— A letter, expertly written and enclosed within thick, Bristol paper has been delivered erroneously to this office. There is no postage on the letter save for an ornately embossed ‘G’ in dark brown wax. There are strange gumming marks along one side of the envelope. It is crumbled along the edges and a fold crease not meant by the letter’s penman has developed. The paper itself holds a faint but ominous scent of sulfur. The ink is suspiciously dark red.
— On an unrelated note, there have been reports that a solitary goblin has been seen in the area. Do not approach him as, though alone, all goblins should be considered armed and dangerous. He was reported to be crying and mumbling to himself about getting lost and not remembering where ‘The Shire’ is and hoping his sister doesn’t get too angry at him. Again, please do not approach this goblin unless under the authority of the Royal Seal.
Deceptive ‘Doctor’ Dragon,
I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than your previous predicament. Indeed, I hope this letter finds you.
Firstly, I must laugh at your distress. Ha! A letter from Mordor in the Shire? How scandalous! How perverse and untoward! O unhappy bright night and sullen noonday sun! Save me from the plague of the six-meal-a-day men! Save me!
Dear dragon, you are, as I must point out, a dragon. A dragon.
A DRAGON. Why do you believe that your presence is less disruptive to the little folk than a letter from me? Is my mere suggestive, ethereal presence too much to bear? Dear black stars in the heavens! The last time the hobbits all got together to do something other than plan a buffet was a hundred years ago. I doubt they know what a witch is, less how to burn one. They only go in for the ‘-wiches’ and only in the most Old English (Anglo-Saxon is a bit of an erroneously applied descriptor) of ways. Accordingly, neither you nor your librarian have much to fear in the way of hobbits. Unless they decide to bombard you with devilled eggs, I think you will be safe.
My collection of heads is growing, thanks to you. I have yet to find an adequate taxidermist though, who can proficiently stave off the rot. Perhaps you can pass along my request to a contact of yours? Surely a dragon of your status, false doctor that you be, has contacts I can use? It would be most appreciated. I would hate for the heads you continuously supply to go too far to waste.
I am glad to see you are expanding your perceptions of pronouns and their social uses, we can teach old dragons new tricks after all. We goblins have always been more fluid in our use of them, but then again our concept of sex and gender differ significantly from what you might find in a Tark medical text (if you can even find a Tark medical text). Alongside the commonly used ‘she’, ‘he,’ and ‘they,’ we use an assortment of what can be called ‘neopronouns’ but those are numerous, difficult to translate meaningfully, and are still gaining traction within the community itself. Mordor has, despite what some may think, always been a place of acceptance and self-discovery. We are argumentative, prone to fighting, easily provoked, and sullen, but we are diverse and inclusive. Even the goblins from the state of ‘Texas’ believe in it strongly. However, I fear I am getting too meta for this particular letter so I will save my digression for a later correspondence.
Let us shift to the crux of this whole matter. You tell me to give you terms for an alliance, well, dear deceptive dragon, I want everything. Purely and simply. I want to rule the world as demiurge, as maniacal hell-god(ess), as supreme pooh-bah of air and darkness. Is that something you can provide me? What means and skills do you have to offer me to accomplish this goal? Nay, nay my good dragon. I cannot give you terms for an alliance. The goblins (and orcs and spiders, trolls, wraiths, ravens, bugs, and even wargs) of Mordor as more than happy to trumble and trample on and dance to the beat of our own black metal drums. It is a solitary life, filled with talking to oneself so often that identity gets muddled, but it is a life. What is it you desire? What, oh lying serpent, does your heart wish of Mordor? Surely your life is comfortable in the Shire, else you would not be so distraught that I sent a letter to you there. Why do you call upon the forces of chaos and moral greyness? I am the Harlan Ellison of this nuPlaza, sarcastic, meanspirited, and abrasive. What is it I can offer you? Tell me, sir. If the dominion of the world and all its knowledge is my goal, what is yours?
[
Here part of the letter is missing, it is smudged to illegibility and smells faintly of hempseed] —could possibly understand and so I will let that matter drop as well for now, though if dear Outis asks you about Polyphemus you will know what to do.
Moving on, a library would be nice. Something in Minas Morgul makes sense, though I sure as hell am not going to go traipsing about it right now, given what’s currently going on in that city. Perhaps, as an expert weaver of threads, you can manage something.
[
Much more of the letter is missing, seemingly crumpled so that the ink has been removed from the page] -siècle literature ought to be more studied and appreciated, sadly it is overwhelmed by a modernist movement and relegated to either ‘pulp trash’ or ‘decadent scandal’ Oh but what I would give for live readings of “Fleurs du Mal” in its original Black Speech. There’s nothing quite so perverse and overtly lurid.
Some day soon, you and I will have to talk in person. The little candles tell me you like talking cats and dwarven tea…
Yours unfaithfully,
Giqhohqha
P.S. – While I am not of the ‘punk’ persuasion, I do find the music to be quite invigorating and socially significant. My taste tend toward the more sinisterly environmental ‘atmospheric black metal’ and it’s offshoots
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@Chrysophylax Dives
