of the great war helped, and the
        end product was a race much smaller and lighter than
        humans or dwarves, designed for living a life constantly
        on the edge of starvation, supported only by the
        production of their feverish, technological minds. In
        those quiet, dead times in the north, they had much time
        to work and think, and the gnomish race become one of
        manipulators of ideas. They kept a compact strength,
        necessary for tunneling through the constantly shifting
        and twisting ice and rock. 
        
In the slow
        millenia that followed, technology began to fail, and
        populations pushed to the limits. Other forces began to
        appear; first the Valar, providing sustenance and light
        as the sustaining fragments of technology began to fail.
        It is said that even the Valar did not know the gnomes
        existed, until Mayflon, the Laughing One, found himself
        bedeviled by small humans while hiding in the northlands
        (as his tricks often forced him to do). He took them as
        his own, these little tricksters, and gave them access to
        the clerical powers. His bretherns soon found out about
        these new humans, but Mayflon, for obvious reasons,
        remained chief in their hearts. The long dark had refined
        the practical joke to a fine art amongst the gnomes. The
        strangely reticient Taern religion, weakened by time and
        the long night gave ground to the more visible Haruchai
        pantheon, and other Valars and Maiars found their ways
        into the gnomish life. Camber's healing touch was high in
        their pantheon, whereas the need for Haekar's trackers
        was minimal. A gnomish criminal had few places to run.
        The communities were tightly knit and small spaces, and
        to leave them was often to die. 
        
Of course, crime
        was a relative thing. Much could be (and had to be)
        forgiven in the gnomish holds. Property was common,
        necessities were shared where needed, while luxuries
        changed hands with a rapidity governed only by the
        gentleness of gnomish hearts. A loaf of bread would never
        be stolen, but might be freely given between three
        families. But gemwork and other products of idle hands
        would be stolen repeatedly in the dark night, only
        restricted by the elaborateness of the guarding traps and
        the sentiment attached to ownership. An old lady might
        keep her husband's last work, but her heirs would soon
        find it taking wing in the night, unless they contrived
        an elaborate plan to protect it; usually an alarm crafted
        from the sparse resources of the hold and family. 
        
Causing harm to
        the hold was the only true crime. One who caused the
        injury or death of another would soon be hunted out of
        the hold. It is said that some of these formed holds of
        their own in the lowlands, becoming the races of goblins
        and kobolds, detested by gnomish kind to this day. Of
        these warped races gnomes speak little. Their heritage is
        twisted by their background, by their exposure to the
        poisons of the lowlands, and possibly by affiliation with
        the Orcish folk. 
        
Within the holds
        another force made itself known. Living close to the rock,
        and spending long nights in close company and deep
        thought, the gnomes were amongst the first to discovery
        the coursing flow of magic through the rock and earth
        beneath them. They quickly realized and mastered this
        strange new form of power, although by this time their
        minds had twisted enough that they best mastered the
        sorcerous arts of illusion and deception. Such trickery
        lent itself to the convolutions of their dark and and
        twisty passages. 
        
It was many years
        before the humans found their far southern brethren.
        Their first encounters were with the twisted valley
        rabble of goblinoid and kobold races. The battles between
        invading humans and the resident goblinoid races waged
        for many years, as the first exploratory groups of humans
        began heading south, looking for new sources of minerals.
        These forays were largely doomed to failure, the
        goblinoids and gnomes had been mining and fighting in
        these peaks for millenia before the humans arrived, but
        man did not know that. 
        
First contact
        occured after almost a decade of running battles between
        heavily armed prospectors and the goblinoids. A group of
        humans manged to penetrate the lowland ring of rabble,
        only to be pinned in a cul-de-sac against the looming
        blue-ice foot of a glacier. They faced an overwhelming
        force of kobolds who seemed strangely reticent to attack.
        That fear was soon explained when the second attack on
        the faltering human forces was greeted with a blazing
        show of pyrotechnics, both technological and sorcerous,
        that effectively eliminated the attacking kobolds. 
        
That night, humans
        and gnomes met again for the first time in millenia. The
        former were slow to accept the gnomish folk, fearing that
        they were another of the small and vicious races that
        they had been fighting so recently. The gnomes, for their
        part, were fascinated by their new allies. A heavily
        guarded combined caravan, loaded with years of wealth
        accumulated from the gnomish mines, soon began wending
        its way north. It returned intact, aided by a few kind
        humans, and laden with the riches of the northern races. 
        
Gnome-human
        relations proceded apace. The avarice of the humans was
        stilled somewhat by the hostility of the intervening
        forces and by the incredible treachery of the gnomish
        homelands. The gnomes learned enough about their new
        neighbors to recognize their danger quickly, and humans
        seeking the legendary wealth of the gnomish folk soon
        found only miles of twisted glacier ice and rock tunnels,
        too small to move comfortably through, and replete with
        traps designed to drive even the sanest human wild with
        claustrophobia and frustration. Centuries of fighting the
        wiry little kobolds and goblins made defending the holds
        against much larger humans a relatively simple matter. 
        
A stable and
        comfortable relationship soon developed. The gnomes
        maintained their mountainous holds, dispatching heavily
        armed and guarded caravans to trade with the humans. A
        few hardy gnomes headed out, mxing slowly with the human
        races, and sending a steady stream of information back,
        but assimiliating well with the other races. Most races
        quickly saw the futility of messing with the gnomes in
        their holds, and maintained a fairly polite diplomatic
        relationship. 
        
Before long, small
        groups of the technologically oriented gnomes began to
        set up outside the human towns, trading their skills. A
        few humans, fascinated by the vestiges of technology
        still held by the gnomes, began to venture south to live
        amongst them. And the two races grew to know each other.
        A gnome, while an unusual sight amongst humans, was
        typically more of a curiousity than anything else, while
        a human amongst the gnomes was typically bombarded
        endlessly with questions about the southern races. 
        
The loss of a
        caravan in Thurdis, and the intransigence of the
        government in dealing with that crime, has made the
        visitation of gnomish folk a rare event indeed. Only a
        few loners now walk the streets of Thurdis, and the race
        has pretty much faded from the public mind, except as an
        idle curiousity. Those who know more of the events
        leading up to that day typically do not speak of it, for
        it is mixed up in large part with the present politics of
        Thurdis, never a pleasant subject. 
        
 
        

        


         

         Gnome Legends 
        

        
 
        


        Three
        Wishes 
        
In
        a small house in the middle of a dark, sprawling forest
        lived a poor woodsman.
        
He
        had a wife, six children, and a black cat with one eye
        who kept the rats and mice at bay. The children had to
        walk two hours to get to school. Beside the little house
        was a vegetable garden and even a little flower garden;
        in the barn were two skinny goats and a pig.
        
But
        the family could hardly manage on the meager earnings of
        a woodsman, even though the father left the house before
        dawn and arrived home--exhausted--long after sunset.
        Though they had plenty of firewood and a clear stream
        nearby, the wife often sighed to her husband:
        
"How
        can we possibly bring up all our children?" And the
        woodsman would shrug his shoulders and say he couldn't
        work any harder than he already did, and this was true.
        
One
        day as he was arriving home in the twilight he saw in the
        distance the cat leaving the woods with a rat in its
        mouth. But something was strange: the rat had no tail.
        Filled with curiosity, the woodsman approached the cat
        who was sitting under a bush. She hissed malevolently as
        he came closer, but the woodsman wasn't afraid. He
        grabbed the cat by the base of her tail with one hand and
        with the other pressed against her jaws until she opened
        her mouth and let the thing fall.
        
"Well,
        I'll be," said the woodsman. Because what he had
        picked up was not a rat, but a gnome woman. She was dead.
        
The
        woodsman had seen a gnome once, but never a female one.
        He took her inside and wiped away a few drops of blood on
        her cheeks and legs. His wife and children stroked the
        doll-like little being and laid her on the window seat in
        the living room while they ate their meal of potatoes and
        bacon fat in the kitchen. When they came back, the little
        gnome woman was gone.
        
"Maybe
        the cat has got her again," the wife said, but the
        cat still sat sulking under the bush outside, showing one
        angry eye. The family gave up searching and went to bed,
        as everyone had to be up early in the morning.
        
The
        woodsman woke up in the middle of the night. Something
        was tugging gently at his ear. Beside his head stood a
        gnome. "You saved my wife," he said. "What
        can I do to reward you? .... But she was dead, wasn't she?"
        the woodsman asked, sleepily. "She was only
        pretending to be dead. Luckily, she's still full of life
        oh, a scratch here, a few black-and-blue marks there--but
        she'll get over it. Just tell me what you want as a
        reward. Here is a little flute. When you blow on it, I'll
        return." And just like that--he disappeared!
        
The
        woodsman and his wife discussed the matter the rest of
        the night. They finally decided to ask if they might have
        three wishes, just as in the fairy tales.
        
The
        following evening the woodsman blew on the flute, and
        shortly thereafter the gnome appeared. "I'd like to
        have three wishes," said the woodsman, somewhat
        timidly, while his wife poked at the fire behind him.
        
The
        gnome looked a little glum but finally said: "Well,
        go on then--what is your first wish?" "I want a
        nugget of gold so I won't have money worries anymore."
        
The
        gnome shook his head. "You can have it, but gold
        seldom brings happiness."
        
"I
        don't care," said the woodsman. "And the other
        two wishes?" "We haven't decided yet."
        "Well, just blow on the flute when you want me again,"
        said the gnome with a sigh.
        
Next
        morning, there on the front steps of the little house lay
        a gold nugget as big as an orange, sparkling in the sun.
        The woodsman grabbed it up and yelled, "We're rich,
        we're rich!" And then he carried the nugget to the
        village to exchange it for money. But no one in the
        village had ever seen a gold nugget before and no one
        knew what it was worth. The blacksmith advised the
        woodsman to take it to a jeweler in the city. The
        woodsman set off at once; but instead of going the long
        way he took a shortcut through the swamps that he
        remembered from the days of his youth. As he danced along
        the way, admiring his gold nugget, he slipped off the
        path and plunged into a quagmire and immediately began to
        sink. He tried to reach out for firm ground, but couldn't
        make it. In one hand he clutched the gold nugget, and
        with the other he struggled to get the flute out of his
        pocket so that he could signal the gnome. He was barely
        able to reach it and blow a shrill blast.
        
He
        had sunk up to his neck in mud when the gnome appeared.
        "Get me out of here," cried the woodsman.
        "That is your second wish," said the gnome. He
        then stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly--and
        in a few minutes he was surrounded by six other gnomes.
        Using their little axes, the gnomes chopped down a nearby
        tree so that it fell across the quagmire right next to
        the woodsman. He was able to hoist himself up onto it and
        get back to the path from which he had fallen. When he
        looked around, the gnomes had disappeared.
        
But
        still he had the gold nugget in his hand. He went on his
        way, muddy and shivering; eventually, his clothes dried
        and his courage returned. He found a jeweler in the city
        and entered his shop. The jeweler was a distinguished-looking
        man in a white smock; he wore gold-rimmed glasses:
        Frowning at the enormous nugget of gold and at the
        woodsman's bedraggled appearance, shop through the back
        door to notify the police. A half hour later the woodsman
        found himself in the police station.
        
"And
        now tell us where you stole this gold," said a fat
        police sergeant in a fatherly fashion. The commissioner
        of police asked the same question an hour later--but in a
        less fatherly fashion. "I didn't steal it,"
        cried the woodsman in despair, "I got it from a
        gnome." "Of course, from a gnome," said
        the commissioner, who had never seen a gnome---and would
        never, because he was such an unpleasant person. "Not
        even one grain of gold has ever been found in this
        country in a thousand years--but that doesn't occur to
        this gentleman, does it? Lock him up!"
        
During
        the days that followed, the woodsman was questioned again
        and again--and threatened with dire consequences if he
        did not reveal the source of the gold. Finally, he was
        examined by a doctor, but even he could cast no light on
        the matter except to report that the woodsman kept
        babbling away about gnomes.
        
None
        of these people had ever seen a gnome because they all
        had ugly souls. Meanwhile, the gold nugget was kept in
        the vault of the city council. After a week went by, the
        woodsman became so miserable that, one night, he blew the
        flute. After two hours, the gnome appeared. "My wife
        and children are starving," the woodsman said.
        "I want to get out."
        
"That
        is your third wish," replied the gnome, "but I
        have already taken care of your wife and children."
        The gnome went that same night to consult a lawyer in the
        city who had a house gnome. Next day, the lawyer visited
        the police and succeeded in having the woodsman freed,
        owing to lack of evidence. But the gold remained behind
        for safekeeping until its theft could be verified.
        
The
        woodsman gladly went back to his work. The forest had
        never seemed so spacious and free as it did after his
        stay in the stuffy cell in the city; he was happy and
        satisfied even though he often thought of the gold.
        
From
        that time on, things improved for him in all sorts of
        ways. First, a rich foreigner bought all the logs the
        woodsman had cut for twice the usual price. Next, the
        same man asked if the woodsman would become his overseer.
        
The
        happy woodsman was given a cheerful house at the edge of
        a village, and close to the school. He earned much more
        than before and his troubles were over. A few months
        later he came across the gnome in the woods. "And?"
        the gnome asked, "Have you got your gold back yet?"
        "Not yet," the woodsman said, "It seems to
        be a criminal act in this country to possess gold. But
        even without it, my troubles are over."
        
"So,
        there you are," the gnome said--and disappeared into
        the bushes.
        
Weeping
        Willow 
        
The
        old writer sensed that his death was approaching. He
        lived in Norway, in a low cabin with book-lined walls in
        the neighborhood of Lillehammer, beside a mountain slope.
        
Next
        to the window, overlooking the valley, was a large table
        bearing paper, magazines, volumes of verse, inkpots, pens,
        candles, and more books, carelessly stacked.
        
One
        evening, just at sunset, the writer left his bed and went
        to sit at the table. He looked out over the peaceful
        valley with its lake in the distance, and recalled how he
        had lived here quietly for many years, and thought of how
        many books he had written and that soon it would all be
        over. Suddenly, a gnome jumped onto the table, seated
        himself opposite the writer, and crossed his legs. The
        writer greeted him happily.
        
"Tell
        me another story," he asked the aged gnome, who was
        holding his silver watch against his ear. "I can't
        think of any more, I've become too old."
        
"I
        don't know any more," the gnome said. "You've
        already written all the stories about this country. You've
        become rich from them."
        
"Just
        tell me one more. My hands are so tired, I can hardly
        write anymore," sighed the writer. (Nevertheless he
        placed pencil and notebook within reach.)
        
"All
        right then," the gnome said. He changed his position
        and stared outside. "Do you see that big weeping
        willow in the distance at the edge of the lake? The ends
        of its branches always hang in the water. I'll tell you
        why. 
        
"Long
        ago, one dark night, mountain trolls switched their
        infant daughter with the daughter of a rich farmer,
        kidnapping her when everyone was asleep. Next day, the
        poor parents couldn't understand why their daughter's
        skin had suddenly become so dark or why her eyes looked
        like black currants. But deep in the forest the trolls
        exulted over the blue eyes, blond hair, and soft skin of
        the stolen child--and they performed a joyful, thumping
        dance in a circle.
        
"The
        troll child grew up to be a dark, wild tomboy and did
        only naughty and ugly things; she loved no one and no one
        loved her. One day she disappeared and was never seen
        again.
        
"But
        in the forest, the farmer's daughter became sweeter and
        lovelier every year despite all the crude and rough
        things she saw about her. When she was seventeen she was
        discovered by Olav, a strong farm laborer. (Olav slept
        below me in the stable of a farmhouse in the valley.) He
        was bringing in a few lost cows from the high mountain
        meadow for the winter when he saw the farmer's daughter.
        She was sweeping the ground in front of the troll cave
        under the watchful eyes of the old troll mother. It was
        dusk, but Olav thought he had never seen anything so fair
        and beautiful. He immediately fell in love. As he
        attempted to approach, the troll mother pulled the girl
        inside and locked the door.
        
"Back
        in the stable, Olav asked if I would help him, and we set
        off that same night. Reaching the troll hill, we saw a
        stream flowing from it. (Water flows through the middle
        of every troll hill; they use it for drinking.) Using a
        divining rod, I found the spring on the other side of the
        hill from which the water flowed. We dug a hole, and when
        we reached water, Olav put me into a wooden shoe and I
        floated into the stuffy troll cave.
        
"I
        hid myself and the wooden shoe in a dark corner of the
        cave and waited until the trolls left to perform their
        nightly crimes in the forest. Before leaving they shut
        the girl in a side alcove and finally locked the main
        door behind them. Only the girl and I remained in the
        somber, stinking lair. As soon as it was safe, I released
        the girl and said to her: 'You're not a troll girl!
        Outside there's someone who will suit you much better
        than a troll.
        
"She
        looked quite astonished and hesitated, but finally came
        along with me. Outside she saw the blond giant of a man
        Olav; at once she fell in love with him, as he had with
        her.
        
"The
        three of us ran for home. But we were still deep in the
        forest, and before we could make our getaway the trolls
        learned that we had stolen their prize. They caught up
        with us, beat Olav until he was black and blue, and took
        the girl back. I couldn't do a thing.
        
"A
        week later, we tried again. This time Olav took along a
        horse that he had borrowed from the farmer he worked for.
        For the second time, I drifted along on the underground
        stream into the trolls' domain. But this time the trolls
        had left their old mother to stand guard. When the old
        mother troll turned away from a bowl of porridge she was
        making, I quickly tossed a good dash of sleeping potion
        into it. Ten minutes later she was snoring away". (I
        had signaled the girl not to eat the porridge.) 
        
"Again
        the three of us raced through the forest for home. It was
        much quicker this time, on a horse. But in spite of it,
        the trolls caught up with us, just as we were almost out
        of the forest. Again they beat Olav until he was half
        dead, then took the girl back with them--and the horse,
        too, of course. There was nothing we could do; no matter
        how strong Olav was, the trolls were stronger.
        
"Three
        weeks later it snowed. This time I managed to get two
        reindeer to help us. In the trolls' cave I had to wait
        half the night, because not only was the troll mother on
        the lookout but the troll father as well! Eventually I
        was at able to sneak enough sleeping potion into their
        porridge to put them fast asleep.
        
"The
        reindeer transported us quickly on a small sleigh along
        little-known paths in the direction of the lake. The
        trolls pursued us, but in the snowstorm we were lucky
        enough to reach the edge of the lake. I knew where alt
        old fishing boat was moored and we got to it quickly. We
        cut the sleigh loose, thanked the reindeer, and sent them
        back to their herd. The lake was still not entirely
        frozen. Olav and the girl climbed aboard the boat and
        began rowing; I skied homeward along the bank of the lake.
        Nothing could happen to me. Trolls have no power over us
        once they leave their cave. It was almost sunrise. The
        last snowflakes fell; the sky opened up and, in the east,
        took on a yellow and red hue.
        
"When
        the boat was already a good distance across the lake, the
        trolls finally reached the dock. They ranted and raved,
        but Olav rowed with big strokes toward the other side,
        and the trolls couldn't reach them. The trolls didn't
        have much time left: when the sun shines on them, they
        turn to stone. Suddenly, the strongest troll seized a
        gigantic boulder and hurled it at the fleeing pair. The
        boulder did not hit the boat, but it fell so close to it
        that the boat capsized. The suction dragged the girl down
        to the depths of the lake and she drowned. For hours,
        Olav dived in search of her, but he had no luck. Deeply
        depressed, he finally swam to the bank of the lake.
        
"After
        this, Olav was inconsolable. Every day he went to the
        edge of the lake and stood in one spot, staring at the
        water. He never looked at another girl. And when he
        became so old that he couldn't work any more, he
        continued to return daily to the same spot. In the end,
        he stood there the whole day long. Branches grew out of
        his head and roots from his feet. And then he stood there
        forever. He is that weeping willow you see there at the
        lake's edge. Even now its branches feel about in the
        water in an attempt to find the drowned girl."
        
The
        gnome looked around. The old writer had grown still. His
        snow-white head lay upon the notebook on the table. He
        was dead. The gnome smiled and went over to him. He
        closed the writer's eyes and read what was on the paper.
        The last words were, "And then he stood there
        forever."
        
And
        the gnome pulled the notebook out from under the dead
        writer' s head, carefully loosened the pencil from his
        stiff fingers, and wrote the remaining sentences of the
        story.
        
    

Contact Gorn al'Talmon at gorboy@yahoo.com

PLAYER 11 - The Toymaker

No Blurb Submitted As Yet.

Contact The Toymaker at electric@mail.bip.net

PLAYER 12 - Sauron

Hear ye all the word of the Mouth of Sauron!

My great lord Sauron, master of death and life, great captain of the legions
of Mordor, commands your attention, for your doom is at hand!

Know you that millennia ago, my lord and master sat at the right hand of the
mighty fire demon Arragoth.  He was his eyes and ears, his sword and shield,
and my master Sauron took as his symbol the lidless eye, blazing all about
with his Lord Arragoth's fire!

All fell to their knees before my Lord Sauron in those years!  All trembled
at his passing!  None could hide from the eye that never closes!  The nine
rode the earth, scouring my masters enemies from existence!  A legion of
fire demons were at my masters call, mighty Kings bowed to him, and the
tribute that passed beneath his gaze could not be counted by mortal hands!
Surely he was the favorite of his Lord Arragoth above all other servants,
and his Lord Arragoth's heart was filled with joy at my master's savage
deeds.

But time passed.  The world cooled.  Lord Arragoth waned, faded, grew weak.

In this time of need my master Sauron rose once again to his Lord Arragoth's
service.  Rather than await his doom my master prevailed upon his Lord
Arragoth to accept a lesser death - hibernation, deep within the bowels of
the earth, warmed by the world's molten core, quiescent, perhaps for
centuries, perhaps for millennia, awaiting the turning of the world, and the
great warming foreseen by my Lord Sauron in his peerless wisdom.  

By magics the like of which had never before or since been attempted was the
deed accomplished, but at a great and terrible cost to my Lord Sauron.  He
was broken asunder by the powers he was forced to invoke that day, his soul
all but flailed from his body by the impact of the great waves of raw magic
unleashed by his Lord Arragoth's bondage.  Those few who witnessed the deed
thought him blasted from existence, body, soul, all.

But my master did not die.

He hovered for an age, suspended delicately in that place between life and
death in which only the dammed are permitted to go.  He did not see the
cataclysm that swept the world, caused by the great powers he had invoked to
save his master.  Neither did he see the frozen cold that swept the isles,
the great sheets of walking ice which closed like a maw from both North and
South.  He was not aware of the turning of the glaciers, and of the slow
return to civilization of the mortal races of the earth, emerging from their
deep burrows and lodges to once more bask in the sun, and raise their rude
towns and villages over the face of his Lord Arragoth's isles.

But slowly did my master Lord Sauron return to himself, his grievous hurts
healed by the force of his will alone, though it took a thousand years.  He
was found in the mortal plane, in the underdeeps, his shade perhaps seeking
the proximity of his master.  But he was weak, no trace of his former
terrible power yet remained to him.  The Orcs that found him could have
killed him easily, but his unblinking eye's forestalled them.  Instead, they
took him to their master, the Orc chieftain Gorflag of Nightscar, who kept
him, first as a pet and jester, but later as a trusted adviser, as my
master's powers became more plain.  

Oh how Gorflag came to regret that mercy!  How he gibbered and howled as his
flesh crisped and blackened under my Lord Sauron's hand!  Imprisoned in his
agony he wished a thousand times that he had exterminated out of hand the
sniveling being dragged before him those years ago!  From winter to winter
did Gorflag's pain provide sport for my masters pleasure, before even he
tired of that most pleasant of labors!

My Lord Sauron took the vacant throne of Gorflag.  Through whip and sword
did he subjugate the unruly Orcs, and with promises of blood and fire and
meat did he weld them into a mighty tool, subject only to his will.  But,
though he ruled with an iron hand, and forged Nightscar in the flames of a
thousand atrocities into one of the great cities of Arragoth, truly my Lord
Sauron's power was but a thousandth of that granted by his Lord Arragoth.
How he longed and dreamed of his master's return!

And now listen well.  This tale is no simple amusement for the petty princes
who grub at the soil of the Isles of Arragoth and think themselves great.
Know you that the time foreseen by my master is at hand.  The portents are
plain.  The land warms, and the earth trembles with the restless turnings of
Lord Arragoth in his deep prison.  My master lord Sauron rejoices, for soon
his master will awake, to find his trusted lieutenant of millennia, my Lord
Sauron, again by his side!  Once again the nine will ride!  Once again will
Kings tremble!  All will rue that day when my master's power and glory are
finally returned!

Know you.  Mark these tidings.  A single year is all the time allotted to
you.  Four seasons in which to enjoy your earthly pleasures before your
petty empires are cast down in blood and fire and pain.  Twelve short months
before Lord Arragoth eats your soul.

But... perhaps... there may be a choice for you.  It is not too late.  Join
with my Lord Sauron.  Worship his Lord Arragoth just as he does.  Defend his
Lord Arragoth's citadel with your puny mortal forms against those who would
seek to thwart his glorious return!  Do these things and you may be rewarded
when Lord Arragoth walks the isles once more, my master at his side.  You
may be permitted to live.  In submission lies your one and only hope.

For should you dare to resist,

.....you.....will.....surely.....die.

Contact Sauron at warren.mcintosh@chapmantripp.co.nz

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