Here is the tale of a pig named Lord Snoutwit. Once the ruler of Silvera, he was cast into exile by the Mysidians and their Golem army, set upon a tiny steamship with a suitcase, a doll, a ceremonial silver sword, his frog butler Croakingham and just enough supplies to get him to Fabul's southern shores. It is an amusing story, which eventually amounts to nothing, and has no moral or especially happy ending to speak of waiting on the other side. It's just a funny little story about a Pig who would be King. * * * A great cheer rose up across the whole of the Silveran Islands once Snoutwit's steamer disappeared off the edge of the horizon. The Silverans were now free. Jubilation reigned now on the tiny islands in Eastern Crystal, and a festival was held to celebrate the end of the reign of Snoutwit. Aboard the steamer, however, the mood was decidedly more somber. Croakingham stood atop a high stool and manned the wheel, while Snoutwit lay collapsed upon the forward deck, sobbing. "Insolent peasants!" the Hogarch groaned, punctuating his curse with a phlegm-ridden snort. His flabby girth shook as he rolled himself onto his back, clapping his hoofed backhand onto the deck. "They are mistaken if they think they are rid of me. I am the Hogarch! I am Snoutwit!! I am... big and cool and powerful. And really smart, and good-looking, and sexually attractive." "You are, my Lord," Croakingham agreed, his left cheek twitching violently. He double checked the steamer's position on his map, estimating the time it would take the pair to reach Fabul. With great effort, Snoutwit stood. He rounded the wheelhouse and stepped in through the flimsy screen door. "Come about, Croakingham," Snoutwit ordered. "What?" the frog asked, turning to face the Hogarch. "But, my Lord... I had wanted to get us to Fabul before suppertime Friday... so that you would not have to suffer the sub-standard accomodations of this boat for very long..." Snoutwit landed a meaty fist into Croakingham's torso. With a splat, the frog flew into the wheelhouse's side window, then flopped down onto the hardwood floor. Uneasily, the frog stood, coughing up a small amount of blackish-red blood. "Stupid frog!" Snoutwit snorted, kicking aside the frog's stool and taking the wheel himself. "My Lord?" Croakingham managed, wiping the bloody spittle from his lips and straightening his butler's uniform. "We're not going to Fabul," he explained, as he took Croakingham's map and began to fold it into a captain's hat. "We'll make them sorry for doing this to us by becoming the scourge of the Silveran Seas! We'll become pirates, you and I, and waylay any ships inbound to our former domain! We'll STARVE them to death and then return to reign over their distended corpses!!" Snoutwit placed the map-hat atop his head, setting it down between his droopy pig-ears, and then drew his dented silver sword. "... My Lord, that is the only map we have aboard --" "Pirates don't need maps!!" Snoutwit bellowed, as he kicked Croakingham in the face. "They do, however, need hats. So I will use this for now." Snoutwit beheld the froggy butler for a moment, and then frowned. "You, however, appear to be hatless." "I am sorry... my Lord," Croakingham said wearily, coming back up onto his feet and nursing a swollen eye. Snoutwit laughed. "Fret not, my dear cabin frog. I am a kind and resourceful Captain... I will provide for you in your hatless state." Snoutwit supressed the urge to chortle madly as he continued: "Take off your pants." Croakingham sighed. "My Lord..." "TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS, STUPID FROG!!" Snoutwit roared angrilly, the nubs of his vestigial tusks showing from behind his lips as he did. Croakingham, defeated, unfastened his breeches and then slid them down his legs. He bunched them up in his hands and anticipated (with no small amount of dread) Snoutwit's next command. "Now," Snoutwit said, not really paying attention to the piloting of the boat, but rather fixing his eyes upon the jestering in which he was directing his froggish butler, "Wear your pants upon your head, and you will be properly hatted for piracy. DO IT NOW!!" And Croakingham did as ordered, placing his pants upon his head. Snoutwit beheld him, judging whether or not the frog looked appropriately piratey. "No," Snoutwit said, "No this won't do..." then, after a moment's thought: "I know! Wrap your pant-legs about your head like a turban." "... Do pirates wear turbans?" "THEY DO!!" Snoutwit roared, outraged at being questioned. For good measure, he lashed out and kicked Croakingham against the wall. Squealing at being attacked once more, Croakingham rebounded off the wall and then tumbled, face first, upon the floor. Wearily, Croakingham stood (the frog was possessed of an amazing level of resilience, and a preternatural threshhold of pain), and began to wrap his pants into a makeshift turban. For extra flair (because he had learned by this time how to impress Lord Snoutwit [and thus stave off a beating or three]), he produced his red handkerchief from his jacket's breast pocket, and secured it to the top of the turban-pants as a bow. Snoutwit smiled happily. "Very good, Croakingham!! Now, climb ye atop the main-mast and perch in the crow's nest. Seek out the first victims of our piracy!!" Croakingham moved toward the wheelhouse door, and peered aftward at the end of the tiny ship. "Begging your pardon, my Lord --" "Imbecile! Address me as Captain now!" "... my Captain... pardon --" "No," Snoutwit reconsidered, "Lord sounds better. Yes. I shall continue to be Lord Snoutwit. You will address me as Lord!!" "... my Lord," Croakingham waited to see if Snoutwit would change his mind again before continuing, "It appears we have no mast, sir. This is a steamship." Snoutwit honked madly and kicked Croakingham in the face. "I KNOW THIS!!" Snoutwit said loudly. He stormed outside the wheelhouse and moved midship, standing before the two parallel smokestacks. "Those things," Snoutwit said, "Those things, the puffy-smoke-things, that's what I wanted you to climb." "... the stacks, sir?" "Yes. And I knew what they were called." He kicked Croakingham again. "Climb up, cabin frog!! Climb up and spies-about with your looking glass!" Croakingham considered telling Snoutwit that he had no looking glass -- or that, in fact, what he was probably referring to was better called a "spyglass," and that a "looking glass" was, in fact, a mirror -- but apart from not wanting to be kicked or hit or slammed about again, the little frog had bigger problems before him. Such as how to climb up the effectively sheer surface of the towering iron smokestacks. As smokestacks went, these were fairly short -- the ship was, after all, scaled for humanoids the size of Silveran pigs (that is, 3'-4' tall). But even so, for the frog, it was still fairly daunting. Snoutwit stood watching Croakingham mentally puzzle how to go about climbing his way up to the top of the stacks. Croakingham, on the other hand, pretended that Snoutwit wasn't there, and waited patiently for the abusive former Hogarch to return to the wheelhouse. The pig cleared his throat and noisily slid his battered and tarnished sword into its sheath. "Well!?" "Well, my Lord," Croakingham said, "Oughtn't you... or somebody... be at the helm?" Snoutwit folded his arms. "Nice try, stupid frog. But I made sure to go to the bathroom before we left Silvera." Snoutwit beamed at his impressive display of knowledge of nautical terminology -- but decided to omit that he had, in actuallity, evacuated himself entirely on the Golems who had placed him under arrest, fearing that he would be smashed into spam in their large, stony hands. Croakingham blinked with his un-swollen eye. "No, my Lord... the helm, not the hea--" Suddenly, memories from months earlier, of the last time the frog dared correct one of Lord Snoutwit's verbal mix-ups, came rushing back into Croakingham's consciousness. Flashes of his time spent in the clinic, recovering from grievous injury, were also made known to him, as if his entire being were rallying together to prevent another such savage beating from taking place. "I mean," Croakingham said, framing his speech in a rather non-enraging way, "The wheel, my Lord, someone should be piloting the ship." "Pfeh," Snoutwit scoffed, "In this age of high technology, I'm sure this high technology ship can high-technologically pilot itself. Now make with the climbing." Croakingham turned to face the smokestacks. Each was a sheer black spike, a column of iron whose top was obscured by gouts of thick white steam, trailing behind the stacks like a wispy, cottony lion's mane before reluctantly dissipating into the air as the ship tugged along. The froggy butler squatted once or twice, warming up his amphibian jumping-legs, before finally leaping as high up as he could and then clinging to the stack's ruddy black surface with all four of his limbs. Snoutwit, standing off and watching with great amusement, could not help but laugh out loud at the sight of the tiny frog, with his pants on his head and naught but pink heart-emblazoned boxer shorts protecting his nether regions, as he attempted futilely to inch-worm his way up along the length of the stack. Snoutwit's attention was taken away from the spectacle of his highly entertaining butler by the sudden disappearance of the sun behind a curtain of ominously black clouds. Alarmed, Snoutwit looked to the sky. "Eh?" he grunted, "Where be have the sun did go?" Checking his watch, and then cowering for a moment, Snoutwit cried: "Croakingham! The sun's gone away, and it's not even lunchtime yet... What's it mean!?" The frog, clinging just inches above the deck (and not daring to give up the effort while the Hogarch was close enough to see it), turned away from the stack a moment and looked up at the sky. "It appears we are in for some spot of weather, my Lord," Croakingham declared. Snoutwit snorted. "I don't like the rain," he said. "I don't like getting wet. Croakingham, my uniform will be all wet..." "Leave us retire to the wheelhouse, then, my Lord?" Note the frog's strategic use of the pronoun "us," used in hopes that the Hogarch would follow suit in forgetting about his command to use his "looking glass" from the "crow's nest" in the interest of both exiles escaping from the rain. "You're right!!" Snoutwit said, purposefully. Croakingham uttered a relieved sigh, just as Snoutwit continued: "I had best get me in-of-doors, and in-of-windows, and in-of-peepy-holes, to guide my battleship through the maelstrom and keep my self-person dried. Croakingham! Continue scaling the main mast! Get up there in the crow's bed and keep your hourglass peeled for the icebergs!!" The frog began to cry. And, as could well be predicted, it began to rain. And then it continued to rain. And then it rained some more. And that's when the sea decided to join the rest of the Web of Worlds in turning against poor, poor, many-times-defeated Snoutwit. * * * If there was one word this author would use to describe the storm that Snoutwit and Croakingham found themselves in after being exiled from Silvera, that word would most assuredly be "Violent." Truly, a more violent storm had never been seen by either of the relatively nautically inexperienced Silveran exiles. The waves piled high on all sides of the tiny steamer, and they batted her about like a child's bathtoy. The wind and the rain cut across the steamer's decks with the anger and ferocity of an abused hamster set loose upon his master's unprotected fingers. And the flashing lightning and booming thunder, while not directly affecting the ship in any perceivable way, did much to lend to the violent atmosphere of the storm, and thus inspire new evacuation from the Hogarch's bladder (where previously we were lead to believe such additional evacuation was impossible). Croakingham's ordeal was a decidedly unpleasant one. Still unable to scale the sheer surface of the smokestacks, he instead clung to their base for dear life, as the sea water surged over the deck railing and washed over his tiny person. His naked legs were frigid and wracked with shivers; his tiny knuckles were whitish-green from his fast grip onto some extremity of the smokestack which had become his only lifeline. His makeshift pirate turban had long since washed away with the waves, leaving him no chance to recover from his pantsless state, even after the storm's passing. Snoutwit, while better protected from the elements of the storm than his companion, fared no better psychologically. He clung desperately to the wheel, in some vain effort to retain control over whatever domain was left to him; but soon enough he learned that the wheel would move of its own accord so long as the ocean raged beneath him. He screamed, in high-pitched, blood curdling reports, as he was twisted by the wheel, and thrown from side to side by the rocking motion of his vessel. The screen doors on either side of the wheelhouse did little to prevent the cold spray of the rain and ocean from reaching him; their frigid wetness soon had him all but drenched. The warmth that then began spreading out from his groin brought only momentary respite from the chill, for soon that warmth itself grew into additional cold. Snoutwit was moved to tears. Even his own piss had turned against him. His knees began to knock, and through his screaming his teeth began to chatter. His fingers were growing numb with cold, but he dared not let go of the wheel. "I am Lord Snoutwit!!" he managed, mustering whatever courage the bullying pig had within his squat little body, "I am your master! I beat my breast and curse you, elements! You shall not take me, do you hear?... I've blown farts that're stronger than you! YOU DON'T WANT NONE OF WHAT I GOT!... I will not go down quietly!" He followed through on this last promise by issuing forth a shrill, womanly scream as the wheel was twisted near clear around, jerking him to the side. He released only when he realized to hold on would mean breaking or losing one of his arms. And it was just as he let go of the spinning wheel that a massive wave hit the steamer's starboard side. The ship listed, tilting quickly, and Snoutwit toppled backward, smashing his head against the glass of the wheelhouse window. He felt at the back of his head as he stumbled forward, felt a warmth and a wetness. He began whimpering incoherently, and even as he began obsessing over the grievous, gaping cut in his scalp (a cut that, in his paranoid mind, of course must have severed something vital that would slowly bleed him to death), the rocking of the ship lurched him forward to be cold-cocked by the spinning rudder wheel. Stars and lightbeams splayed out before his rapidly darkening vision, and, like a sack of wet, peed-on potatoes, Lord Snoutwit collapsed to the floor of the wheelhouse. And the storm raged on all around him. * * * Snoutwit awoke in a great deal of pain, but found, much to his relief, that he was still very much alive. The pain, uncomfortable as it was, was evidence of this. And so, in a strange way, he was glad to be feeling it. Snoutwit rolled himself onto his back, sat up straight and began coughing. His mouth was full of wet sand, which he spat out to the best of his ability. Surveying his surroundings, the Hogarch noted that the storm had stopped -- possibly very long ago. The sky was now a pleasant, un-stormy blue, with fluffy white non-angry clouds floating by rather pleasantly; the sea, likewise, was calm and relatively still. The Hogarch was sitting on a sandy beach, his feet at the edge of the foamy surf, and his steamship-of-exile slowly sinking a ways out to sea. Lying a few feet away from Snoutwit, Croakingham was face-down in the sand, contentedly passed out (and still rather pantsless). Snoutwit stood, his first attempt a rather shaky one. He reached up and felt at the back of his head, there finding that a bloody scab had formed over the tiny cut on his scalp. He then moved to feel at his jaw, where the wheel had struck him. It was quite swollen, though he had luckily lost no teeth from the blow. The dazed Snoutwit victoriously staggered toward the unconscious Croakingham. He prodded the frogservant with his foot. "Croakingham!" the pig said. "Wake up! Wake up, stupid frog -- we're alive! I've done it again: the mighty Lord Snoutwit has bested the elements themselves and saved us both from certain doom!!" Croakingham (who was exhausted from the swim ashore, having carried Snoutwit's unconscious form with him away from the wreck and toward the safety of the beach) stirred just enough to groan. This enraged Snoutwit, and he stomped on the disobedient frog. Croakingham screamed and squirmed, his limbs flailing desperately from underneath the fascist pig's squishing boot-heel. "I said wake up, you worthless amphibian poop-pile! We have to find food, because I'm hungry! And then we have to find a way to cook the food, because I like my food cooked. And then we have to find a toilet, because I'm too fat to squat very well -- and then I'm going to need your jacket to wipe myself, because there's no way I'm doing the banana-leaf thing..." Snoutwit removed his foot, and wearily the froggy butler came to his feet. He brushed the sand off his remaining clothes and bare legs, and then shook out his head. "Now then," Snoutwit declared, "I suppose we can wait a few hours, before I am forced to resort to cannibalism. Although, you being a frog, and far beneath me on the food chain, I suppose it wouldn't technically be 'cannibalism,' technically speaking, on technicality. But nevertheless, we are brothers, technically, in the fraternity of brotherly brotherhood together, as brothers, ousted members of the rightful regime of Silvera, and so we must band together, as might individuals who are technically brothers, in our time of brotherly need. At least for a little while. But I will eat you if I have to, my brother. Because my survival is important, if we are to make our glorious return. Or, I suppose, technically, if I am to make my glorious return. Cuz you could very well be dead, eaten and recycled as pig-poo by that time, couldn't you? Yes... yes indeed... you very well... could..." Snoutwit began to oggle Croakingham's legs, imagining that they might taste something like spicy chicken wings. He inadvertantly began to drool. "My Lord?..." Croakingham said, trepidly. "... Hot sauce?" Snoutwit replied, as he was ripped from a delicious reverie. "I suggest we head inland, and explore our surroundings a bit. It is possible we made it all the way to Fabul after all; no way of knowing where or how far the storm blew us from Silvera's waters." "Right you are," Snoutwit declared, "But first, I see that my possessions are still aboard our sinking vessel. Go, yon amphibian, and salvage for me my Presidential Suitcase and Dolly -- both of which I hold more dear than your simpering, pathetic life." Croakingham looked out to the sea; no trace of the steamer yet remained above the waterline. He looked up at Snoutwit apologetically. "My Lord..." "MY LORD NOTHING!" Snoutwit cried, as he lifted the pantsless froggish butler up in his hands, "You get out there and save my Dolly, or so help me I'll... I'll..." Unable to come up with an especially intimidating threat, Snoutwit turned to face the water and drop-kicked the screaming frog as far out as he could manage. It was then that Snoutwit heard a fell voice upon the air. This fell voice was then answered by another voice of equal fellness, and then a third which may have actually been a touch feller than the previous two. Turning in the direction of the fellitudinous voiceage, the castaway exiled Hogarch Snoutwit beheld a sight that paralyzed him with fear. His feet rooted themselves into the sand, his drooping pink ears perked up and stood nearly on end and, once more, the urine flowed freely down Snoutwit's quivering legs. The beach arced up into a rise, over the top of which a few palm trees and desert scrubs could be seen. Over this rise, and toward Snoutwit's position on the shore, three riders approached. They were clothed entirely in white: robes, turban and a scarf drawn across the face so that only the eyes and hands were exposed. The men were mounted on alabaster-white camels, and they urged these mounts to such speeds that Snoutwit guessed their intentions could only be violent. The pig's mind raced for the appropriate form of grovelling to undertake, but his mouth insisted that remaining completely agape, locked in a frightened expression, as all the blood drained from his face, was the best way to ensure survival of this encounter. His knees, likewise, refused to bend (whether to run away like a frightened girl, or to fall into the sand and plead for his life), insisting that they must remain locked in order to assure the efficient flow of urine from groin to feet. The riders arrived swiftly, as though carried on the wind itself. They encircled the paralyzed piggy, then began conferring with one another, in a language Snoutwit did not understand. Finally, one of them eased his mount up closer to Snoutwit (who had begun to hope that the riders would mistake him for an especially lifelike piece of beach statuary, and so continued to remain utterly still), reached over and hefted the Hogarch effortlessly onto his lap. The rider then cringed and made some complaint to his companions, who both started laughing. Noting that the rider was wiping his hand on the camel's fur, and that it was the same hand that had come into contact with the pee-pee wetness of Snoutwit's bottom, the Hogarch grinned triumphantly. Take that, mysterious white rider!! You kidnap the mighty Snoutwit at great cost to your sanitary wellbeing!! Croakingham emerged from the surf just then, draped in seaweed and carrying along with him a very soggy Dolly and Lord Snoutwit's precious suitcase. One of the other two riders leapt immediately into action at this, vaulting out of his saddle and sprinting toward the bewildered frog. Croakingham screamed and tried (in vain) to scamper away before he was abducted as well, and when the frog's captor had mounted up again the three white riders made their way back over the rise and into the desert. In the distance, Snoutwit thought he could make out the shimmering white dome of a structure of some kind. * * * It was indeed a structure that Snoutwit had beheld, from his vantage point in the lap of his camel-riding captor: a magnificent white palace with am immense, onion-shaped dome resting on its top. Four white towers, boasting smaller onion-domes, flanked it at each corner, and sprawling out before the palace was a vast city of white tents, whose canvas and flying pennants rippled in the gentle desert breeze. More white camels, like the ones which Snoutwit's captors rode, mulled freely about the tent-city, grazing on the scrub brush or sipping happily from wells which seemed to overflow with sparkling blue water. The three riders, keeping their mounts at full gallop, rushed through the tent city toward the palace gates, which folded open well in advance of the riders' approach. Once past the gates, the riders skillfully drove their mounts through the winding streets of the city inside the palace. Though covered near completely by the massive white onion-dome, the expansive city within seemed lit as though by full daylight. At last, the riders came to a tower at the palace's center -- or what Snoutwit assumed was its center, for the gate which they had passed through was nowhere to be seen. The structure, which was tall and circular and stretched up as far as Snoutwit could see, boasted single archway, rimmed with gold foil, which lead into what looked like a garden of some sort. The riders roughly threw Snoutwit and Croakingham to the floor before the tower as they dismounted, then barked at the two hapless Silverans in their strange, incomprehensible language as they pointed angrily toward the archway. "You first," Snoutwit snapped at the frog, batting him roughly on the side of the head. This earned Snoutwit a scornful rebuke from one of the riders, who kicked the Hogarch in the rump. "Ow!!" Snoutwit squealed. "Watch it! Do you know who I am?" The rider kicked Snoutwit again, and he whimpered and begged for them to stop hurting him. The pig pathetically scampered forward, through the open door, followed closely by Croakingham (who derived some small, secret pleasure out of seeing Snoutwit take a beating of his own). The three riders roughly escorted the pig and frog inside, and there they found that it was, in fact, a garden within the tower. Again, strange -- for this garden was inside a tower, which itself it seemed was inside the massive white-domed palace, and yet within it was bright as day, as though the sun still shone down from above. Enthroned among the exotic and bizarre flowers of the garden, with his seat within the flower beds themselves, his bare brown feet resting idly in a brilliantly blue pond, and each of his hands resting in the lap of a beautiful woman, was a man of similar build and dress as the three riders. Unlike the riders, the enthroned man had a magnificent blue-and-gold peacock feather sprouting from the front of his turban, and his curling mustache and long, flowing white beard were decorated by dangling silver-and-gold jewelry. (Snoutwit decided that, should he ever return to Silvera, a peacock feather or two would be nice to have in the new wardrobe.) The three riders bowed their heads and removed their scarves before the peacock-feather-wearing person. They nudged Snoutwit closer, as the enthroned one spoke: "Mortal, you stand in awe before Prince Ramuh Husam al-Balil ben Nafhat al-Yugayyim, the North Wind, Master of the Clouds and Son of the Breezes, Defender of the Heavens, Prince of the Four Winds, Commander of Birds, Righteous Potentate of Storms and Master of the Air. At your back, the men who brought you to me are my kinsmen... my son Marrake the South Wind, and his twin sons Durrat and Kabril, the East and West Winds, respectively. Together we are the Lords of Tempests, Masters of the Island Where the Wind is Born and Stewards of the Palazzo of the North Wind." Snoutwit furrowed his brow. He was not one to be outdone in the area of Flourishy Titles. "Well... you, you... feather-wearin'... guy... are sitting on flowers before Lord Snoutwit... Von Piggingburgh... Esquire... the Third... the Magnificent... once and future Hogarch of Silvera... errm... and the... the... Home of the Big Splat... umm... and Land of the Brave!... With Liberty and Justice for All! And this, here, by my side, is Croakingham... Cleaner of my Toilet... Wiper of my Asscrack... Sufferer of my Southern Wind... Him Who Doth Cook For and Clean Up After and Bathe the Great Lord Snoutwit!!" The Prince took in a breath, which resounded as the wind thrushing through reeds. The woman seated at his right reached up to stroke the Prince's long, beautiful white beard, sensing somehow that it was his wish to do so. The Prince smiled contentedly as his eyes fell again upon the ragged-looking fascist pig. "Do you know why you are here... Lord Snoutwit?" "Boat go down de hole," Snoutwit explained. "Yes," the Prince said. "Yes it did. But prior to your shipwreck, you were caught within my storm, little piglet. And you dared, in all your mortal presumption, to challenge me as you stood squealing at the helm of your dying ship." Snoutwit narrowed his eyes. "I'll have you know, I was not squealing. I was... shouting... a death cry!... no, a deathly battlecry!!" Behind the pig, one of the three riders, the one who was called the South Wind, drew his sword and rested it on Snoutwit's shoulder. The Hogarch's bravado melted away, and he began to bawl like a little baby. The Prince smiled. "You are in luck, bold Lord Snoutwit. I am impressed by mortal acts of bravery... and yours, staring me down in the face of the icy teeth of my rainstorm, the shattering roar of my thunder and the pounding crash of my waves, has touched me to my core." "... oh gods, please don't kill me..." Snoutwit managed, as he collapsed onto his knees and broke down into pathetic sobs. The South, East and West winds exchanged glances. "Yea," the Prince continued, "Where other spirits, who hold court over the elements, might smite you for your insolence... instead I would seek to show my great nobility and reward you. For truly, in the worlds that mortals hold sway over these days, it is courage above all things that seems lacking. Courage in the face of oppression, overwhelming odds, and corrupt systems of mortal governance that desperately need changing... Snoutwit, I saw in you, in the midst of that storm of mine, the courage that could re-shape this Web of Worlds into a much better place." Snoutwit sniffled and wiped his nose with the dirty sleeve of his once white uniform coat. "... Huh?" he said, as another sob was in the works. Behind the pig, the South wind rolled his eyes. He spoke, addressing Prince Ramuh, in the tongue that Snoutwit had heard the three Winds use before. "Silence, Marrake!" the Prince said, "And put away your sword, my son. Lord Snoutwit is a guest here in the Palazzo of the North Wind: he shall be in attendance tonight at a banquet held in his honor!" The Prince clapped his hands. "Durrat! Kabril! Most honored grandsons of mine: take Lord Snoutwit and his Croakingham to the Bath House to freshen up, and provide them with the finest silks to wear at the banquet. The Lord of Silvera sups only after he has been pampered to all the magnificent limits of the North Wind's hospitality!!" The East and West winds stepped forward and took hold of Snoutwit, raising him up roughly. "No!" Snoutwit cried (having ignored most of what the North Wind had said, because he was so focused on grovelling for his life), "Not me! It was the FROG! The FROG'S the one you want!! It was him, all him!! Please!! Oh god please!! I have a wife and seventeen piglets, you wouldn't rob them of their kind Father Snoutwit would you? Snoutwit? Who's this 'Snoutwit'!?!? My name's not Snoutwit, it's Bernard Pettelbaum!!... just kill me quick, I promise I'll talk, anything you want to know! Pleeeeeeeaaaaaaase, oh god!!" * * * The South, East and West winds looked on as Croakingham and Snoutwit luxuriated in the steaming hot tubs of the Palazzo of the North Wind's Bath House. Marrake, the South Wind, simply shook his head ashamedly. The East and West winds looked upon their father with concern. He had been brooding ever since the North Wind had commanded them to fetch the pig and the frog from the beaches, and his scowl had only deepened since the pig's audience before the Prince had concluded. The South Wind did obviously not approve of how the North Wind seemed to dote on this strange-mannered pig from the mortal realm. "Father," said Durrat, the East Wind, "Even silently, how can you question the infinite wisdom of our Grandfather, who is your father, the North Wind, whose divine breath courses through us all? He is greater than we, older than we, and surely he does know better." Marrake looked down at his son in disgust. Both Durrat and Kabril were significantly younger; their mustaches were still quite short, and their faces unmarked by the lines of worry and age. "My father the Prince grows weak, in his mind if not his body. He has ruled the skies for many mortal ages now... no doubt, the pressures of a rule so infinite have finally encroached upon his sanity. Surely, my sons, you must see it, or else you are blind, and I have failed as a father in teaching you to see with your own eyes, to think for yourselves." The East and West winds looked at each other. "... I have seen it, father," Kabril, the West Wind, said. "But we cannot speak more openly than this against our Grandfather. It goes against all propriety." "Bullshit," Marrake spat. He was relieved that his sons were not stupid, but they still had to be weaned of their naivete. "His madness will drag us down with him. And mark me, it will be that pig there who begins our decline. The Prince means to give him Wishes." The East and West Winds evidenced their shock at this, looking first to each other, and then to their father, the South Wind. "Is it so?" asked Durrat. "How can you know this?" asked Kabril. Marrake sighed. "The Prince is my father... and just as you two have come to know my mind, so do I say that I know the mind of the Prince -- in whatever state it exists. What else can be meant when he speaks of gifting a mortal with a reward? What else do we have in our power that a mortal could possibly want?" "... You mean aside from our caverns filled with hundreds of thousands of tons of gold and gems, or our exotic, curvaceous spirit-world women?" Durrat asked. "... Shut up, boy," Marrake chided, reaching out and thwapping the East Wind in the head. Kabril edged closer. "Father. If something must be done, to save the Palazzo and our homeland... then I am with you. What shall we do?" Marrake shook his head. "Nothing. For now. If the Prince wants to give the pig Wishes... there is nothing we can do to stop him. We just need to be ready to clean up the pig's mess, if necessary. In the meantime, give no voice to our discontent -- from here until I deem proper, we are silent on the matter, and betray nothing of this to even the closest of our servants, lest the Prince discover how we disapprove." The South, East and West Winds looked again into the baths, where they witnessed the tail end of a water war between the child-like Silveran exiles. Marrake sighed. "... let us pray to UL that our efforts will be enough." * * * The banquet hall was immense. Prince Ramuh sat enthroned at its head, again in a bed of exotic flowers. He was surrounded by a vast throng of courtiers and attendants, who stood about with their hands upraised in an attitude of perpetual salutation, lest at any moment Ramuh should turn in their direction and think that they were not sufficiently servile. Long tables, sheathed in linens of the purest, cleanest white, ran along the expansive and endless length of the banquet hall, leaving open at its center a space where musicians and the Prince's harim were performing and dancing. One of the Prince's serving eunuchs stood amid the twirling silken dances of the harim girls, and served as cantor, singing melodiously in the tongue of the Wind Lords. At the Prince's side, Lord Snoutwit sat, in his own miniaturized throne. He was regailed as though a tiny, porcine mockery of Ramuh: white, flowing robes, peacock-plumed white turban, and in place of the Prince's twisting rod of office, the staff that is called Judgement Bolt, Snoutwit bore his dented silver sabre, wielding it proudly despite the obvious bends, tarnishes, and its desperate need of sharpening. Snoutwit was even permitted to sit upon a throne of flowers, a gesture of great honor in the realm of the Wind Lords whose significance was entirely lost upon the gluttonous Hogarch. He gorged himself on every delicacy set before him, without waiting for an explanation of what it was he would be eating, how it was prepared or which of the many Web cultures it came from. Rather than taking offense at this, Ramuh found it rather charming, and encouraged Snoutwit on, demanding more and more and more food to be piled onto the Hogarch's plate. When he had been sated enough that he could take a pause from his eating to speak, Snoutwit turned his attention to the revellers. Not to be outdone by the singing eunuch and dancing Harim girls, Snoutwit decided that he would present for the Prince a grand display of Silveran cultural dance. "Truly?" Ramuh said, his smile up-turning both ends of his grand mustache, "I say it should be a delight, Lord Snoutwit! Please, do grace us with the musical boons your homeland has to offer!" Snoutwit smiled pleasantly, sat up straight in his throne, and called out: "CROAKINGHAM!!" The frog emerged from beneath the table, quickly scaling up the table cloth and coming to a ready posture before his Lord. He was garbed in the manner which Snoutwit had advised: in miniature silks not unlike those sported by the Prince's Harim. The silken, powder-blue top hugged his torso and bore his pale green midriff; transparent veils clung to his arms and obscured his wide, froggish mouth, and his flowing, poofy silken pantaloons swayed gently as he walked. The ensemble was accentuated by a silver toe-ring affixed to each foot, upon which there were no shoes or slippers of any kind, and a silver waistlet which jingled as the froggy butler shook his hips. "... My Lord?" Croakingham asked, enduring the embarrassment of his wardrobe. Snoutwit spoke, even as he struggled to contain his boisterous laughter at the frog's transvestite humiliation: "Croakingham, you must now display for our most excellent hosts and hostessessesses the traditional song and dancing of the Silveran Islands." "... my Lord, what traditional song and dancing?" the frog asked. Snoutwit lifted the pewter goblet at his side (which he had only just emptied) and flung it at the frog, who only barely was able to dodge the incoming vessel. "DO THE GODDAMN DANCE, STUPID FROG!! AND ALSO THE SINGING!! THE TRADITIONAL SINGING AND DANCING OF THE GODDAMN SILVERAN ISLANDS!!" Snoutwit raged. And Ramuh stood from his throne, and raised the Judgement Bolt up in his hand, and at this the entire hall grew quiet: the eunuch ceased his singing, the musicians halted their playing, and the Harim girls stopped in mid-dance. All eyes turned to the head table, anticipating that the Prince of the North Wind would now speak. "Servants, children and friends," Ramuh said, "Be still a moment and cast your eyes here, for our mortal guests will now perform for us... a song and dance number!" The hall then fell into total silence as all eyes locked on poor Croakingham, standing there in drag on the head table. What then followed were the most embarrassing three minutes of Croakingham's life. He pranced from side to side, tapping (even in the absence of his tap-shoes) and swaying his arms, looking absolutely ridiculous given his get-up. All the while, he sang the words to the only song that would come to mind:        "When I was a little bitty boy        My grandmother bought me a cute little toy        Silver bells hanging on a string,        She told me it was my ding-a-ling-a-ling!        Oh, my ding-a-ling, my ding-a-ling,        I want you to play with my ding-a-ling.        My ding-a-ling, my ding-a-ling,        I want you to play with my ding-a-ling.        And then mama took me to grammar school,        But I stopped off in the vestibule.        Every time that bell would ring,        Catch me playing with my ding-a-ling-a-ling!        Oh, my ding-a-ling, my ding-a-ling,        I want you to play with my ding-a-ling.        My ding-a-ling, my ding-a-ling,        I want you to play with my ding-a-ling." Four more verses of "My Ding-A-Ling" remained, and then an encore was demanded by everyone in the hall. For the encore, the Prince's musicians improvised a melody, and the eunuch cantor (ironically enough) played back-up singer for Croakingham on the chorus. The Harim gathered around the head table and mimicked Croakingham's jerky, uncoordinated prancing, believing it to be a rigorously laid-out and traditionally handed-down Silveran folk dance of some kind. By the end of it, everyone in the Palazzo of the North Wind was humming the tune, and it would not be unusual, years later, to hear folk singing the chorus to themselves as they engaged in some labor or other. Everyone was in agreement that night that Croakingham's performance had demonstrated the inherent superiority of Silvera's culture to that of any other realm in which the wind blew. * * * After the banquet, Ramuh brought Snoutwit alone into his garden. It was nighttime now, and the stars shone brightly in the... ceiling above?... "Lord Snoutwit," Ramuh began, "I am well-pleased. First, impressed by your courage... and now, enthralled by your Croakingham's song. Now we come, my mortal friend, to the part where we speak on your reward." Snoutwit smiled. "Would you mind writing out a check, big guy? Croakingham can only carry so much, and I only brought one suitcase besides." Ramuh laughed. "Oh, Snoutwit. Such... wit. And humor. No, dear dear little mortal, what I have to give you is quite small. But the amount to which it shall be rewarding for you is limited only by your imagination." And Ramuh drew, from behind the folds of his robe, a small silver chain, upon which hung three tiny silver bells. With a smile, Ramuh introduced it: "My Ding-A-Ling." Snoutwit cringed as Ramuh pressed the chain-of-bells into his hand. "Each bell upon my Ding-A-Ling," Ramuh explained, "Contains a Wish. Woven from the threads of Time and Fate, these are my gifts to you. I could not trust such power in the hands of any other mortal... but you, Snoutwit, are obviously something greater than the rest." "Cool!" Snoutwit snorted, jingling the chain -- only to find that the bells made no noise. "How I work it?" "The bells remain silent," Ramuh said, "Until they are activated. Each bell may ring but once before its magic fades, and with its ringing it will grant your wish. To make a wish... you simply need to rub it. Rub my Ding-A-Ling." "Eww," Snoutwit said, his face scrunching up. Snoutwit then considered the Ding-A-Ling, and asked: "So... I can wish for anything, then?" "Yes," Ramuh said. "Anything, my friend. Anything you should desire." Snoutwit blinked. "Well. Okay then..." Snoutwit decided that there was really only one thing in the mortal world he wanted. Rubbing the Ding-A-Ling, Snoutwit said: "Oh magical Ding-A-Ling, I rub you so much!! Grant me the ability to teleport!!" One of the bells, rather than ringing, simply exploded and turned to ash. A deathly chill ran up Snoutwit's spine; he felt as if, somehow, he had grievously offended some power in the Heavens. "Oh, Snoutwit," said Prince Ramuh, shaking his head. "I should have warned you... there are a few things you simply cannot wish for. One of them is teleportation, for this is simply something that is beyond the ability of my magics to grant." "... so... I just wish for something else, right?" Ramuh laughed. "Oh, silly, silly Snoutwit. You've lost that wish, but fret not. You will still be able to do much good in the mortal world with the two wishes you have left." Snoutwit grumbled, and, rubbing the Ding-A-Ling, he chanted: "Oh magical Ding-A-Ling, I rub you so much!!..." and then he thought carefully for a moment about how to word his next wish. He thought, at first, that his second wish would be to rule Silvera forever... but, now that it came to it, why should he settle for merely ruling Silvera? With a cunning grin, Snoutwit held the Ding-A-Ling aloft and said: "I wish to be the absolute, uncontested and universally feared ruler of the Web of Worlds!" And then a misty haze obscurred Snoutwit's vision. He coughed, and stumbled as the mist grew ever thick. When it cleared, he was no longer in the Palazzo of the North Wind. * * * Snoutwit awoke with a start. "... Hot sauce!?" He stammered, as he took stock of his surroundings. He was dressed in a manner that he did not recall; in place of the fine white robes Prince Ramuh had granted him, he was wearing yellow satin pajamas with the sun-sword insignia of the Grand Army emblazoned upon the breast pocket. He was lying in a bed that was far too large for his tiny body, and standing at the foot of the ridiculously long bed was... "Celiose!??" Snoutwit gasped. "Good morning, sir," Celiose said. "I've cleaned and pressed your dress uniform, Generalissimo, sir. I can fetch it for you, if you like. You'd best be up now, though, because the festivities will be beginning soon." "... Festivities?" Celiose nodded. "Yes, sir. Have you forgotten? Fourteen years since you won the Great War." The aide mused. "It's funny, you know... it seems like it's been so much longer. I can't even remember the last time we had a major war in the Web." Snoutwit began to piece together what had happened. He remembered the storm, and the white riders, and Prince Ramuh, and Croakingham's Ding-A-Ling dance. And then he remembered the Ding-A-Ling itself, and found that it was still clutched in his hands. Two of its bells were now gone; only one remained. "Errm... Celiose..." Snoutwit said, "Indulge me for a moment. You say that it's been fourteen years since I won the Great War?" "Oh yes, sir," Celiose said. "You defeated Burzmale of the Dark Wrath in single combat at the Battle of Baron. Thus ending the Great War, and bringing about the Reign of Snoutwit, which has featured a time of boundless peace and prosperity for all the people of the Web. You are truly a great and noble man." Snoutwit cackled victoriously. "Ha ha ha!!" he laughed, punctuating his laughter with a loud snort. "And you are my butler, Celiose?" "I am your Aide, sir," Celiose said. "I have always been a great admirer of yours, Generalissimo, sir. I would do anything for you." Snoutwit smiled. "Excellent!" he hopped out of his bed and clapped his hands. "Then fetch me my dress uniform so the party can get started!! But first..." Snoutwit grinned. "Take off your pants." * * * GAHQ in Silvera was built out of the old Presidential Palace. It was here, as the Dark Wrath's forces dominated the Esper and Dragon Dimensions, that the Grand Army Charter was signed by the leaders of Tasnica, Pandora, Figaro, Doma, Eblan, Mysidia, Toroia, Fabul, Damcyan, the Underground Kingdom, Hyrule -- and, of course, the Charter's founding and most important member, Silvera. The modern leaders of these nations were all in attendance for the fourteen-year celebration of the end of the Great War; for it was set down in the Charter at the Great War's end that a "big ass party" would be held in Silvera every seven years to commemorate Snoutwit's "genius in defeating the Dark Wrath." As part of paying their membership dues to the Alliance, all member states were required to send their leader to this party, and this leader was required to kiss the Generalissimo's feet and present him with a "very, very, very, very, very expensive gift." Kenny Brackhaven needed some help lowering himself so that he could fulfill his duties to the Charter, applying his puckered lips to Lord Snoutwit's shiny little black boots. Standing again, with the aid of those who had helped lower him, he and the Tasnican delegation presented the Generalissimo with his very own personal Seraphim mecha, which they called SkyPork 1. "It can fly," Kenny explained, "And shoot missiles, walk around like a person, hold and fire an overly-large gun... maybe transform into a jet, things of this nature." The Crystal States (who had been united under Silvera since even before the Great War) had some difficulty at first in deciding what to bring. Despite being Snoutwit's closest allies (as they were his neighbors in the Crystal Dimension), the delegates had absolutely no idea what they could possibly give him. In the end, each of the Crystalese leaders settled on spending insane amounts of money procuring many gems and rare pieces of art for the Generalissimo -- except for King Edge of Eblan, who gave Snoutwit a rare and authentic suit of samurai armor, which helped him trump his neighbors in Crystal in the race to win Snoutwit's favor. (Tally Quorsen of Toroia and Vortigern Pax of Mysidia did nothing but shoot the Eblanese King dirty looks for the rest of the party) The Scandians were represented by Travin. Travin was well known throughout the Web as an admirer of Snoutwit's; he and everyone in his dimension had been saved by the Grand Army from total annihilation, and now the entire socialist state of the Scandian League was devoted to worshipping Snoutwit. Travin had become Chairman of the All Union Socialist Party (Of the Dragon Dimension) by riding Snoutwit's coattails; he had become a high priest of sorts, a devotee of the Generalissimo, and he claimed to rule Scande only by Snoutwit's good graces. Snoutwit, as he had done seven years ago, exempted Travin from the gift giving in exchange for year-round toadying and sycophantry. To liven up the party a bit, Snoutwit commanded Travin to take off his pants, place them on his head, and then do a silly dance for the pleasure of the other delegates. The Guardians had not been a part of the Web during the Great War. Still, Snoutwit saved them from the onslaught of Ozzie XI, and with the devastation that the Grand Army brought to Medina during that war (leaving very little at all of the island nation when they were through), Guardia quickly became acclimated to the way of things in the Web. As such they were one of the most ardent Grand Army supporters, eager to join in with the foot-kissing and the gift-giving, if it meant that the Grand Army wouldn't unleash a barrage of seventeen U-Missiles upon them (as they had upon Medina). They gave Snoutwit one of their vaunted Tyrano warships, which Snoutwit immediately christened the Generalissimo's Pet Lizard (a name which all in attendance agreed was marvelously creative, and quite simply the best name for a warship that anyone had ever come up with!). A small delegation arrived from Esper -- mostly from places like Nikeah and Narshe and Albrook, the few bastions of order and Grand Army presence that were left in the dimension. Nikeah's Regent Hannibal de'Zama gave his usual pledge of fealty to the Generalissimo, and Narshe's Lord Banon did the same. Curiously, a delegation also arrived from the island of Triangle; the Prophetess Maerius prostrated herself before Snoutwit and praised him, thanking him on behalf of all Trianglers for personally slaying every last Annox Vi that had overrun their island. Snoutwit accepted the Prophetess' praise, and as she had brought no other gift, the Hogarch commanded her to tongue-kiss him and let him sit in her lap for the rest of the party. Snoutwit could hardly keep himself from cackling madly as, one after another, all of the leaders of all of the nations of the Web of Worlds came before him -- faces which were familiar to him only from pictures in the news. They knelt, they kissed his feet, and then they grovelled and showered him with praises and money and gifts. The Hogarch's dreams of greater glory had all come true!! There was no reality, no set of circumstances by which the Web of Worlds could have existed, that could possibly have made Lord Snoutwit as truly happy as this one did. "Generalissimo," Celiose called, hailing Snoutwit from across the crowded veranda of GAHQ. Snoutwit beckoned, and his aide approached closer, falling upon his knee as he leaned in close to speak: "I must speak with you a moment, sir. It's most urgent." "More urgent than seeing Travin finish his Crazy Pants Dance?" Snoutwit asked. "... most assuredly, sir," Celiose said. Snoutwit sighed. "Very well," he said, as he hefted himself up out of the Prophetess' lap. "You should know better than anyone, Celiose... being Generalissimo is tough work. But hey, I work hard, I play hard." "You do, sir. And yes, I imagine it is hard work, sir. You must maintain peace for the entire Web, after all." "I know. But it's nothing really; just doing my job, you see. My job as Generalissimo. Generalissimo of the Grand Army. And de facto ruler of the ENTIRE Web of Worlds!!" Snoutwit laughed a loud, honking laugh; part of him still could not believe this was all happening. "Of course, sir," Celiose agreed. "This way, sir." Celiose lead him inside GAHQ. The Palace was exactly as Snoutwit remembered it; it was as if that horrible, horrible thing with Mysidia never really happened. But then, Snoutwit reminded himself, in this reality, that whole invasion business really hadn't happened. Celiose lead Snoutwit to an elevator, which slid open to afford the Hogarch entry. Celiose saluted, and said: "I shall wait here, sir." "... What?" Snoutwit asked, "But why?" "You know as well as I do, sir," Celiose said, "Praxer doesn't like tag-alongs during his briefings. He will only talk to you." The doors slid shut. And the elevator descended. When it opened again, the room beyond was completely dark. The sterile white elevator was the only source of light in the place, it seemed. Snoutwit stood there for a moment, watching, and waiting. "Well?" came a voice from the darkness. "What are you waiting for? Come in, Snoutwit." * * * The Battle of Silvera began too quickly for most who were present to know what exactly was happening. Reports came to Celiose Cole quickly from all fronts: SAGA had engaged a small fleet of frigates in the Crystal Belt, and fighters were being dispatched to engage a flotilla of hostile Seraphim. The Seraphim were ridiculously overpowered, and from the cover of the Belt they were making mincemeat of the SAGA home defense force. Meanwhile, on the ground, a single ship had landed on Silvera's coast -- and from that ship, an uncountable number of leashed mages were being unloaded, for it was aboard this ship that Lord General Roland had brought the Arythian Gate to Silvera. The wizards tore a swath of destruction in the Silveran Home Guard, and the Kriegsnavee was having quite a time getting close enough to land any reinforcements. Bombardment from the sea was also somewhat troublesome, as the wizards had erected a force field to deflect incoming munitions. It was all too much for anyone to believe: the Grand Army was being attacked. Attacked!! War in the Web of Worlds: a thing unheard of for almost two decades now. Most startling of all, it looked as if the Grand Army might lose this battle -- a battle being fought on its home turf in Silvera, no less!! Rallying the forces, Celiose girded himself for battle. But no sooner had he strapped on his sword and headed out to get mounted in a suit of power armor, sirens began to flare throughout GAHQ. The Palace had been breached. And that was when Celiose Cole came face to face with Roland Boderick. Roland sneered, and drew a sabre at his side. "Where is Snoutwit?" Celiose drew his own sword. "You go through me to get to him." A frog, perched on Roland's shoulder, chimed in: "That's the general idea, blondie." Roland turned to face Croakingham. "So this is Celiose then, eh?" Croakingham nodded. "He's the one, all right." Roland grinned, and tore the scarf from his neck. "Stand clear, Croakingham. This won't take but a moment." * * * The pig nervously stepped into the room. This was the first time since he woke up as Generalissimo that he remembered being quite so frightened. When he was fully inside the darkened chamber, the elevator dinged and slid shut. His eyes were slow in adjusting to the lack of light. The voice spoke again: "First of all, let's be entirely clear on things. I know I'm supposed to somehow be convinced that you are the Generalissimo of the Grand Army. But I'm not. I know who you are, and I know how you've come to be where you are." "... you do?" Snoutwit said, fearfully. "Yes," the voice said, "I do. My name is Praxer Riose, and I am the Director of the Cel --" he stopped himself. "No. Sorry. The 'Snopo,'" he said, with no small amount of disgust. "Don't worry, 'sir.' I'm not angry. And I'm not too keen on fighting against the reality I'm given. We all have our parts to play. And for now, my part is heading up your intelligence services." Snoutwit calmed a bit -- but was still freaked out. This 'Praxer' fellow was without a doubt the creepiest man the Hogarch had ever not-quite seen. "There is a massive army on its way here to Silvera," Praxer said. "Some of them may even be here on the island now, as we speak." "What?" Snoutwit said. "Well. We shall just have to see about that. I mean, I run the Grand Army, don't I!?" "Yes," Praxer said, "You do... In a manner of speaking." "In a manner of...? What the hell is that supposed to mean!?" Snoutwit roared. "Oh come now," Praxer said. "Really. Who on earth do you think you are, little piglet? You've made your wish to run the Web, and for now you do... but you're no Celiose Cole. There's only one of him. And even though he follows you around now like a trained poodle, he's still the brains of the outfit." Snoutwit puffed himself up. "I'll show YOU who's the brains of this outfit, Mr. Dark-and-Scary-Shadow-man!! Take off your pants and dance for me!" There was silence in response. After a few minutes had passed, Snoutwit suddenly felt himself becoming very scared. "... I'm sorry..." he whimpered. "Of course you are," Praxer hissed. "Celiose is your weak point, Snoutwit. The army that is coming to unseat you somehow is aware of this, somehow aware of what you really are, and they plan to kill the real Generalissimo, in order to weaken your Grand Army. With Celiose gone, you're just a frightened little piggy with a lot of tanks and guns and absolutely no idea how to use them all. And your enemies know this." Snoutwit shuddered. "Oh no!!" he said. "No!! They mean to take away everything I have, this entire reality -- they mean to make things back the way they were before!!" "... Yes, they do," Praxer said, as if confirming that Snoutwit had guessed something correctly. "Well I won't let them!" Snoutwit trumpeted. "I hate the way things were before!! I like things the way they are NOW, with people worshipping me, and strange foreign princesses giving me tongue-kisses and letting me sit in their laps, and -- and I haven't even gotten to test-fly the SkyPork!! Well NO, I say: NO!! This far, no farther!! The line must be drawn HERE! They will not take away the cool universe of happiness!" Praxer laughed. "You have one weapon that can stop them, an instrument that can preserve your place as Generalissimo forever. You've had it all along: the power to crush all of your enemies with little more than a few spoken words." Snoutwit thought for a moment. "... Could you give me a hint?" In the darkness, unseen by the Hogarch, Praxer rolled his eyes. "... your Ding-A-Ling. It has one wish left." Snoutwit's eyes widened. "Yes!" He said, "Yes, yes of course!!" Quickly, Snoutwit drew the Ding-A-Ling out of his pocket, and clutched it in his hand. He laughed villainously. "... those fools. Those insolent poopy-faces!! They know not who they deal with!!" He began to vigorously rub his Ding-A-Ling, and as he did so he spoke: "Oh, mystic Ding-A-Ling... much do I rub thee!... and... for this rubbing..." Snoutwit thought hard of what to wish for... but there were just too many things he had to do to defend himself for just one little wish to take care of!! Then, he thought of something. Something absolutely brilliant. Something that no one was likely to have ever thought of before, something that was evidence of his sheer genius. "For this rubbing," Snoutwit continued, "I... I wish for a million more wishes!!" Angrily, the last bell on the Ding-A-Ling exploded into ash. Snoutwit looked at the unadorned silver chain, then up in the darkness at Praxer. "You fucking halfwit," Praxer cursed. Suddenly, the lights turned on, and Praxer stood from his desk. He walked toward the elevator, pressed the call button, and then stepped inside as the doors opened. "I'm out of here. You're on your own, pig." The doors slid shut. Snoutwit, alone in Praxer's surprisingly austere office, began to cry. * * * Since the close of the Great War, Jidoor had been the secret home of the OmniSent. The OmniSent began as an independent resistance in the lands where the Dark Wrath held sway. Now, it was the only organized resistance that existed in the shadows of the iron-fisted rule of Snoutwit's Grand Army Charter Alliance. A clandestine meeting was taking place here, in Jidoor. Esper was still largely a wild dimension in the Web of Worlds; the major nations of the dimension, Figaro and Doma, were thrashed during the Great War, and as yet no major national power had arisen to restore order. Being so far from GAHQ in Silvera, it was natural that the OmniSent should take root here, in Esper -- Western Esper at that, the most lawless region of the whole dimension. Lord General Roland Boderick sat across a table from Lord General Alucard Dereiz in the OmniSent bunker. Both men had fought in the Great War, on the side of the Dark Wrath. Roland, a Baronian, had betrayed the Dark Wrath to the Grand Army -- and his reward was the death of his family at the Battle of Baron, and a hanging which he barely survived (he now wore a scarf to hide the scar on his neck). From there he went on to serve Rudra Tairen's fledgling OmniSent -- and survived her as the OmniSent's leader after Snoutwit personally slew the Baneling as she spied on him. From that time on, Roland was the primary leader of anti-Grand Army resistance in the Web. Alucard had been more loyal to the cause of the Wrath. He lead the retreat from the Battle of Baron, and tried unsuccessfully to rally a second offensive in the wake of Burzmale's defeat at the hands of Generalissimo Snoutwit. Now operating the Dark Wrath survivors under the aegis of the New Wraith, Alucard had come into the presence of the traitor Roland so that they might come to terms over a way to defeat their common enemy. It had been a tense four hours. The two men had debated, argued, compromised, argued some more and then nearly come to blows. Finally, Alucard stood. "This has been a waste of my time." Roland narrowed his eyes. "All these years... living in hiding, running from Snoutwit's men... and you still can't let bygones be bygones. You disgust me." Alucard shivered. He was old now, and the chill night air affected him moreso than it had once in his youth. He bundled his coat closer to his body, and then said at last: "In truth... I'd forgiven you your treason a long time ago, Roland. Burzmale and the Dark Gods are gone; their fight is not mine anymore. I fight now to avenge my own losses against the Grand Army. It's personal. But your plan, what you propose... it is suicide. An army of leashed mages from an unheard of magical dimension, versus the millions upon millions of men that are under the Generalissimo's command." "If it's numbers that scare you, Alucard, I assure you: the Cenrum and Tanes I can bring to the table are each alone worth hundreds, thousands of conventional soldiers." "It's not just numbers," Alucard said. "You are forgetting about one very important factor. Snoutwit himself." Roland lowered his eyes, and clenched his fist. "He's just one man." "No," Alucard said, "No he's not. He's death on stumpy, hoofed legs. There is no man alive who can withstand his onslaught -- sure, he is a strategic genius, and he relies primarily on his precious Grand Army's multitudes... but may I remind you that this is the man who killed Burzmale armed with nothing more than a shoelace and some paper clips." Roland looked up at Alucard angrily. "So you are afraid. Why don't you just admit it!?" "I will admit I am afraid," Alucard said, "But you must admit that you are a fool. This army of wizards you speak of, they would work well against any other enemy. But not the Generalissimo. No. I will not risk the men I have on your insane pipe dream, Roland." "Then would you risk them on *my* insane pipe dream, General Dereiz?" Both men turned and drew their guns as a third figure stepped out of one of the room's darkened corners. He was garbed completely in white robes, with a turban upon his head and a white scarf drawn across his face. The man moved closer to the table between the two Generals, and then parted his robe. There, clutching the robed man tightly, was a tiny humanoid figure, who stepped down and stood on the table facing the two former Dark Wrath Lord Generals. Alucard smirked. "Who the hell are you!?" Roland put away his weapon. "... this is Croakingham, Alucard." Alucard balked. "Croakingham!? The traitor Croakingham? Leader of the Silveran Resistance?" "One and the same," the tiny frog said. "For years, I endured Lord Snoutwit's tormenting, his bullying. But I could stand no more of it, and so --" "Spare us the exposition," Alucard snarled, as he holstered his weapon. "We all know your story. What we don't know, however, is how you escaped GAHQ with your life... and who the hell is *that*?" "This is Durrat," Croakingham said, as the white robed man took a bow. "He rescued me from Snoutwit's torture dungeons, where I surely would have died. Gentlemen... you cannot leave this room tonight without agreeing to unite against the tyranny of Snoutwit. Roland has the Grand Plan, and the resources and intelligence of the OmniSent... Alucard has the remnants of the Dark Wrath, their hardware, the New Wraith fleets hidden in the Fringe -- and, most importantly, an old guard of officers and tacticians who are experienced in battle against the Grand Army. Together you two men can crush the GA, and bring true peace and freedom back to the Web of Worlds. That is what you both want, is it not?" Alucard chuckled. "Obviously, you didn't listen in to the part of our conversation where we discussed how it was impossible to fight against Snoutwit. He is a devil, an unholy beast who cannot be harmed by the weapons of man." "That is where you are wrong," said Croakingham, smiling broadly. "I used to believe as much myself, before my encounter with Durrat. Durrat helped pierce the veil of some dark and fell magic, which has clouded all of our perceptions. We are ensorceled, each and every one of us, into believing that Snoutwit is some invincible demi-god, when nothing could be further from the truth. He is a pampered, simpering little bully, mere flesh and blood and bone, without so much as a whit of fighting ability, nor basic intelligence -- let alone strategic genius." Roland and Alucard looked at each other. "Impossible," Roland said. "I was there, at the Battle of Baron. I saw Snoutwit kill Burzmale, and I saw his troops in action... they moved with such grace and efficiency... how can you doubt that Snoutwit is anything less than the God of War made flesh?" "An illusion, all of it," Croakingham assured, "Burzmale was as under its sway as you are now, and it cost him his life. And as to his Grand Army... the true brains behind the GA's operation is the Generalissimo's aide, Celiose Cole." Alucard laughed. "Celiose, I know that name... Burzmale mentioned him once or twice. He was a kid, a camp-follower the Grand Army picked up outside Albrook; Snoutwit's towel-boy." "That is his deception," Croakingham said. "He is the brain of the Grand Army. Kill him, and you end Snoutwit's rule; nothing shall then stand between you and your vengeance upon the Generalissimo himself." Roland smiled. "Well, I don't know about you Dereiz, but I'm in." Alucard shook his head. "... Well... all right, Croakingham." The old general laughed. "Amazing. Simply amazing. I tell the traitor Roland 'No way,' but I'm bought and sold by a goddamn frog. Ah well, man's gotta die sometime. Might as well die stickin' it to the demon-pig himself, eh?" "No," Durrat said, stepping forward. "The Generalissimo's Aide, the Grand Army... these things, you will take care of. But Snoutwit himself -- that, you shall leave to me." Roland stood, and was about to give the white-robed man a piece of his mind, but suddenly he felt calmed. "I... I..." Roland stuttered, trying to find the words. Then at last: "I guess I'm okay with that. Yes. You can have Snoutwit. But whatever you do, make it hurt -- a lot." And so, under the guidance of High General Croakingham of Silvera, the OmniSent and New Wraith merged together to form the Free Wrath. Together, they would raise an army from Jidoor, Aryth and the depths of Fringespace, and descend upon Silvera for the Great Battle of the Age. * * * As Snoutwit lay sobbing on the floor of Praxer's office, he heard explosions rocking above him. The enemy had come! They had come for him, to take away this wonderful life that he so richly deserved, and had come to love above all other things in existence!! Whimpering, the tiny pig crawled underneath Praxer's desk. "It's not what you'd hoped it would be, is it?" Snoutwit was too frightened to check and see who it was that had showed up. He curled up into an embryonic posture and rocked gently, remembering the happier times of an hour ago, when people liked him and gave him cool things and tongue-kisses. The owner of the mysterious new voice moved around the desk, and looked down on Snoutwit in his hiding place. Looking up, Snoutwit saw that it was the South Wind, Marrake. "You!!" Snoutwit cried, standing up. "You!! Oh, my gods! I am so happy to see you, Son Of Wish-Giving Man! You gotta help me out, here... please!! My wishing, it went horribly, horribly wrong..." Marrake smiled. "I know, Snoutwit. I know. And I am here to offer you one last chance at setting things right." Marrake held out his hand; held aloft between his forefinger and thumb was a tiny silver bell. Snoutwit leapt up to snatch it, but Marrake pulled it up out of his reach. "Listen to me, you little shit," the South Wind snarled, "I will give this to you if, and only if, you use it to set everything the way it was before." "What? Are you fucking insane!? Hell no. I'm not going back to the other Web. That's the Web where I'm a nobody." "And this is the Web where an army of angry Seraphim pilots and Arythian Cenrum wants to impale you on a spit and roast you," Marrake smiled. "Tough choice, eh?" "Well... what do I get out of it?" "What? You cannot be serious." "I am serious. You gotta sweeten the pot a bit. I was promised a reward, and the reward I ended up getting totally blew frog-cock." "Maybe I haven't made myself clear... you will be KILLED HORRIBLY and DIE if the events in this reality are left as they are to play out." "Yeah? Well what's my incentive for going back to the 'real' world then?" "... I don't know, Snoutwit... maybe NOT BEING KILLED HORRIBLY AND NOT DYING!?" The elevator gave a "ding." Marrake turned. "Look, someone's heading down this way to look for and possibly kill you. You don't have much time." Snoutwit smiled. "Well. You're the big hoodoo guy. Why don't you just un-make what my wish made?" Marrake frowned. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhh," Snoutwit ahhhed, "You *can't.* Can you?" "... It was your Wish," Marrake said, "Only you may take it back." Snoutwit clapped his hands. "Yay! I'm smart after all!!" He danced around the room, before speaking again: "Okay, Mr. Poofy-pants. Here's my terms. I take back my wish, and the Web goes back to being stupid and gay. In return, you become my slave and personal servant forever and a day." "What!?" Marrake roared. "You insolent mortal FOOL. I will not be cajoled into --" The elevator doors burst open. Roland, wielding a bloody sword, and with Croakingham on his shoulder, emerged. "There he is!!" Croakingham cried, "KILL HIM!!" Marrake whipped out his hand, and a gust of powerful wind tossed Roland and his frog back into the elevator. The lift doors slammed shut. "Stupid frog," Snoutwit cackled. He looked up at the South Wind. "Better hurry up. If they should happen to kill me..." "Very well," Marrake said. "I am your slave... ... forever..." "AND A DAY!!" Snoutwit insisted. "... and a day..." Marrake said quietly. He dropped the bell into Snoutwit's hands. Snoutwit, ready to escape the "We Want Snoutwit Dead" dimension, and happy that he had gotten an immortal lifelong slave out of the deal, rubbed the bell and intoned: "Oh, little silver bell... I wish to un-wish my previous wish, about ruling the Web!" And then the world went black. * * * "My Lord? My Lord, wake up!" Snoutwit awoke on the floor of the wheelhouse. Croakingham stood on his chest, and was slapping at his face. Snoutwit roared angrilly and tossed the hapless frog off of him. He sat up quickly. "Goddammit, where the hell are we!?" "Fabul, my Lord," Croakingham said. "The storm must have blown us the rest of the way, as strange as that sounds... your head, my Lord, I bandaged it as best I could..." Snoutwit reached up to feel at the back of his head. It had, indeed, been bandaged, using the gauze and medical tape from the steamer's first aid kit. Snoutwit smiled. "By the Gods, I've done it again," Snoutwit said, "I'm alive!! Yeah!!... Hey, where the fuck's Marrake?" "... Who, my Lord?" A breeze rushed over the pair of Silveran exiles, and there suddenly materialized a man dressed all in white robes. It was, as Snoutwit had hoped, his slave-for-perpetuity, Marrake the South Wind. "... You summoned me?" Marrake grumbled. Snoutwit clapped his hands gleefully. "Croakingham, this is Marrake. He's my new slave -- just like you, only taller, and stronger, and more magical... in fact, in all ways better than you, except for the artful way in which you take a beating." Croakingham smiled. That was the first time he could remember Snoutwit paying him any kind of a compliment. The pig, the frog and the Wind Lord walked together to the deck's edge. The beaches of South Fabul stretched out before them; in the distance they could see the skyline of one of Fabul's more modern cities. "Exile won't be so bad," Snoutwit said. Neither Croakingham nor Marrake reacted in any perceptible way to this statement. The three leapt away from the grounded steamship, and began to walk northward. For all that had remained the same, in the wake of Snoutwit's coming to rule the Web, the Hogarch felt as though his experiences had changed him somehow, ever so slightly, as do such events which bring men to great heights of success only to drop them back down where they started. Tumbling from Snoutwit's pocket on the beach, soon to be swallowed up by the surf, was a tiny, unadorned silver chain.