Yes, this again. I think anyone who is still paying attention to my eloquent story of drama and romance probably knows who the characters are already, and I don't particularly want any new readers, so no re-cap, Dramatic Persons, or pictures for the opening of Thread Five.

All jokes aside, you can stick around if you want. Threads one to four are floating around out there somewhere. Go check 'em out.

Back to Business

When we last left off, lots of things happened. Now, different things are happening, of a "filler until part II" nature. Also, yes, I realize that I'm going to be competing with Skyrim, and in an ideal world, that wouldn't be happening. But such is life.

Now We're Back In Business

"So, ye like ta dance close ta the fiare, don't ya?" Sheogorath said nonsensically, as things were, "ansar me now, or I'll pluck out ye're eyes!" "Uh, Milord," one of his retainers (that's a thing, right?) spoke up, "that's a lamp post." Sheogorath began to laugh maniacally, then whirled around and threw his oak staff at the quivering Daedra.

Five gory minutes later, Sheogorath swayed quite jauntily down the street, bloody staff in hand, whistling a tune of equal or greater jauntiness. Without warning, the world made a crackling noise, not unlike that of today's popular elf-based cereal, and the Madgod disappeared in a flash of darkness.

"So, ye like ta dance close ta the fiare, don't ya?" Sheogorath asked again, this time directing his comment to this Lieutenant-At-Arms, Corporal Jackhammer. "Yes, sir," Corporal Jackhammer growled, in a voice so menacing that to hear it and survive would be to build untold amounts of character, "I dance right in the [censored] fire, then eat it for breakfast and crap out candlesticks." "Bwhahahahahah!" Sheogorath laughed, "ye're a good man, Corporal. Now go assemble ye're troops."

With a salute that would drop even the most hardy of unicorns, Corporal Jackhammer flounced out of Sheogorath's temporary audience hall, moving not unlike a small, excited school-girl. "And now," Sheogorath murmured to himself, "now the real fun begins." The Bearded One began to laugh maniacally, not unlike a mad doctor of sorts, then abruptly paused when he noted a maid cleaning up.

"You there! Maid!" The maid turned around, a quizzical expression on her face, primarily because Sheogorath's beard was floating five inches away from his face, but also probably because he was upside down and naked. "Did ya just hear me laughing?" "Whoi yes soir, I did!"

The maid exploded quite violently, and a fine coating of red mist splattered across the portrait she had been dusting off.

Meanwhile

"Crikey, let me get this straight," Schmut E. said in hushed tones, "you are telling me that The Master Thief was behind all of this?!" Professor Snuggle-guts quietly yipped, then glanced around to make sure that no-one was watching. "He's the one that's been giving Ocato orders?!" Professor Snuggle-guts yipped again. "And he's been manipulating us this whole time?!" Professor Snuggle-guts yipped a third time, then fell silent. "Hold on, how did you find all this out?"

Professor Snuggle-guts, in an explanatory fashion, explaned that he had seen The Master Thief talking into a hand mirror of sorts, and upon eavesdropping, had learned that the other person on the mirror was Ocato himself. "Wow," Schmut E. shook his head, "I can't believe that. Crikey, why would he even do anything like that?"

"Why indeed?" The Master Thief appeared suddenly, in a flash of smoke, "unless, of course, the Professor is lying to you!" Professor Snuggle-guts bared his fangs, then threw himself upon The Master Thief's neck. "Aiee!" Schmut E. shrieked like a small girl, "the Professor is a vampuppyre, one of the fantastical vampire puppies of yon!"

Time seemed to slow for all persons involved, probably because that's more dramatic. The sound of blood pumping beat like a drum in Professor Snuggle-guts' ears; the sound of a little girl screaming pierced Tran the Gan's ears, who was off making muffins in the nearest kitchen.

Then, without warning, Professor Snuggle-guts disappeared into the night just as quickly as something very fast had happened. "The hell?" Schmut E. asked, composing himself in a more stately manner. The Master Thief climbed to his feet, waved away Schmut E.'s help, then disappeared in a puff of smoke.

A small clattering noise announced one of The Master Thief's items falling out of one of his many belt pouches; as Schmut E. bent down to inspect it, he noticed that it was a small, jewel-encrusted mirror, not unlike the one that Professor Snuggle-guts had mentioned prior to the exchange. "Crikey."

Elsewhere

"SO then I was like 'No, you eat the kitty,' and he totally did!" Syl giggled loudly, like a valley girl. Is that a politically correct term? Valley girl? I don't find anything offensive about it, but if I offend you by using that term, then I'm truly, deeply sorry, especially if I caused you any emotional duress. Can we be friends again? Cool.

"Yes, Syl, we totally know," Mage-guy sighed, "it's not like this is the fifteenth time you've told me." "Shut up, leather!" Syl shrieked, "why aren't you pining after Carro anymore?" Mage-guy stared dumbly at Syl, then sighed again and shook his head. "She's a lost cause, so I've given up. Besides, her 'other half' seems to be enjoying all the alone time with her body so much, I wouldn't want to interfere."

"?thgir, wonk I" nodahT dias, "!won thgir reh raeh nac uoy" After a few seconds, Syl and Mage-guy muttered a little "ah!" and each raised an ear to the night sky. Faint sounds of someone talking to herself, then being growled at by a Russian sounding voice, were carried on the night wind like a drunken butterfly.

"Yeah, that's really sick," Mage-guy said, closing the tent-flap, "especially since Son is still in love with the red one." Mage-guy sighed yet again, for Syl and Thadon were busy making out on the other side of the tent. "Yep. How could this be the only available tent in the entire damn army?"

"Quitecher whinin' and get out here!" Vandayle, Mage-guy's tutor in the Forks, yelled from just outside the tent, "we've got s'more trainin' ta do!" Mage-guy sighed, then sighed when he realized that his only form of communication would soon be sighing.

Next Time: A Fight Scene!

Haha, I lol'd.

Now can Sybs return now that I have? (I dont actually know what happened to him...)

I haven't read in a while. What's been happening lately?

@Sybs - Funny story: The part of "Mage-guy" in that update was going to be "Sybs," but I couldn't find a way to make a Goblorc who talks like "Say thee nay, foul knave, yest I doest eviscerate thine flesh from thine bones" sound exasperated at Syl's and Thadon's antics. As such, I decided to make the next update, aka this current one, about a group of like-minded (and like-sounding) warriors fighting for their True Heir - a job Sybs was made for. So way to read my mind.

@Broken-Scale - Basically, everything worked out in the Heroes' favor; Sheogorath and his armies were summoned, and now is the portion of the story entitled thusly: "The Heroes Gain Allies By Traversing the Countrysides Etc Etc." Other than that, some dissension is spreading among the ranks; as you can see, Professor Snuggle-guts has turned into a vampire puppy, and The Master Thief is possibly a traitor as well. That's about it.

Chapter II: In Which Our Heroes Find Themselves In A Violent Situation

"Why doest thou always cry at sunrise?" Sybs asked of Clone Captain Macharius, who was indeed crying at the rising sun. "Shut up!" Macharius blubbered, "I'm not crying! I just got some gibs in my eye!" Sybs examined the Clone Captain more closely, and found that this wasn't an entirely unreasonable proposition; the pile of shattered spitaur bodies that lay at Macharius' feet certainly lended credence to his excuse.

However, Sybs was no fool. Being the earliest riser among the group of four, Sybs had seen the Clone Captain weeping many a time, but had ignored it until the wailing had become unreasonable. Indeed, it was due to Macharius' crying that the group of spitaurs they were stalking had attacked.

Still, Sybs understood that despite this, he would be remiss to pursue the issue, and as such halted his queries. "Welleth," Sybs grunted, "ah! It seems as though Eats-The-Food has awakened!" The Goblorc, with a speed that belied his stature, turned heel and began to walk back to camp; however, an unnaturally strong hand on the shoulder stopped him in place.

"D'you," Macharius whispered, "do you think I'm pretty?" The Clone Captain's voice was very, very soft, like the fur of a unicorn, but hidden beneath it was the threat of many knives, also like a unicorn's fur. "Uh, sureth, Macharius," Sybs replied, "verily." The hand slowly dropped away, letting the Goblorc go; as such, Sybs was far out of earshot when Macharius started to laugh like a crazed magician.

--------

"Ugh, what time is it?" Broken-Scale grunted; upon receiving no response, the Argonian muttered, "Too damn early," and promptly tried to fall back asleep. However, the boot of one ex-Captain-turned-Captain stopped any attempts at slumber by kicking the Argonian in the ribs. "Uguh! I'm up, damnit, I'm up!" Captain Rexulius Yautja Xenomorphicalus laughed inwardly as he crouched down in front of the group's sputtering campfire. Thanks to morning's light, the foursome no longer needed to be concerned about the creatures of the night; in addition to roving bands of Ocato's spitaurs, the small island, aptly named Werewolf Island, featured such lovely creatures as werewolves, goblins, and weregoblives.

"I must say," Captain Rexulius growled, "if you wish to sleep longer, mayhaps I should allow one of the nefarious beasts of this isle to snack upon you!" Broken-Scale squinted at Rexulius, contemplating whether or not the man would be able to deflect his Spear of Chaos before it stabbed him in the groin; with a sigh, Broken-Scale remembered that stabbing your allies was bad, even if they kept jumping in front of your weaponry.

"Ah, Sybs, my green amigo!" Broken-Scale drawled, "tell the Captain that he ain't the boss of me, wouldja?" Sybs sat down, in front of Broken-Scale and to Rexulius' right, on a particularly sturdy tree stump. "Brokeneth-Scales," Sybs replied, "we must worketh together if we are to defeat our enemy, Ocato, and his lackeys. Thou's tone is verily deplorable, especially in a situation like this!"

Broken-Scale grumbled a few choice sentiments about Sybs, then glanced at the clearing on the opposite side of their camp, where Macharius was still crying. "So, uh," Broken-Scale whispered, "what about Cryer-Boy over there? He seems a little..." Broken-Scale's mouth issued a short bird call as he waggled a claw in circles near his head.

"He's our ally," Rexulius grunted, "even if I don't like the bastard, we've gotta work with 'em. Least he's got skill." "Yeah, mad skill," Broken-Scale said, "literally." A hush fell over the group as Macharius returned to camp, somehow clean of all the spitaur gore. "Hello, criminal scum," Macharius cheerily yelled, "what vermin are we hunting today?"

Sybs reached into his pack to pull out their map of the island while Macharius straddled the seat in between the Goblorc and Broken-Scale. "According to Sir Vandayle's map," Sybs pondered, "the Alpha of Werewolf Island rests to thine north -" the Goblorc's mailed hand brushed a line from their current location to the northernmost part of the isle - "and the beast's lair rests upon yonder map's very tip. With good fortune, our group shalleth traverse the island with utmost haste, and arrive at thine Alpha's Lair within less than a day's passing."

Next Time: A Bout of Good Fortune For Our Heroes!... Or Is It?

Yes! tToPaCT has RETURNED! I can live again :3

Damn. I have missed a lot. FORGIVE ME THIEF of MASTER!

@Schmuty - Good, wouldn't want you being dead and all.
@Macharius - You are forgaven. I wasn't angry at you anyway.

Chapter III: In Which Our Merry Band of Heroes Is Confronted By The King of Wolves, The Gargantual Wolforain

The Gargantual Wolforain, King of Wolves and Alpha of Werewolf Island's Pack, smelled the air cautiously, like a dog or some sort of canine creature. "The prey approaches," Wolforain growled, in a stereotypical fantasy werewofl fashion, "quickly, my sons! To the Hunt!" Wolforain's sons howled viciously in resposne; bloodly spittle sprayed from their jaws, coating the air itself with the putrid stench of eviscerated humans. The walls of Wolforain's immense lair reached high into the sky, topping off at about thirty five feet; each ledge, overhang, or stalactite were covered in his wolfine children.

As his sons prepared for the Hunt by playing loud rock and roll music, Wolforain relaxed on his throne, which was probably made of something like human carcassi. As he observed his sons, the Gargantual Wolforain reached up to take hold of the magical birdcage that floated six feet above his head, the uppermost part of it just scratching the ceiling. Inside the cage, chirruping madly away, rested Wolforain's favorite thing in life: his songbird.

"They will all die, Chippy," Wolforain whispered to his songbird, who stared stupidly back at the King of All Wolves, "you understand, oh, yes you do Chippy! You are the smartest bird in all of Tamriel! You know that I surround myself with my weakest spawn, because you are the one who gave me that brilliant idea! I love you so much, Chippy! If I had strong sons, then I would be risking death! I wuve woo Chippy!"

Suddenly, Wolforain felt a tugging at his foot fur, and after carefully returning Chippy's birdcage to its hook, looked down to see what it was. "Ah," Wolforain growled, taking on a more menacing tone, "if it isn't my youngest child, Number 6,701! How are you today, pup?" Despite his gruff nature, Wolforain felt a special kinship with his latest child; this one was exceptionally bright, clean-smelling, and never put his victims' elbows on the table like some of the King's more uncouth sons.

"Hewwo daddy," Number 6,701 barked, "mommy wanted me to teww you to go to hew woom!" Wolforain smiled at his son, and after standing up, placed his littlest child on the throne. "While I'm gone, you can be king, little pup," Wolforain growled, "get these fools prepared for combat."

Number 6,701's disposition switched almost instantly from "loveable" to "evil" as soon as his father had exeunted the room. "Bad move, favew.... bad move."

-----------

About six miles away from Wolforain's Lair, our Merry Band of Heroes were doing their very best to trudge through a particularly dense swamp. Unfortunately, the majority of the group were not built for swamp-travel; two were heavily armored, another had never seen a swamp in his life, and the last one, while adept at swamp travel, wasn't the best guide.

Currently, the group had found themselves stuck in the same spot for the past half hour. "Okay, okay, okay," Broken-Scale said, waving his hands in what he perceived as a calming motion, "look, I'll explain it again. I understand that you guys are slow-witted and all, but try to keep up. Gobby, you've gotta do a wicked tubular ten-eighty, grind across that log, then hang ten. Lurch, I want you to just chillax for a second, then when Gobby is hangin' ten, you'll need to front-flip over him, and lie down flat in that patch of mud right there. Last, I need B-Noir to jump over Gobby, land on Lurch, and grab that hanging vine. Okay, ready.... go!"

Next Time: Will Our Heroes Make It? Will Broken-Scale find himself with broken-legs? Find out, next time!

Hahaha, the idea of all the Heroes being led through the swamp by Broken-Scale is hilarious. And what is it with you and incorporating adorable puppies into the story? It's awesome.

@Carrot - Puppies are adorable, so I think it's highly necessary to include all of them in my writings.

Chapter IV: In Which No-One Reads For Weeks, Because Skyrim Is Out

"Well, that went deciduously well," Broken-Scale crowed, "made it out of the swamp, and I've still got all my Scrib Jellied Beans!" Suddenly, the Argonian tripped and fell, falling face-first into a particularly disgusting puddle of mud. "What the hell?!" Broken-Scale screeched as he pulled himself out of the sticky, goopy mud, "did one of you trip me?!"

"I did, knave!" Captain Rexulius yelled in return, "that was the most horrible experience of my incredible life! And I've been probed before!" "I must concur with thou, Rexulius," Sybs continued, "also, Sir Lizard, I must correct thine wordplay; it is 'decidedly,' not 'deciduously.' Deciduous refers to trees." Broken-Scale glared at Sybs, then stalked off, muttering about no-one understanding his genius.

-----------

After an indeterminate amount of time, our Merry Band of Heroes had arrived at the entrance to Wolforain's Lair. "Dudes, why can't we just run in there, talk to the guy, and if he tries anything, kill him?" "Because, Sir Lizard, that would be the very definition of foolish." "Wait, quiet down you two; Macharius is back."

"Hello, criminal scum," Macharius whispered, "there are many animals down there. I am fairly certain that their owners do not have licenses for the beasts; in addition, I did not see any leashes on the animals, which is yet another offense punishable by death." The three non-Clone Captains exchanged glances, and much eye-rolling occurred.

"Grrara," came a sudden wolf-cry, "I hear the interlopers over yonder hillock! Their eyes are so loud!!!" A cacophony of wolf calls replied to the first, and within seconds, a pack of werewolves raced out of the cavern much like a pack of werewolves would race. Look, I'm not the best with similes that don't involved "drunken butterflies" or "unicorns," so just shut up!

"To battle!" Captain Rexulius yelled, drawing his mighty claymore, Claymoricus the Grand, from its holster. Macharius followed suit, unleashing his hidden pants dagger, The Dagger of Nondescriptness. Broken-Scale, the third to respond, raised his hands into the air, summoning the Spear of Chaos from whatever crazed dimension it rested in. Finally, Sybs Gro-Gramaz, Tamriel's only Goblorc, thrust his hand into the sky, drawing his mighty battlehammer, Rinlojm, into his waiting palm.

After a second of posing real bad ass, the group spread out and ran down the hill, Sybs and Macharius taking the lefttermost side, with Rexulius and Broken-Scale taking the right.

"Grara!" came the wolfine response to the Heroes' charge, "Grarooooooooo!" Our Merry Band of Heroes momentarily paused as the lead werewolf, Number 5,197, tripped over his own feet and smashed his head on a particularly jagged rock. Number 5,197's head split open, spraying crimson blood and gray brain matter all across the path of the pack's charge. The next werewolf, seeing his comrade fall, issued a howl of surprise, and thinking that the enemy had some sort of foul magicks at their hands, began to furiously backpedal.... right into the open mouth of the third werewolf, who was growling in rage at his comrade's death.

As werewolves Number 4,019 and 3,810 began to claw in rage at each other, Number 1,901 broke off from the rest of the pack, seeing a shiny silver ocato resting in a crow's nest across the way. However, Number 1,901 did not see the gory remains of Number 5,917, and as such slipped, fell, and brained himself on the same jagged rock. This drove the remaining werewolves into a frenzy, what with all the blood and gore, and they promptly turned on each other, doing their best to eviscerate any living thing within their reach.

------------

As the last werewolf fell, having stabbed himself repeatedly in the stomach, thinking that he was killing a different wolf, our Merry Band of Heroes stood in slack-jawed amazement. "Okay, I'm just going to say it," Broken-Scale managed, "what the [censored] was that?"

------------

"What do woo mean, my advance fowces have been destwoyed!?!" Number 6,701 shwieked, "those wewe ouw best twoops!" In his primal rage, Number 6,701 did the only thing he could do: thwow a tempew tantwum. With a scweech of wage, Number 6,701 rolled off the throne, thwowing himself to the gwound, and waved his awms back and fowth like a baby.

When he was finished, Number 6,701 cwimbed back onto the thwone, composed himsewf, and spoke up again. "Get me," Number 6,701 menaced, "the Swayew." A palpable silence fell over the throne room. "Did woo heaw me! I want the SWAYEW!" A number of werewolves rushed to fulfill their brother's request, while the rest went back to acting out a scene from "Ja'Mashann Eats Dinner," a popular play from the lands of Morrowind.

"No, muthsera, I did not eat your guar," one werewolf said in a fake-sounding Russian accent, "please do not hit me with your mace!" "Stupid Khajiit!" another werewolf said, "I'll have to do more than hit you with my mace! This is the third guar you've eaten!" The Russian-sounding werewolf quivered in dismay as the "Dark Elf" pulled out a saw, in preparation for the "face-removal" scene; the very scene that had lead to "Ja'Mashann Eats Dinner" being banned Tamriel-wide.

Next TIme: Our Heroes Confront Wolforain! Our Other Heroes Do Something Too, Maybe!

Werewolves with fake Russian accents? This just keeps getting better and better.

Well it's been forever since I last updated, so I'm going to try to update tomorrow. I might even try to follow what I wanted to do for "Next Time."

I look forward to that MT! >:]

Okay, so I lied, and today I'm going to update, as in right here, in this post.


Chapter VI: In Which Our Heroes Are Not Our Heroes At All, But Someone Entirely Different

While Our Merry Band of Heroes were busy valianting (valianting: the act of doing something valiant) against Number 6,701, or whatever that kid's name was, other stuff was also happening in other places (I know, crazy, right?), and I think it's about damn time that we find out what that other stuff was.

That Other Stuff

"But mother!" Prince Wynair cried out, "I don't want to go to the Imperial City! All of the people living there are addicts! Not to mention that Ocato fellow gives me the chills!" Prince Wynair suddenly stopped his whining, and instictively crouched, arms raised, in order to deflect any oncoming slaps from Queen Wyhor. Confused, Prince Wynair repeated himself; and yet still, his mother, the Queen, did not react.

"Mother? Are you... are you alright?" The only other time that Wynair had seen his mother like this was five years ago, when his father had mysteriously died in a bookstore accident. Wynair was never too certain on the details; all anyone would ever tell him was that "The stench was awful" or "Wynair, I'll tell you when you're older. But, to be frank, your father wasn't the brightest fellow, and he sort of impaled himself fifteen times on a quill, then poured the sort of magical ink wizards use into his wounds in an attempt to seal them. Naturally, the ink summoned a variety of daedra on contact with human blood, and after they were done eating his face off, your father tripped, fell backwards down the stairs, cracked his head on a low-hanging chandelier, and flung himself into a printing press to get away from the approaching Scamps. Look, I really don't like you, and I'm pretty sure you inheirited your father's idiotic nature, so I'll wrap this up by saying that the next time you read that copy of The Lusty Argonian Maid you have under your mattress, your father is watching you."

It frustrated Wynair that no-one had ever explained how his father had died; however, he was more concerned with the immediate problem. "Mother? I asked, are you all right?" Wyhor slowly turned to face her eldest son, who immediately let out a gasp of pure, triple x surprise.

For Wyhor's once beautiful face was marred with torn skin and gaping wounds; her eyes, once as brilliant as a clear noon-time sky, were now milky white and unseeing. "Mother? What has happened to your beauty?!" Wynair screamed in terror, scrambling back a few steps from his mother's disgusting features.

"This is my repayment," Wyhor began to cry, "I was the one who sent your father to that bookstore! It was I!" Wynair shrieked, then passed out, as blood, rather than tears, streamed out of his mother's eyes.

With an insane laugh, Ocato's Viewing Mirror of Seeing snapped off. "Yes, yes, yes," Ocato giggled maniacally, "butler! Get in here, now!" The immense, city-sized doors of Ocato's personal chambers swung open with a bang, revealing his butler, Beau T. Laire. "Yes, sah," Beau T. Laire drawled, "what do you require now?"

Ocato stared Beau T. Laire right in his eyes, then sinisterly whispered, "Get me Yachson Relandro." Beau T. Laire's normally composed composure decomposed before Ocato could finish his order, and the butler tried to stammer a reply. "You... you mean the Yachson Relandro? Bounty hunter extraordinaire? The twenty-first worshipper of Hircine?" Ocato nodded sinisterly. With an audible gulp, Beau T. Laire turned to do his master's bidding.

"Wait just a second, Beau," Ocato called out after his servant, "send another letter to the Whiner family, reminding them that the City has the best healers in all of Tamriel. Oh, and include some candy for the boy, and some perfume for the lady." As Beau T. Laire strode off to do his master's bidding, Ocato turned around in his wheeled chair to watch another dilemma, one that he most certainly did not orchestrate, but actually did.

Next Time: Yachson Relandro, Bounty Hunter, begins the Hunt for one of our Heroes!

Have we seen Prince Wynair before? He sounds familiar. Either that, or I'm just crazy.

I don't think so, but I write many one-and-done sort of characters the same.

Chapter VII: The Death of Nobody

After a few days of watching his many subjects fall to a variety of "accidents," Ocato had grown bored, and desperately required a new hobby. Currently, the High Chancellor of Tamriel was amusing himself by summoning powerful daedra to wreak havoc upon the comparatively hapless addicts of his once-fine city. However, as with his last hobby, the High Elf was quickly growing bored.

Ocato winced as one of his creatures, a particularly vicious bug-like daedra, paralyzed its target with a bolt of energy, and slowly started chopping the Orc to bits with its massive, spiny pincers. "These things are no fun," Ocato grimaced, "no chase involved, just killing! And how do they walk on water?!" With a sigh, the High Chancellor dispelled his daedra, and tore open an elf-sized hole to one of the realms of Oblivion.

Prancing through the hole, and the murky swamp that followed, Ocato reached his destination, and ripped open another hole, this one to his luxury suite. Another sigh crept out of the Highest of Chancellor's throat as he noted that the gemstone on his mirror was shining brightly, a signal that the Shadowy Figure wanted to speak with him.

Waving his finely-manicured hands through a mystic pass, Ocato activated the mirror; as the Figure materialized into view, Ocato poured himself a glass of the finest Daedric lava brandy money could buy.

"I thought ye gave up the drink?" the Figure growled, "Ye know, cause it 'makes ya tipsier than Sanguine on Get Drunk Off Yer [censored] Day?'" Ocato glared at the Shadowy Figure, then calmly finished his glass of lava brandy. "I seem to recall," Ocato replied, "that you claimed to be finished with that annoying accent your predecessor insisted upon using?"

The Shadowy Figure returned Ocato's glare, but then seemed to calm down. An area of lighter shadow spread across his face, signaling to the High Chancellor that the Figure was smiling. "Of course, of course, how could I forget..." the Shadowy Figure purred, "How goes the search for the elusive woman?" "So far, no success," Ocato sighed, "however, I've sent Beau out to enlist the skills of one Yachson Relandro."

Suddenly, Ocato felt an intese pressure manifest in the room. "Wait a second, I can expla-" Ocato's jabbering was interrupted as the force tossed him across the room like some sort of floppy, boneless creature. Jellyfish!

"What do you mean, you can explain?" The Shadowy Figure roared, "Hiring that Relandro bastard! Do you know who he hunts for? Why he is so good at his trade?" Ocato screamed in pain as the force hurled him into an oddly low-hanging chandelier, and the subsequent spray of shattered glass momentarily blinded the High Chancellor.

"It's because he hunts for HIRCINE!" The Shadowy Figure screamed, "we agreed not to bring my competitors into this, you idiot! Remember? 'I'll find her as quietly as possible' were your exact words!" Quite suddenly, the pressure abated, and Ocato was able to stand upon his feet again. "Sir, please," Ocato whimpered, "I won't tell him a word. He'll find her, quietly, and be none the wiser. Just another capture to him, that's all!"

"It had better be, Ocato," The Shadowy Figure menaced, "because I am sick and tired of your incompetence. Find her, or I'll have your eyes!"

Next Time: Who Is Yachson Relandro Hunting For?

Sweet! werewolves!