Lord of the Rings Fanatics Plaza

Claude Frollo

What does one do when one is tired from stepping on plebs and heretics and doesn’t want to deal with the hunchback in the tower? One goes to the bar of course. Not the normal bar, heavens now. That sort of thing would not do at all. He was a man of certain comforts after all, and those certain comforts did not include having the breath in the exhalations of the unwashed masses. They smelled like dried, crusted over sewer and he was not going to deal with that. Not today of all days. What’s so special about today, one might ask? Well it was Thursday. On Thursdays, as well as Mondays and Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Friday, and Saturdays, with Sundays as an option.

He hated people. People were so smelly and so gross. Most of them couldn’t read either. And the women. Don’t get him started on the women! They were out and about as if they had never been told by their fathers to stay indoors! Men don’t need to see that when they are going about their godly business! Least of all him.

He was a very important man. One could tell just by looking at him. He was dressed in the finest silks, dyed. He disdained those poor unfortunate souls that had wear undyed wool. Couldn’t they do anything better with their lives? Honestly. It was like they wanted to be poor and destitute. And smelly.

Inside this pub, there was no smell of horse manure, no stench of a tanner down wind. He inhaled deeply, and coughed, breathing in the air just a little too deeply.

He looked dubiously at the menu, rolled his eyes (a maneuver he’d learned to perfect over the years dealing with people who used their fingers to count), and randomly selected. Was it likely to turn out horribly? That’s possible. Or the alchemical fusing of the elements could lend him the power he needed for his experiments below the church. And people had the gall to call him a sorcerer. He’d show them! He selected the gumbo… whatever that was.

He realized he was parched as well. He needed a drink. Why did that horridly skinny lady in the corner look like her face was split in two with that grin? He sniffed disdainfully in her direction and selected a drink: a mysterious foaming tankard.

Gaston LeGume

Being this handsome was so incredibly exhausting. The village didn't know the half of what went into making his impeccable physique quite so well...impeccable. Gaston had never claimed to be good with words, but he didn't need to be. Words were for nerds like that stupid Belle. Why be a nerd when you had these guns? He smiled into a tankard and flexed, admiring how his muscles looked as he worked them. He swaggered over to the menu, his eyes lighting up as he read it. "Well now, I see my reputation preceeds me! You even have a dish named after me!" He leaned in closer to Mother Gothel and admired her, running his eyes over her before finally steadily meeting hers. "How about a free omelet for Gaston the man himself?"

While he waited for a reply, he looked over the pub. The staff here actually seemed...much less stuck up than the rest of the idiots back in his village. Sure, he had his finger all over them, and sure, he loved his adoring fans, but it would be so nice to be around people that seemed to have...common interests. And he was still the most handsome man in the room. Especially given the creepy older fellow who was also getting a drink. Gaston resolved to talk to him after getting his food (and maybe one of those mystery drinks...)

Better play it safe for the moment. He didn't want to ruin a good omelet, he needed those eggs! How else was he supposed to get gains? He was protein packing, after all.

"Give me some of the stuff in the red bottle too, but maybe pour it into a tankard so it looks more manly?" he said under his voice, then winked at her.

It was time to find a new pub, at least for the time being. Fleeg and Reg had been kicked out of On the Rocks too many times of late. Fleeg couldn’t tell why they’d been kicked out so often lately. Was it because they nearly burned down the pub trying to recreate the purple flame incident? Possible but unlikely. Trying to lure down the Georges with a giant stinky cheese ball? Seemed too on brand for the ChAoS bRoS to cause that much of a stir. Creating a slip’n’slide through the kitchen? That might have been a little risky. Anyway, the point is they were going to have to wait a good couple of weeks before they could return to their normal haunt.

Fleeg was on the hunt for a new place to consume ridiculous amounts of alcohol and get up to some ChAoTiC sHeNaNiGaNs when he found this place. He had no idea what a Villain’s Pub was but if there was crazy stuff to drink, he was down for it. Reg was… well Fleeg wasn’t sure if he ChAoS bRuDeR would be joining him, Reg was notoriously picky when it came to bars. Fleeg had no idea why. Beer was beer, it was the chaOS they created that made the place fun.

There was one thing about this place that Fleeg thought he ought to try though. It was a Villain’s Pub and he had no idea what that meant. There were no villain’s in Mordor! There were only heroes and idiots. All the villains were in Gondor and Rohan. The decorations, though, suggested that this place was amendable to tons of nonvillains. He stood waiting outside the pub, examining the massive mural that had been crafted outside the pub. He noticed two figures down by the bottom left corner. A skinny looking greenish one with horns and a rotund red one with a large mouth. Wait a minute! He recognized those figures! Not too long ago he and Reg had done some experimenting (read into that whatever you will) and either ended up in a very strange hallucination or where actively pulled into a different dimension. In that hallucination/dimension, they had been dressed as those two. The costumes had been extremely uncomfortable though. Itchy and tight and accentuated all his bodily flaws. He would have to make new ones.

He spent several hours running around through the Black Market looking for just the right materials to use. He made sure Reg’s would be made out of the most uncomfortable fabric imaginable and his was as soft as a baby warg’s fur. He bought some iron wire to work as the tails, and two daggers for the horns on his costume. This was going to be fantastic! He dyed the fabrics the right color, accidently falling into his and thusly coming out the exact same shade of bluish green as his costume. Finally, though the goblin finished his work! He paraded around his abode, peacocking for his bride (who was still livid that they were married). Maybe he’d make her a costume and the three of them could cause some cHAoS! Wouldn’t that be fun? A thrown hammer aimed at his head suggested she would have to think about it.

He ran by Reg’s dump, literally it was dump the orc lived next to a giant pile of dead birds and used napkins, and left the costume at the door with a note that said “put this on.” He hoped Reg could read that. It was simple enough. As long as he didn’t eat it, everything would be fine.

Proudly dressed to impress, Fleeg made his way to the Villain’s Pub. Upon entering the pub, the goblin looked around. It was empty(ish)… for now. A wicked grin passed over his face as all sort of ChAoS came to his mind. There were a couple of people here already, a grumpy looking dude (Claude) who looked like he’d smelled the underside of Reg’s fingernails, and a super handsome guy (Gaston) that Fleeg felt an immediate affinity to (as a super handsome goblin).

“Allo!” he shouted to both of them at once seeing which would engage him first. He plopped on the bar’s counter and wiggled until his tail stopped going the wrong direction. He was famished after all the work he’d done to get here. He needed something to eat. “Hey! Can’t an imp get any service around here? I could eat a raw zebra flank, the state I’m in! And where’s the booze? All I see is a bunch of colors. Fah! Get me this blue jug… whatever it is.”

Reg was putzing about at home in his bachelor pad (trying to hang one measly unframed poster of his favorite band, The Wargs, on the wall) when he heard a scuffling outside the door. Who could that be? Having only just learned to read and write a tiny bit recently, he was still unused to receiving post. The mailgoblin had found this out the hard way when Reg tossed acid on him because he thought he was trying to break in and steal Reg’s precious few belongings.

He finished hanging the poster and pushed open the door (a bunch of sticks lashed together and propped outside the mouth of his cave). What he saw confounded him. He thought he’d gotten rid of that stupid Pain costume! How had it made its way back to him?? Had it followed him home from whatever bizarro world he and Fleeg has been transported to by the belly button fungus? Ahhh!

He stooped to pick it up, thinking he’d toss it into Orodruin at the next chance he got. A small slip of paper fluttered to the ground. Reg picked that up and slowly sounded out the words, just as stupid Art had instructed him. “Puh. Uht. Thuh. Iz. Awn. Poot thiz awn. Put this on. Put this on?!?” He roared with indignation at the costume. “Who do you think you are, giving me orders?”

Still, he put it on obediently because if the suit could follow him home, it could probably kill him if he dared defy it. It was itchy inside the suit, too small (somehow the suit had fit him better in the alternate dimension of shroomy goodness), and very warm. “Ugh,” Reg mumbled. He needed a drink. He waddled over to his cabinet and found it empty. Time to go find a pub.

He and Fleeg were not allowed in On the Rocks for the time being, which was fine with him because he didn’t want to see that weirdo shirtless bartender, anyway! So another pub it was. Long Pain tail trailing sadly and tiny wings flapping dully behind him, he made his way to a new place called The Snuggly Duckling. His friend Mô, an out of work bartender, had told him about it. Maybe Mô would be there! Or even stupid Fleeg, his stupid chAos BrO, but hopefully without his stupid bride.

He banged open the door dramatically and stood framed there as the chubby pink demon. He ran a hand through the weird hair affixed to the hood of his costume then stepped into the bar. His eyes flew immediately to the little blue figure at the bar. He’d recognize those Panic horns anywhere! It was his HerManO!

“Oi! You! Forkhead!” he barked as he approached his blue (wait, was Fleeg always blue? Reg had a bad memory, after all) pAl. “This here costume followed me home! Did yours follow you, too??”

Before Fleeg could speak, Reg turned to the bartender. “I wan’ that medium sized orange bottle. Six of ‘em.”

Gothel

Gothel hated people. They were all so small and petty and bothersome; whilst she did enjoy playing games with them, the idea of sitting with a whole heap of the unwashed in a tavern- serving them, no less - was nothing like her idea of a good time. But bills had to be paid and towers required some maintenance, and so it was with ill grace she had agreed to act as temporary landlady of The Snuggly Duckling, as whatever idiot had named the venue had gone on to a better place. Or something like that. Gothel didn’t actually care.

Her first patron bore an expression Gothel recognised as one she only too frequently wore herself: contempt. Gothel left him to his own thoughts as he selected a tankard, only to roll her eyes at the next: a handsome dingus. “Now then, Gaston, we don’t get anything in life for free, do we?” she chastised him, shaking a finger playfully under his nose.

She paused.

“No, we don’t,” she added, just in case he was too stupid to understand that. Chef Attila was already enthusiastically cracking the eggs - Gaston’s singular habit had already raised the price of eggs to an astonishing amount, which was why most pubs and eateries were now forced to keep their own chickens.

“Anything you drink would look manly, sonny,” Gothel continued reassuringly as she poured - “Not like these two, of course.”

She gestured with her eyebrows at the two comically dressed half-wits who had just elbowed the door open. “This pair of knock-kneed no-hopes couldn’t win a manliness competition against all the princesses in all the towers.”

Justice Frollo: The Mysterious Foaming Tankard makes you belch uncontrollably!
Gaston; your raspberry cocktail makes your voice high and squeaky!
Reg.... I mean; you’re going to be turned into a llama if you drink those orange bottles.

The Archdeacon swallowed the contents of the foaming tankard in a single, angry gulp. His anger had given him a thirst today, many thirsts. He was about to order another when his stomach roiled and gurgled. What was in this…

He belched. A loud, resounding guttural sound that echoed in Frollo’s ears. Suddenly the air about him smelled like the inside of an orphanage or an abattoir (they both smelled of leftovers). His eyes crossed as he swatted at the air, doing his best to disperse the foul air before it clung to him.

Again, his stomach roiled and hot, noxious air forced its way out of his mouth. He gagged. How could such a foul stench from inside him? He was aghast. He looked at the other patrons but all of them were so wrapped up in whatever it was they were doing, wait, were those imps? Foul demons! He stumbled out of his chair (was he sitting down, he couldn’t remember). And skittered a few feet before regaining his footing.

Again. The foul humid air surrounded him again and he wailed. “Oh angels of mercy! Protect me for this foul sorcery! You!” He glared at the bar mistress and pointed an accusing finger at her. This gesture had sent many a heretic to be broken on the wheel, to be burned as witches, to be hung as traitors and malcontents. This gesture had power!

Yet all that power was gone in an instant when, again, he belched. The sound rang through the rafters of the pub, dust, DUST! fell on him as a final humiliation. Then he burped again.

Sobbing, the archdeacon covered his face and ran to a dark corner of the bar when he could belch in peace.


“Manliness?!” The imp besuited goblin looked aghast at the server. How dare she insult him… and Reg, so much foully! “I will have you know that I am a goblin! I eat men for breakfast! A manliness contest is just an excuse for those hairless apes to dress up in leather, slather themselves in oil, and flex." Fleeg shuddered at the mental image of such a thing. Oh great goblin overlord save us all!

Thankfully, well maybe not, Reg distracted him and the image of human’s prancing about or doing whatever fled. “Did my suit follow me… what?” Fleeg knew his CHaoS HeRmAnO was dumb, but what was the orc onto now… oh! A devilish grin spread over Fleeg’s dyed blue lips so much that his teeth stuck out in at least seven different directions. “Yes… yes, Reg, my suit followed me home too. Did yours say anything to you? Perhaps a command?”

Fleeg continued grinning like a madman when the evil bar mistress set down six orange bottles in front of Reg. After watching that old fart belch himself into a crying fit, the goblin cum imp couldn’t wait to see what these did to Reg, taking a health drink from his own blue jug.


Trogdor was a man! Trogdor was dragon-man. Uh, Trogdor was just a dragon. But he had spent the enter night burninating the countryside and burninating all the peasants. He needed a break. And were does one go to rest after burninating all the thatched roof cottages? To the Snuggly Duckling!

What?

That’s right! Trogdor, being a man-sized dragon, could fit inside a pub with relative ease and comfort. He was a regular patron of the Snaggly Duckling. It was the best place to grab a drink and a bite to eat. He could relax and tell his stories about burnination and ruin here. He was Trogdor!

He waited until the night to enter the Snuggly Duck King because, of course, Trogdor comes in the night! He burst through the doors with a mighty fist and slithered his way to the bar.

“It is I again! Trogdor the Burninator! And I have tales of burnination to tell! I burninated the countryside! I burninated the peasants! And now I have a might thirst for…” he looked at the menu. Trogdor had never actually read the menu here at Snaggle Toothed Darling.

“I think I shall have this concoction.” Again, Trogdor did not read the menu, merely pointing at a random bit of squiggle on the menu, indicating the clear thin bottle.

Reg looked down and plucked at the side of his pink Pain costume. Was Gothel right? Was it less-than-manly!? No, no, that’s just what the stupid crone wanted him to think. He, Regdûsh, proud and hairy and besuited orc, would not be intimidated by the likes of her! He would not dignify her insult with a reply. Mainly because he couldn’t think of one.

“Arr, it wrote me a note.” Reg procured the little slip of paper which read “Put this on” and showed it to Fleeg. “Stupid Art taught me just enough to read it, an’ no more! What kind o' letter'd yours write you?”

Six orange bottles slid across the bar toward the pink, puffy Reg. “Ahh!” he sighed happily. This costume was bossy and ill-fitting. Alcohol would help with all of it.

He uncorked one bottle, then two, then three. He was just draining the alcohol from the fourth when a dragon-man (Trogdor) entered the pub. Reg stopped drinking long enough to exclaim, “Burnination! Just what ol’ weasel-breath here deserves.” He jerked his head at Fleeg.

Two bottles to go! Reg was feeling a little funny now. His suit was getting tighter! “Oi! Dung brains!” he screamed at Fleeg, who was right there. “Is your suit gettin’ tighter??” His neck suddenly itched. More booze. He downed the fifth and sixth bottles quickly. The sixth crashed to the floor as his hairy ham fist turned into a two-toed foot. “Grahhh!” he yelped in surprise. Reg was now sprouting wooly hair. More hair. So much hair. His neck elongated and his face transformed until there he sat, llama shaped body awkwardly perched on his bar stool and poking uncomfortably out of his Pain costume.

“What the flying fuuuuuu—!”

Gothel

Gothel had been distracted by the sight of her own reflection in a bottle. Huffing on the glass and wiping the smears from it, she peered a little closer, twisting her face this way and that. Hmmm. That wasn’t a new wrinkle, was it? Had that mole always been there?

“Still got it,” she decided with a half-satisfied little sigh, tossing her black curls luxuriantly. She couldn’t leave it too long, though, before she’d have to go crawling back to that ridiculous girl for more youthifying. Gothel sighed again more heavily and turned back to her “customers”.

A most peculiar creature had strutted into the venue. Gothel arched an eyebrow delicately, although she then had to stop herself from laugh-coughing as Claude Frollo emitted some truly spectacular noises that almost distracted her from the fact Trogdor was about. “Why, how.... charmed I am to have you here,” she purred, sliding the clear liquid over with some trepidation. Perhaps she should wet down some of the sacks in case of emergency Burnination.

At this point Reg amused everyone by turning into a llama.



The Blue Jug causes Fleeg to levitate: apologies, I missed that you had it.
The Clear Thin Bottle causes Trogdor to become Invisible...

Gaston LeGume

Gaston started to, having been lost in the marvelous way his muscles looked in his shirt. Surely no one else had ever worn a shirt quite so well as he. Certainly better than the two...the two...he stopped, unsure of what to call the little, annoying creatures that had wandered their way into the bar. Devils? Beasts? They didn't strike him as all that fearsome.

In fact, as one suddenly turned into a llama he couldn't help but burst out laughing at their antics. Only, what had happened to his voice? Whose laugh was that? Certainly not his, his laugh was far more manly than this child's chuckle emerging from his throat!

He covered his mouth in horror, trying not to meet Mother Gothel's eyes. The attractive woman surely was judging him for this. He gestured to Gothel in dismay, hoping that perhaps another bottle would change his voice back to normal. He pointed at his throat, then the bottle, hoping she knew what he meant without him having to utter a word. He scanned the room, hoping no one had noticed his embarrassment.

He hadn't counted on Claude Frollo collapsing in a fit of belches. It was just too much for Gaston, as he roared with laughter again, the child's voice echoing through the tavern.

If anyone from this tavern ever told anyone what had happened here, he'd kill them. For now, he enjoyed the old man sulking off to a corner to belch in peace. Well, if Gaston had to endure such embarrassment, so did Frollo! Gaston made his way over to the corner and sat down across from the older man.

"Sounds like you're having a rough time there too," Gaston said in his squeaky high voice. "I have some experience with that too...The name's Gaston. Handsomest man around and the best hunter for miles. What was your name again? Drollo?"