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)
(Continued from Part One)
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"Poorly done, fellows," said Gawyn, sheathing his sword. He was bare to the waist, and although his skin was slick with sweat, he was scarcely out of breath despite the unnatural stifling heat. The same could not have been said for the two youths across the courtyard from him. One, a lanky Domani not old enough to grow the typical long narrow mustaches, was bent over with hands on his knees, breathing heavily. The other, a gawky straw-haired Andorman, was laying flat on his back, cradling his ribs. His forearms were red from where Gawyn's practice blade had whacked them soundly.
"If you would be Younglings, you will have to improve. Now go get yourselves cleaned up."
The boys muttered something and dashed into the inn. Not a large inn, or a particularly fine one, but it was adequate. Since the Younglings were unable to actually enter Tar Valon, due to some edict of Elaida's, they were housed in a nearby village. Gawyn rather liked the village of Granich that the they had adopted as their headquarters, however. Just over the bridge from Tar Valon and down the road, it was close enough to facilitate communication with the Aes Sedai they served, but far enough away from those haughty imperious women. In fact, Granich seemed to have almost no women at all, Aes Sedai or no, only well groomed and tastefully attired men. Still, the taverns were always thronged at night, with music and dancing, and the men were always kind enough to leave in pairs. "No doubt to make to see their companions safe home at night, " Gawyn contemplated. Some of the Younglings griped about the lack of women, but Gawyn did note that about a tenth seemed to prefer it that way. He shrugged into his shirt and walked toward the entry-way of the inn.
He peered at the painted sign hanging overhead. "The Tool Box," it was called, but the sign featured only a bare chested man in his smallclothes, with nary a hammer or lathe in sight. Well, he knew that often inns had names that were quite incomprehensible. Across the street was a tavern called "The Pearl Necklace" and another inn was called "Three Old Queens" and neither of their signs featured what he expected either.
He entered the inn, and strolled through the empty common room. A manservant, presumably a groom, all in dark leather, winked at him for some reason, but he paid it no mind. He went to his room, splashed some cool water on his face, got a fresh shirt, and headed down the back stairs toward the stables. On the way, he met on his Younglings, Jerge Lianster, a stocky lad in a green coat. He wore the tower pin on his collar, which indicated he had fought in Tar Valon.
"Lord Gawyn, I have news," he began, "from Tar Valon. It seems that there has been a disaster. Fifty of the sisters have been killed in some battle, and a hundred more captured. Word has it that Mazrim Taim was there, and he led Whitecloaks into battle, and was wearing a blue satin gown."
"Fifty sisters! Then Egwene must be dead!" His eyes burned like hot coals in his head, and his skin felt scalded.
"My Lord?" asked Lianster, uneasily. "Who is this Eguenie?"
"*EGWENE!*" Gawyn roared. "Her name is Egwene! Why under the Light most Illuminating do people have trouble pronouncing her name? Egwene, Egwene, Egwene! Light, the correct way to say it is in the back of each and every book! Read it, Lianster, read it!"
Lianster turned away. "Yes my lord. Anyway, what have you to say about the other news? You know, about the defeat at the hands of Mazrim Taim?"
Gawyn pounded a fist into an open palm. "Mazrim Taim? In blue satin? Egwene is gone? Rand al'Thor must have killed her! I'll see him dead!"
"My Lord, what are you under the Light most Blessed are you talking about? How _did_ you come to that conclusion?" The Youngling averted his gaze, and looked at his feet.
"Now, now, Jerge. You know as well as I that rumor _always_ contains some truth." Gawyn clapped the youth on the shoulder, and his voice took on a lecturing tone. "Once you recognize that, it's just a simple feat of reasoning to deduce what really happened. Why I decided to throw over all my previous obligations because word from a crazy old man had led me to believe that Rand al'Thor had killed my mother. You see? And in fact, I heard from a ship captain's mistress who heard from her neighbor who has a son who works as farrier that..."
Just then, a stablehand approached them cap in hand, and Gawyn's voice trailed off. "You wish to tell me something?" inquired Gawyn.
The groom shuffled his feet, and then looked up. He looked rather sad for some reason. "Lord Gawyn, I'm afraid I have some unfortunate news. Your horse, Buttercup, took sick in the night and died, just before dawn," he explained. "Mother Masie seems to think it was some sickness brought about by this heat. We tried, my lord, we really did, but..." His words stooped short as he noticed the glint in Gawyn's eyes.
"My horse is dead! Rand al'Thor must have killed him! Everything is his fault. Why just the other day, I knew he was responsible for the stone in boot and when my wine soured. All because rumor said that Rand al'Thor was seen dancing in the Stone, drinking a goblet of wine. You see, Jerge, how easy it is?"
Lianster sighed and looked at him askance. "Yes, my Lord. Your powers of perception are truly awe inspiring. Can I go home now?"
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Mat awoke with a start. His head hung heavily on his shoulders and felt stuffed with rags besides. The taste of sour wine mixed with the coppery tang of blood clung to the insides of his mouth. He tried to think. The last thing he remembered, he was racing through Ebou Dar looking for Olver. He thought he remembered something about square rigged ships and women calling lightning. Then a wall fell on him. That was all.
He tried to move, but he realized he lashed to a trestle, his arms stretched outward. With great effort he lifted his head and became aware that there were several Seanchan maids present in the chamber. The maids were all wearing those sheer transparent robes that showed their slim, pale bodies clearly. He also became acutely aware that he was unclothed and he was pointing north like a compass. "Stop that!" he muttered to himself, but unfortunately, his body wouldn't comply.
One of the maids noticed he was awake, and that he was...awake and smiled. She approached him with a basin of water and a cloth. Gingerly, she washed his face, his neck, his shoulders. She paused and fingered the medallion he still wore then continued to bathe him. He wriggled, and made a display of token resistance against his bindings.
"Where am I? What is this place?" he demanded, but the maid, who had soft hands and a set of high lofty goals, said nothing. He tried a different tack. "What is your name, my dove?" Nothing. "Can you tell me why I am here?"
Soft Hands looked at him askance, and whispered something like "der segs slathe" but it was hard to tell with that annoying accent.
The other two maids approached him, and began to brush his hair and scent him with fragrant oils despite his half-hearted attempts to be elusive. The tallest of the three, a lovely with girl with bright green eyes, took her finger and dabbed oil behind his ears, in the hollow of the throat, and more. She paused to run a finger along the thickened ridge of his hanging scar. She continued to run a slim finger with oil down his chest, into his armpits, between his toes! Even behind his satchel, which was unexpected, but very, very... nice.
"Stop that! Or at least, untie me, " he pleaded, but they only giggled and continued to prepare him. He felt like a pig being prepared for roast. Any second now, they were going to stuff an apple in his mouth and slide him into an oven! Finally, after they had run their hands and combs in places he had never even thought to wash, Green Eyes produced some lengths of gold and blue ribbon, and they tied elaborate bows around his ankles and wrists, and gagged him with a scarf of the same color. Oh Light, not again! Then finally, they left him.
He felt ridiculous trussed up and beribboned like this, but he could do nothing except twist and feel the humid salt breeze against his skin. Salt breeze? He must still be near the sea! Maybe, if he was still in Ebou Dar, Nynaeve would send someone to rescue him. Sadly, the thought of Nynaeve made him drop. Then, _she_ walked in, and he felt himself surge to attention.
There she was, Miss Thang, the most beautiful woman Mat had ever seen. She was stunning. More attractive than Elayne, and Berelain, and that frosty high-handed bitch who had walked in on him in Tar Valon combined. Obviously. It wouldn't be _that_ difficult to be more beautiful than a mutant with three heads. She was young and all in blue silk with ice blue eyes and pale yellow hair. She was tall, this girl, with a body that could fry bacon from across the room. Her neck was long and elegant, and her breasts heaved beneath her blouse with every breath, as if to say "Hey! Look at these!"
And what breasts they were! They were spectacular, high and round with nipples jutting through her blouse like acorns. Those breasts didn't just defy gravity, they taunted it. Her narrow waist was encircled by a golden belt made up of nine crescent shapes, and thin pleated silk trousers garbed a pair of legs that were oh so shapely and went all the way down to the floor. And such legs! Legs, poles, gams, stems, getaway-sticks, whatever he chose to call them, they cried out for his hands.
He ran his eyes up and down her body and wanted to do things to her that his mother would beat him with a rake for even thinking of. Up and down his eyes went, up and down, those eyes, that neck, that bosom, that waist, those hips, them there legs. Those legs, those hips, that belt, that taut midriff, those jugs, that neck, those knobs, that waist, that belt....belt? Was it _nine_ crescents? He looked more closely. Nine crescents? Nine moons?! It hit him.
She was approaching him, doffing her blouse, and all he could say through his gag was "Oh Bloody Goat-Licking Buttered Onions!"
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Egwene rose her hand to shield her eyes from harsh sun. She still felt ridiculous on top of this huge horse, but Siuan had told her that an Amyrlin must have a proper mount. Which was really rather silly. When Siuan was Amyrlin, she had herself wheeled around in a palanquin! Siuan hadn't mounted anything when she wore the stole. And now, the only things she mounted were Bela and Gareth Bryne. Still, *Daishar,* as she had named him, was a fine horse with a strong steady gait. But she still couldn't help but think that anyone who saw her with this horse would know she looked absurd and pass on tales. It wouldn't be long before gossip about her and her horse would get around. And that would damage the air of dignity she was trying so hard to cultivate. Remember poor Cethryne of Rhuse and _her_ horse! What a horrible way to die! She thought about it and scowled.
"Mother, would you like to stop to rest?" inquired Halima, who had noticed her expression. The trampy maidservant was riding beside her, astride her sleek grey mare, and she looked perfectly normal and proportioned. Egwene started to whine about her horse again, but cut herself off with thoughts of "wanting won't make a goat lay eggs."
"You have the head pains again, don't you?" inquired Halima, licking her lips in anticipation.
"Not really, but I think I could do with a few moments out of the saddle." She halted *Daishar*, and signaled for a nearby soldier to take his reins. Adjusting the seven-striped stole that hung over her fine dress, she waited for servants to bring her the mounting block that she need to get on and off this monstrous beast. As she patiently gathered her pale green skirts and dismounted, she noticed that Halima's smoldering eyes were fixed on her body with startling intensity. Egwene shrugged it off though, explaining to herself that Halima was just interested in her health and fitness. Why, just the other evening, she had begged to be permitted to expand her nightly backrubs to full body massages. Egwene had reluctantly allowed it and to her surprise, found it not altogether unpleasant.
Stretching, she noticed that Siuan was approaching on Bela, followed by Leane and her new Warders. Leane, who had acted so sanguine about losing her former Ajah, had certainly dove into her new role as a Green. The Domani sister was taking advantage of the halt in the procession by darting into the woods with her four new Warders, who were rubbing their hands and grinning like idiots.
Siuan climbed down off of Bela and dusted her skirts, which were far more elaborately decorated than anything she used to wear. And her neckline was so daringly cut that she might as well have written "Grope Me" on her bosom in black ink.
"Mother, I know that it's long before sundown, but I know this terrain, and this is likely the best campsite we'll encounter before dark, " she explained. "Perhaps you should consider setting up camp here for the night."
Egwene looked around at the valley and nearby stream, almost a small river, and acquiesced. "Very well. We'll stop here for the night. We could use the time for chores, anyway." She removed her linen dustcloak and handed it to Selame who was standing nearby. "Siuan, I think I will take a walk over by that stream. Will you ask Lord Gareth to join me?" The Tairen woman had grimaced, but nodded. Egwene collected a small basket of fruit and a mason jar of water from Seri, and handed her gloves to Chesa. As with the horse, she felt silly having so many personal servants, but she was Amyrlin, and therefore better than anyone else. She was amused that herself, she who had once been the youngest daughter of a petty innkeeper in a sleepy filthy little hamlet, was now the Bomb.
She found herself a patch of soft grass beside the stream, and lowered herself, neatly arranging her skirts in a disturbingly meticulous manner. Siuan had mentioned that this stream had a rather grand sounding name, the Barvraman River. She had also told her that far to the east, in Tar Valon, it was called by its true name, the *Barvramandrelle.* Something about that name tweaked at her, but she just shrugged and popped open the jar. Taking a swig, she belched and said to herself "It doesn't get any better than this." She used the time waiting for Bryne to catalogue last night's Dreams in her mind. She had been too busy since morning to properly do so, to try and sift through them for meaning, any meaning.
Last night's Dreaming had been an unusually rich one, with many Dreams rife with so much symbolism that it would be impossible for the readers to comprehend for books to come. There were Dreams of Rand, certainly. Rand walking in a beggar's coat, one forearm wrapped in a dingy cloth. Tall women with long sticks walked beside him, giving him sharp raps on the buttocks, but he only grinned and asked for more. Rand sitting on the Dragon Throne, while Min knelt beneath him, handing him what looked the like the heads of small dolls. That one baffled her. Why would Min be giving him heads?
A Dream of Min, being chased by a lily and smacked around by a spear with arms. She knew the spear was female, but that was all. More Dreams involving Rand. Rand passing through what appeared to be an apiary as nine bees landed on his head, stinging him, and leaving a crown of some sort of leaves. Rand smiling a disturbing smile. Lightning flashing around his head, and storms boiling while nine hamsters crawl up his pant leg as Rand squeals in delight.
There were Dreams of Mat too. Mat being dressed for supper like a suckling pig, as well as Mat strapped to a table as nine moon shapes bounced off his body. Mat smiling and pouring a sack of seed over a golden falcon. Mat hiding his face under his wide brimmed hat, while blood poured down one side of his face, that one she had seen before, but not the ones with him wearing nothing but a transparent sheet, or a dog collar. She shivered. She didn't like dreams about collars.
She had Dreams of Nynaeve, as well. Nynaeve sitting on the body of a gilded crane bobbing for all she was worth, swinging a bull whip?! Women surrounded them, shadowy and unseen, pressing their ears to the door. Nynaeve handing out pots of honey, as those around her accepted unbelieving. A Dream of Nynaeve sitting in a boat as a small spider crawled unnoticed across her cheek. Then a bright flash and Nynaeve was laughing. She also Dreamt of Elayne opening a gilded coffer and hundreds of tiny women pouring out, each one flicking little sparks of lightning. She Dreamt of Elayne sitting across from Aviendha, and together they were eating what looked like a carpet stretched out between them. There were Dreams of Gawyn, with his wounded blue eyes and golden curls. Gawyn crawling naked across hot coals, and Gawyn walking barefoot across sharp metal tacks. Gawyn in a leather mask with a zipper for a smile. She saw him sitting before the Tower and all around him the hands of women lashed out, slapping him silly. Gawyn surrounded by men, and all around him the men formed pairs and departed. Finally she saw Gawyn, smiling elatedly as he held up a small twinkling jewel-like object. She knew the object was a _Clue_, but why should Gawyn be so happy to find one?
She even Dreamt of Elaida. The haughty stern-faced woman was weeping as a structure of cards tumbled before her, yet she was also beaming as a woman in white brought her a basket of small tiles. Her joy turned to horror as she held one up, revealing what looked like a Flame of Tar Valon, only it was black, not white. It was not a Dragon's Fang either since the point was up, not down. More Dreams. Elaida shrieking silent shrieks as the white candle she was holding starts to melt in her clutch. It was too much. Elaida being chased by pigs and being pelted with toads. Egwene saw herself strolling through the streets of Tar Valon, while sheets of golden dust rained about her. Dreams of laying beside Gawyn, experiencing a different type of golden shower all together.
There were more Dreams, of Perrin and Faile, Thom Merillin, and of Moiraine. There were too many of Moiraine. Moiraine crouching in a brass cage as a serpent writhed around the cage, and fox capered in circles. Moiraine and a _grey_ fox, which was darting up beneath her skirt. Moiraine happily strumming a harp which exploded in a flood of white, rich looking cream. It smelled funny though, and Moiraine tried to keep it off her skirt. Perrin and Faile shouting, and Perrin and Faile embracing. Faile tossing a rawhide scrap, and Perrin bounding off to fetch it. Faile vigorously rubbing Perrin's belly, as he kicks frantically and spasmodically. What did it all mean?
More Dreams. A tall dark woman with hurtful eyes was gleefully spanking Faile who was wearing half a crown. Not Faile, though. The crowned woman was somewhat older and had green eyes. Who was she? She Dreamt of the Tower, gleaming the moonlight, and shuddered as a woman with a silvery mask herded women in black robes from the gates. She saw Siuan tossing about in throws as a bull trampled her, and Leane burnishing four swords in a flurry of activity. More Dreams, on and on. Sheriam and her cluster, in the master's chamber, gathered for a feast. They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast.
A woman with Elayne's features, yet more mature, feverishly trying to mend a tattered garment embroidered with white lions. A giant silver keystone appears from the sky, and squashes her completely. A weary nation sighs in relief. A tall man with blue and gold dragons on his sleeves, layering layer on layer of bricks made of black glass. He was building something, Egwene thought, maybe a Tower, but Egwene could see the foundation was flawed, and the structure was already coming part, and when it fell it would strew chaos and violence across the land. A farmer in a black coat standing very close to Rand, the dagger in his left hand gleaming a sickly green. The farmer's face is not his own. It is hollow like a mask, yet the true face keeps shifting. A similarly masked woman standing close _her_, also holding a knife, except the knife is in her right hand and the woman has a penis. She couldn't make that one out, except that she was in danger somehow. Running them over and over in her mind, sorting them, picking out what she thought was important, trying desperately to understand.
"Mother, you have requested my presence?"
Egwene looked up from where she was sitting, and squinted in the sun. Bluff, blocky Gareth Bryne stood over in a tawny colored coat. He smelled vaguely of fish, for some reason. "Lord Bryne, yes, I have." She extended a hand, and Bryne lifted her to her feet. Obsessively brushing off her skirts, she said "Walk with me. I have some questions."
Bluff blocky Gareth Bryne assented, and fell in beside her as they strolled along the edge of the stream.
"Lord Gareth, I have been thinking. When we reach Tar Valon, you have said you will need ships to block the harbors, yes?"
"Yes Mother. We shall need to stop the flow of ships and supplies, before we lay siege. It will be no simple thing, though. Elaida will likely have catapults throwing stones and maybe a few Accepted calling lightnings at us." He ran his hat around in his hands. "Artur Hawkwing was unable to do so." He smiled his small minimalist smile. "Ah, but Hawking never did have Aes Sedai on his side either."
Egwene looked up at him. "But Lord Gareth, a thought came to me. Do we really need to get inside the harbors to blockade the city? Can't we just blockade the river to the north and south? It would have the same effect, right?"
Bluff, blocky Bryne looked thunderstruck. A look of stupefaction spread across his face, as if he had just learned the sun rose in the west and set in the east. "Good Light Most Holy!" he exclaimed. "Mother, what a thought! It never had occurred to me, and likely not to Hawking either!" He laid a paternal hand on her shoulder. "You will do well. You'll be an Amyrlin to shake the world! You may very well be the best bloody Amyrlin to ever smooth her skirts and sniff!"
Egwene blushed and looked away. He wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know.
(Concluded in Part Three; Return to Part One.)