First Place - Most Humorous
First Place - Most Successful Usage of "MPS"
(NOTE: This entry was unusually long, and has been broken up into several sections, because my HTML editor wouldn't allow me to present it as one piece)
Prologue
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when that Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, and Age yet to come, and Age long past, a wind rose above a vast, prosperous farm in Altara. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turnings of the Wheel of Time. But it was _a_ beginning.
Nynaeve rose from the cool porcelain chair, and pulled the chain. She walked through the privy accompanied by the sounds of rushing water. "Clever invention," she muttered. Much better than having to go behind a tree and then bury it with a shovel. Indoor plumbing, as well as irrigation were unknown concepts in the Two Rivers. Although I do wonder why we never got around to building outhouses...
Her thoughts were interrupted as she entered the wide corridor. It was dark, so she had to feel her way along the wall, down to the rooms she shared with her husband. Husband. Now that was fine and special sounding word. After a few moments of fumbling with the latch, she entered her own chamber. Moonlight was streaming through the windows, creating silvery pools on the floor, revealing sturdy oak planks. As her eyes adjusted to the light in room, she was able to make out plain white plaster walls, and dark wood wainscoting, obscured by dark shapes that were simple, yet hardy furnishings. The room was not so different from her own back in her little house in Emond's Field. Interestingly, she found herself washed by a wave of sudden nostalgia. Amazing really. After two years of traveling in lofty circles, she thought herself quite accustomed to luxury. Her own dear Emond's Fielders would be quite amused to see her current manner of fine dress, and flair for jewelry. Still, in her heart, she really did miss the tiny hamlet of her birth, with its filthy unwashed peasants and stinking little hovels. She was still a country girl after all. She thought that she might like to visit someday. So long as they don't actually try to touch me, or expect me to sit down on anything.
She now could make out the details in the room more clearly now, as she approached the wide bed, and she allowed her eyes to fall upon the fine figure of man she had married. For the first since she had known him, truly, he seemed to sleep soundly. His neck and shoulders would have been red and puffy from the ardor of her passion, if the light had not washed everything in the room to monochrome silvery-blue. Lan smacked his lips and wriggled in the bed, with a soft moan of remembered pleasure. Nynaeve sighed contentedly. I *knew* I could rock his world in ways that Altaran slut would never have the guts to try.
She slipped over to the bed, her eyes still studying her beloved...
*CRACK!*
"Bloody stupid chest! Goddam bloody carpenter for building such a damn bloody piece of furniture! Damn stupid bloody ash-filled ox-headed man!" she blurted. Lan didn't stir. Leaning over in the darkness to rub her bruised toe, her dark, waist-length hair spilled past her shoulders, clinging to her perspiring face and sweat soaked bosom. She inhaled sharply, and got a mouthful of dark, waist-length hair. "Damn! Bloody stupid blood-soaked hair!" Lan wheezed and rolled on his side, displaying his well-muscled back to her. Pausing before rejoining him in bed, she admired his wide shoulders and wedged shaped torso. She loved how the muscles rippled as he moved, all the way from his neck to his fine rump. True, the leather corset and silk stockings that he insisted on wearing _were_ a little off-putting, but Lan had maintained they were "umm...a Malkieri marital custom....yeah that's right. It's Malkieri."
"Well," Nynaeve mused, "I have long since ceased being startled by foreign customs." After their Sea-Folk wedding, replete with full frontal nudity and...toys, surely there was nothing left that could shock her. With a shrug, she grabbed the wrist-manacles and the bull-whip and hopped back into bed.
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Down the hall from Nynaeve on the upper story of the large sprawling "farmhouse," Elayne sat before her dressing table and hefted her silver-backed hair brush. Her simple rude little room was filled with rough-hewn lumps of furniture, and was illuminated by an awfully gaudy brass lamp. Mistress Alise certainly had played a fine joke on her by claiming to "give her the best available rooms!" Sniff. Well, as Daughter-Heir, I _suppose_ I should try and make an effort to live like the underclass. She started to hum softly, but she was drowned out by the sounds of rhythmic thumping coming from down the hall in the direction of Lan and Nynaeve's room. The thumping was punctuated by sharp cracks, seemingly from a whip, as if such things were possible!
She tuned them out and began to give her hair its nightly ten-thousand strokes. Certainly it was time-consuming, but Mother had taught her that the true mark of a woman was bouncy hair. She playfully tossed her gorgeous red-gold hair this way, and that, marveling at its sheen and the way it set off her high cheek-bones and fine chin, and how its wondrous color contrasted delightfully with her milk-toned complexion. "Take that Min," she thought. Dragons Reborn prefer blondes. As she continued to admire her own lovely face in the mirror, she was horrified to see *dark roots*! "Light! I need a touch-up!" she cringed. "And there were no servants to do it!" She pouted, and reminded herself that she was pretty even when doing that.
Suddenly an idea came to her, revolutionary in its scope. "I could do it myself!" Pleased with her own ingenuity, she walked to the crude, splintery thing they claimed was an armoire and rummaged through her dozens of toiletries. There was the crystal jar of white powder her mother had told to use when bored by tedious meetings of state. It made everything so much more amusing, while imparting a queenly stupor on its user. She had never used it herself, though. Next to it was a blue glass bottle of lotion, to be used to avoid scaly knees and elbows. No, that's not was she was looking for. She rummaged, and searched, and rummaged some more until she found what she was seeking. A squat porcelain jar, with a label inlaid with gold. *Esmiss C'lay'Rohl* it said, and if it was in the Old Tongue, she was unable to translate. With a suspicious look around the chamber she grabbed it walked to the wash basin. Mother had told her it was precious and rare, and her use of it was to be a secret. "No man will ever know that is not your natural color, " Morgase had said sagely, "unless he gets too close to your...you know." Elayne had nodded in understanding. There was certainly no man that would get close to her...you know.
There was a knock on the door, as she began to pour water, startling her. She splashed water on her exquisite silk night-dress. "Now that will leave a spot," she tutted. "Just a moment," she called out. She darted across the room, and concealed the jar under a pile of her lacy underthings. "Please Enter."
Aviendha sauntered in, clad only in a short linen shift that barely covered her satin dainty-pants. But she still bothered to strap on a leather belt, complete with her horn handled, long-bladed knife. "It is time, near-sister, " she said simply.
"I am ready. Aviendha, you certainly shouldn't be parading through the halls dressed like that. It's not proper."
The tall Aiel woman tilted her chin. An annoying habit she had acquired from somewhere. "Please, girlfriend. What man could take me? I was wedded to the spear, and besides, maybe a girl wants to ravished every now and then. You don't think all we do in our sweat-baths is sweat, do you?"
Elayne had no idea what a sweat-bath even was. Mother had instructed that noblewomen didn't sweat, so Elayne never had. She let the question go unasked. "So, what are we to do tonight, near-sister? I'm afraid I'm all out of secrets to share."
Aviendha lifted a brow. "Really? As am I. Now is our next step if we are to be sister-wives, as well as first-sisters." She walked to the window, and sat beneath it. Sitting on the floor, and crossing her legs in a most unladylike position, she gestured for her to join her. Elayne placed herself on the scuffed, bare floor across from her.
"Now, my near-sister, I must tell you something no wetlander hears. Nor does any woman of the White Tower. You Aes Sedai have your Talents, this is true." Elayne nodded. "However, we Aiel women have our own Talents, never spoken of to any wetlander, and _never_ to any man. They would not understand. Attend me and I will explain, then demonstrate."
Elayne listened as her near-sister spoke, with rapt attention. Although she didn't know what *Combing the Beaver* or *Tickling the Carpet* involved, she did know, that by sunrise, she would.
**************************
Birgitte sat in a nearby grove, beneath the wide spread arms of a flowering lemon-tree, enjoying the floral scent. She had let her long golden hair free of her annoyingly complicated braid, and it tickled her ears as it fluttered in the night air. Tears glistened on her cheeks. Looking at the sky, she clearly made out the constellations, most of which still bore names she recognized throughout all of her lifetimes. Just over the horizon were the Haywain and the Wheelwright. Over there was the Goose, floating nearby was the Hunter. The Seven Sisters, the Shipman's Compass, and the Lecher always pursuing the Bodacious Maiden, all as she remembered them. Lastly she turned her eyes to the Archer, forever in her eternal dance with the Swordsman.
"Oh my precious Gaidal, I miss thee," she said in the Old Tongue. "Where art thou, my love-monkey? Are thee spun out, a child or a new-born babe, suckling at a breast?" She sobbed, and buried her face in her hands.
Suddenly she felt her pulse quicken, and her face grow flushed. Her first instinct was danger, so she grabbed her bow, and nocked an arrow in less than a heartbeat. She scanned the grove. Nothing. She put down her bow. Then she felt her breath felt grow deeper and a warm pleasant sensation spreading throughout her body. "Ah," she recognized, "Elayne must be with Aviendha tonight. I had been wondering when Aviendha was going to introduce her to the secrets of Aiel Talents."
With a sigh, she lay down on her cloak, and tried to enjoy the ride.
***********************
With a grimace, Faile crumpled the piece of parchment she held in her slim, gloved fist and shook her head. "That hussy! That flouzy! That Mayener trollop!" Setting her shoulders squarely, she stalked through the long spacious tent she shared with Perrin and out into the night air. The unbelievable shamelessness of the woman! Faile crushed the parchment anew. She had intercepted the paper from a Mayener servant as she had attempted to deliver it to Perrin. Clearly Berelain had not expected Faile to be present. Her agents in the camp surely would have reported to their mistress that Faile had taken to studying the Aiel way of fighting with hands and feet with Chiad and Bain, each night an hour after sundown. If not for a sore ankle, she might well be with them now. Instead, she had remained in her tent and decided to ride her studly wolf-king like she was going somewhere. Perrin was still unconscious from her ministrations of pleasure.
Rushing through picket lines, she unrolled the parchment and glanced at its contents one more time. There, etched in charcoal, was a drawing of Berelain, High Seat of House Paeron, Defender of the Waves, Keeper of the Sacred Chalice of Rhuele, Lady of the Evening, First of Mayene, laying upon a couch wearing a large heart-shaped jewel pendant. Wearing _only_ a large heart-shaped jewel pendant. Faile recognized that necklace. She had seen Berelain wearing it before. It was a large, dreadfully gaudy diamond of a deep blue shade. It was called *Far Cuen a'Miere*, or so she had heard. The Heart of the Ocean. Faile slammed her clenched hand into her palm. That Slut!
Unconsciously, she seized one of her many belt-knives as she proceeded through the camp. No less than four more hung from her belt, and two more were tucked inside her heeled riding boots. She had several more hidden about selected areas of her body, although the dagger in her dainty-pants was rather uncomfortable. Anger seethed within it her. It boiled and churned. She longed to lay hands on the woman! She wanted to beat her with a broomstick. She wanted to rip Berelain's head off and urinate on the stump. She felt as vengeful as an unwed Saldaean farmgirl who had caught her man dallying with the sheep _one_ time too many.
She stalked through the rows of tents, dark skirts swishing, and past the small private corral where she and Perrin kept their horses. Perrin's fine stallions, Stepper and Stayer were tied up next to her own mounts, her glossy black mare Swallow, and her newest, a gift from Perrin, a tall bay mare she named Spit. Grizzled soldiers and war-weary Aiel took one look at the fearsome set of her mouth, and blazing heat in her eyes and ducked for cover. Even the horses nickered, and wheeled their eyes in terror. Faile ignored them all. The daughter of Lady Deira ni Ghilane t'Bashere do Reymeefa so'Lateedo had more important things on her mind and a hornet up her rear.
Striding past a large cookfire, she came upon a cluster of short sweating Cairheinin women having at each other with wooden practice blades. The women were all wearing a uniform of sorts, tight dark green breeches, with matching coats, and shiny knee-high boots. A few of them had their coats opened, and still more had doffed them entirely to stand in sleeveless linen blouses. They were all eyeing her intently. Faile had taken them into her service and now it was time to prove they were worth all the favors she had been forced to trade to Perrin in exchange for his permission to bring them. Faile had hated that! She had an oversensitive gag reflex. And Perrin had the most annoying habit of howling and thumping his leg. Which is not even to speak of the stain on her dress.
Their leader, an exceptionally short Cairheinin named Selande Darengil, approached her. "My Lady Aybara, is all well?" she asked. Though she was small, she held herself with a dangerous air, and her bare arms were toned with muscle. Her legs were also well toned beneath her green breeches, and her breasts were firm, yet supple.
Hands on her hips, Faile addressed them. "I have need of you." Lifting the crumbled parchment, she continued. "That sneaky Mayener jade has been sniffing around my husband again, and I'm going to go rip her a new one!" The women present stomped their feet in approval and a few called out an encouraging "You go Girl!"
Pointing, Faile spoke again. "Selande, Camaille, Latoya, you're with me. The rest of you, follow but wait outside." With that, she turned on her heels and stalked off. The women fell in behind her, as they shrugged into coats and strapped on their sword belts.
In no short time, they had crossed the huge encampment, and came upon the largest tent Faile had ever seen. It was nearly double the size of the tent she shared with Perrin, and _that_ was nearly twice the size of the next largest. More, the tent that covered the three poles was blue silk! Faile's mind boggled at the expense. For a wonder, the sounds of cheering men and music were coming from inside that tent. There were four men in the red-laquered breastplates of the Winged Guards near the entrance, two on each side. They looked up wearily as she and her followers approached.
"Halt, in the name of my Lady First," called out one of them.
Without pausing, Faile turned her dark-eyed gaze over her shoulder and said, simply, "Take them."
The Cairhein women flung themselves into action, and began to drub the men with the flats of their blades. Moving with a smooth feral grace, almost like Maidens, they broke into groups of three or four, and each group took on one Guard. In fewer than three heartbeats, they had subdued them. A clamor to the left caught Faile's attention. Still more Guards had heard the commotion and were rushing to the scene. No matter. Selande's women were all over them like flies on a dead bunny. Not pausing to see the outcome, Faile strode through the tent flaps followed by Camaille, Selande and Latoya. Faile entered the tent and stared at the spectacle.
The tent was full of people. A wide circle had been set out in stones, and inside the circle, two brawny, shirtless men were grappling at and tossing each other. Their skins gleamed with oil. More men sat around the ring, drinking and shouting and tossing coins. Young maidservants pranced around in short linen shifts, serving wine and ale and exotic fruits. More young women strolled around in lazy circles, playing flutes or lyres, or shaking tambourines.
And there, above it all, on a mountain of cushions, sat Berelain, First of Mayene, idly sipping at a crystal chalice as one maid attended to the nails on her free hand and another was buffing her slippers. Still one more stood behind her, slowly fanning her with a large wicker fan. And Faile stared again at what she saw for Berelain was wearing simply the most ludicrous costume she had ever seen. All shimmery red silk, a sleeveless garment spangled with mirrored tiles sheathed her torso, and golden tassels swung from the tips of her perky breasts. Long red gloves covered all but her bare shoulders and upper arms, and red slippers with long gold laces that stopped just above her knee covered her legs. Fluffy red and yellow plumes, nearly a span long, trailed from the small cap she was wearing, and similar ones draped from behind her waist. She looked very nearly like a cross between a rooster and a refugee from a menagerie. Upon Faile's entry, the music stopped abruptly, and the crowd quieted. Faile tried to speak, but only a strangled sound came out.
Berelain lifted her gaze from the sweaty men in the ring and addressed Faile over her chalice. "You wish something? " she inquired.
Stupefied by that outfit, all Faile could think to say was "do you always dress like that in private?"
Berelain smiled at her, a patient mother's smile for a too inquisitive child. "Of course, farmgirl. I certainly couldn't dress like this in public. People would stare." She set down her goblet and lifted a golden plum. "But surely you didn't come here to discuss my taste in fashions? While you're thinking, why don't you seat yourself and eat some fruit."
"Why don't you *eat* *me,*" Faile snapped. The crowd shifted uncomfortably.
"All in good time," Berelain replied soothingly. "So, farmgirl, I see you have found my portrait. It is a very good likeness, is it not?"
Faile leapt toward the woman. "Listen, you harlot! You keep your paws off of my man!" Selande and Latoya shouted cries of "I heard that!" and "un-huh sister!"
Berelain gracefully rose from her perch. She was nothing if not graceful. And indecent, there was that. Fine, so she was nothing if not graceful _and_ indecent. "Listen, you hay-picking bitch. I made an Ogier's Oath to you not so long ago that I would make him mine. Now, I have decided to do just that."
"Not if I have anything to say about _that_, " Faile growled and launched with a fist. The Mayener woman deflected it with her forearm and then sent Faile flying with a side kick to the midriff.
As Camaille and Latoya were helping Faile to her feet, Berelain's attendants were helping their mistress remove those ridiculous plumes and gloves. Berelain sauntered toward the ring. "You goat-licking harlot, I also once taught you that I despise being attacked. You seem to have forgotten our little _lesson_. " Rising on the balls of her feet, she said "Come. I shall teach you again."
Faile had regained her breath and entered the ring across from her. "Indeed! You strumpet, come at me and we shall see who is the teacher and who the student." The crowd began to hoop and holler.
No sooner had those words left her mouth then did Berelain's fist meet it. Faile had managed to dance away from the blow though. Spinning, she took the *Tigress in the Tree* position and she flung a fist and an elbow at the woman's throat, but Berelain deflected the punch, caught her elbow, and used it to flip her head over toe. Faile's back crashed against the dirt floor. Cat quick, Faile sprang to her feet and managed to land a blow at Berelain's stomach. As the sultry First doubled over, Faile raised her knee and caught her in the chin according to the *She-Wolf Snaps Her Jaws* move. She staggered back, and then smooth as silk, kicked her legs out at Faile, one then two, each catching her on one side of her short ribs. Grunting, Faile gathered herself and prepared to launch the devastating *Maiden Kicks Ass* maneuver that Chiad had taught her. She spun out, and then wheeled back in, all flying fists and elbows. But Berelain deflected them all with her wrists and forearms. "How can a pampered trollop be so good at this?" Faile thought.
Berelain then spun at her with darting hands. Faile was hard pressed to avoid those strikes aimed at her jaw, her neck, her midriff. Berelain raised a swift kick to her knee and seized upon the opportunity to land blows on her wide cheekbones and generous mouth, and to, shockingly, cop a feel.
Fury swelled inside Faile, and she reached up and grabbed the woman's throat, and bore down on her, bring them both down to the dirt with a painful _THUD_. Unseen, Berelain managed to send her flying off with a crushing kick to her midriff, knocking the air from her. Faile just lay there, grasping for a breath, expecting the finishing blow. It never came. What is the hussy waiting for? Finally, she saw what held Berelain's attention.
Perrin was there, idly thumbing his ear with one hand, and stroking his beard with the other. Berelain was glaring at him, silent. At long last, Faile regained her breath and joined her, and stared accusingly at him. "Just how long have you been standing there, Perrin Aybara?" she asked in her frostiest tones. The crowd was suddenly a hive of activity as those present scrambled for the exits, or in a few cases cut their way out of the tent with knives or swords.
"Uh,...well, once I found out where you had gone, I..uh.." he managed to splutter, as he backed away from them.
"Continue," commanded Berelain.
"You see, I came her to,...uh...try and stop.."
"Yes, yes, you came her to try and stop us and-?" Faile's voice trailed off in interrogation.
"I saw you two, and I, well...I saw you two and I liked it," he finished in a breathless rush as he noticed the dangerous glints their eyes.
"You liked it, did you, Perrin?" inquired Berelain, airily. "Well, like _this_!" she said as she launched a powerful kick at Perrin's groin. He doubled over with a wordless grunt.
"Or _this_!" put in Faile as she landed a solid blow across his nose, followed up by another on his cheek. Faile continued to rain blows on Perrin, but knew she had unfinished business with Berelain Paeron. By the Light, If anyone was going to abuse her husband, it was going to be her!
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Galad dreamt of Egwene. Dreams of him watching her dance at Court, wearing a simple unadorned gown, that concealed her form as any proper lady's should, and a tightly wound wimple. As her partner dipped Egwene, he caught himself staring at a provocative display of the insides of her wrists. In his dreams, he was thoroughly disgusted with himself for such lewdness. She began to sing, a softly lilting song. He found himself moving his foot in time to the music in a vulgar public display of rhythm. She was approaching him, her voice reaching higher and higher. Her hands were clasped together and raised to her breast. Higher and higher, the hymn went, until she stopped singing, paused, looked at him and screamed "Arra Arra Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar!."
A cock crowed, and Galad woke. He blinked for a moment in the morning light, and stretched briefly. Tossing back the sheets, he rose from the cot in one fluid motion. He was quite pleased with himself that he hadn't wrinkled the sheets. "It's a good thing I had them pressed before leaving Amador, " he thought. He was always prepared, as it was good and proper. After a quick dip in the nearby stream, a quick scrub of his teeth with soda and a thorough, extensive flossing, he returned to camp. All around him, Children slumbered in the tents. He walked through the tent, making notes about which tents were out of formation, or with slackened lines, or, most disgracefully, were showing travel stains. He ducked into a nearby tent, and awoke his aide, Child Unger.
After leaving some instructions with him, he returned to his own tent to dress. With quick neat movements, he went to the chest, and removed his clean breeches, immaculate white tabard, and of course, his rigidly starched smallclothes. "Loose privates make for loose morals," he told himself.
After he had dressed, he walked from his tent toward the mess tent, as the camp stirred around him. In no short time, he was walking back toward his tent with a tray laden with a hearty breakfast. Some ham, a few tender pears, a fresh roll smeared with a soft cheese, and a mug of ewe's milk. A good nutritious meal, with each of the four food groups properly represented. He sat down behind his portable writing table, and noticed a scuff. "Drat. I shall have to have the whole thing refinished. But wait. Then it won't match the other furniture. Hmmm." He made himself a mental note to have all of his travel kit refinished when he returned to Amador.
A scratch on the tent flap caught his attention. Clearing his throat, he said "Come."
A young soldier of the Children entered, his snowy cloak draped precisely over his gleaming breastplate. Child Unger was his personal aide, a cheese-merchant's son from Ghealdan, with a craving for order and neatness almost as strong as Galad's own. "My Lord Captain, your morning appointments await."
"Very good. Send the first one in," Galad replied, without looking up. "Oh, and Felick, you have ring around the collar. That is in violation of the regimental code. See to it. I shouldn't want to have to write you up."
"Yes, my lord." He knuckled his forehead and ducked out. Another young Child entered in his wake. "Child Harmen, reporting as ordered, my lord." The lad's pale face was flush with embarrassment.
"Yes, Harmen. Have a seat." He paused as the young man took to one of the stools before him. "Some rather disturbing reports have come to my attention. Some of your tent-mates have informed me that you, ah, take liberties with yourself at night."
"Take liberties, sir?" the boy fluted.
Galad frowned. This whole subject was...tacky. "Yes Harmen. You know, polish the sword."
"Polish the sword, sir?" Harmen piped.
"Yes, Harmen. Polishing the sword, strangling the garter snake, that sort of thing."
Harmen looked puzzled. "The garden snake, sir?"
"No, Harmen. The _garter_ snake. That drooping, fleshy part in your breeches."
"I'm not sure what you...ah...huh...snake, sir?" The boy's eyes were wildly darting, and he was running a finger around the inside of his collar.
"Yes Harmen." He rose from his stool and walked over to the man. "Word has it that you were," He looked around the tent, and then muttered " masturbating." The youth turned scarlet. "Now, now, there. Just remember these words. 'Every time you touch yourself, the Creator weeps.' Try repeating that to yourself. Over and over. It should work. It does for me."
"Umm,... yes sir," trilled Harmen.
"Very good then. Send in the next one on your way out."
After Harmen had left, Galad saw to a whole host of moral dilemmas. One Child had cheated the tax-collector. Another pair were apprehended flipping though a book of naughty illustrations from Arad Doman. One grizzled officer was noticed having unchaste thoughts while staring too long at the washerwomen. Another Child was caught having a snack before bedtime. After they had gone, Galad felt like he could sleep for days. So much imperfection, so little time.
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(Continued in Part Two)