An Unexpected Journey as seen by Petty Tyrant

Maybe I should offer you a publishers fee Halfy if you get it published for me- say a barrel of buckie...no, hang on thats crazy talk, half a barrel, well ok, a quarter, no, a pint, yes a pint of buckie, but in a half pint pot.

The warg scene already felt like a parody on screen, so I was curious to see how you'd handle it. I'm eager to see your take on Rivendell too.

specially that figwit.

if you get it published, I want to star as Galadriel in the movie version, I wont spin in my sparkly frock but I may tell Gandalf to spin on it.

You'd be the first person to play Galadriel in a bustle, maybe show a bit of ankle though.  

Short one this- as it should really have been the end of the last bit  


Eventually the tunnel they were in opened into a canyon with above them a distant blue sky flecked with rendered clouds floating by.

Then the canyon finally emerged onto a thin path that wound down into a valley and across a white river spanned by a white arched bridge.

Thorin looked across the valley and thumped his sword on the rock grumpily, “I don't like the colours here,” he observed.

Gandalf ignored him and as the rest of the company emerged he announced, “Behold on the magic green screen, the valley of Imladris. In the Common Tongue, its known by another name.”

“Rivendell,” Bilbo said, startling even himself as he had so far shown no particular interest in elves at all, or any signs of any knowledge of them, “I wonder,” he thought to himself, “if I know about Rivendell from somewhere and its elvish name too, or if I have some knowledge of elvish and can translate Imladris into Rivendell, it really is quite vexing not to know.”

Whilst Bilbo was thinking these thoughts Thorin angrily took Gandalf aside.

“This was your plan all along,” Thorin growled upwards accusingly at Gandalf.

“You call this a plan? You better hope my plan for the dragon is a shit load better than this if it is, or were all fried crispy duck,” Gandalf retorted haughtily.

“We will not seek refuge with our enemies,” Thorin growled even deeper, but still upwards at Gandalf.

“There is nothing in this story so far to indicate you have any enemies here either, apart from your own apparent irrational hatred of elves based on, who knows what? And I didn't hear you complaining when you used that elvish blade to hack that goblin to bits,” Gandalf pointed out.

“Do you think the elves will give our quest their blessing?” Thorin demanded in a growl so low nearby sleeping dogs awoke with a twitch.

“I don’t see why not based on any information offered so far,” Gandalf replied, “the only reason we have to think there might be a problem is that you keep insisting that there is one.”

Thorin frowned at this, as deep down he knew that he too was unclear on exactly what the animosity between dwarf and elf was supposed to be.

“Now we must handle this with tact and respect,” Gandalf went on, then added morosely, “and based on what has happened so far, there is not much to base any hope on either of these things occurring, so we will probably have to rely in the end on an over dramatic and confrontational entrance followed by some low brow humour and then some lengthy exposition, we haven't had some of that for about fifteen minutes now.”

And they began slowly descending the narrow path in front of the magical green screen Rivendell although all with slightly puzzled frowns on their faces as they tried to work out what it was about the colour of everything that was not quite right.

Pettytyrant101 wrote:Maybe I should offer you a publishers fee Halfy if you get it published for me- say a barrel of buckie...no, hang on thats crazy talk, half a barrel, well ok, a quarter, no, a pint, yes a pint of buckie, but in a half pint pot.

You paste it together in one narrative, I'll disinter Odo and get him to write an introduction with several other Forumshirers chiming in, then send it to a publisher with some cover letter about being a tongue-in-cheek textual analysis. If I get the right editor, it will be a shoe-in.

They crossed the white bridge with its foaming water roaring over a high fall far beneath them for the benefit of the 3D and entered Rivendell, the Last Homely House East of the Sea.

Bilbo stared around himself pulling his best Martin Freeman looks impressed face which involved slacking his lower jaw so it hung slightly open, widening his eyes, and then clamping his mouth shut and breaking into a pleased smile, it was quite impressive, but sadly would not be needed again after this moment as this was as much of an impression Rivendell was to make on Bilbo.

“Thorin is right about those colours and the light being odd,” Bilbo thought to himself as he looked about.

The company came to a halt in a small courtyard at the foot of a set of stairs down which an elf extra now came.

Gandalf smiled at him, “Lindir,” he greeted remembering the elf from the other film where for reasons long since forgotten he had gotten a disproportionate amount of attention for an extra and which apparently justified his crowd pleasing reappearence now.

“We heard you had crossed into the Valley,” Lindir said smugly.

“I must speak with Lord Elrond,” Gandalf announced.

“My Lord Elrond is not here,” Lindir informed him.

“Not here?” Gandalf queried, “Where is he?”

“Just over there,” Lindir said pointing back across the river, “gathering his men on horseback for an impressive but unnecessarily confrontational charge across the bridge, which is quite dangerous and reckless if you stop to think about it, its not like that bridge has any side rails or anything, or even a low wall. But he does like to make a showy entrance.”

Gandalf raised his eyebrows in weary despair.

Just at that moment there was a braying of trumpets and the elven horses, with Elrond at their head galloped across the bridge and into the small court, then completely unwarranted they rode around the dwarves in an aggressive manner, forcing the dwarves into an ever closer circle of bristling unexplained racial hatred.

“No chance of some light hearted songs about their tiny beards then?” Bilbo thought to himself from deep within the pack of grumpy dwarves as the elven horses slowed to a halt, still surrounding them, and Elrond rode up to Gandalf and dismounted.

“Gandalf,” Elrond said as he got down from his horse and approached the wizard with a broad grin, “we were hunting a pack of orcs that came up from the south. We slew a number near the Hidden Pass.”

“Ah,” said Gandalf, “so you were the deux ex machina that saved us,” Gandalf realised.

Thorin stepped forward from the dwarves, weapon in hand and Gandalf sighed.

“Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain,” Elrond said in friendly fashion.

“I do not believe we have met,” Thorin said stiffly and deliberately rudely.

Elrond decided to ignore that and pressed on trying to be friendly, “I knew your grandfather when he was King under the Mountain.”

“Really?” Thorn said dismissively and then turned and winked at his companions, “He never mentioned you,” he said turning back to Elrond and going for being a full on bell-end now.

Elrond eyed him up and then said something in a threatening tone of voice in elvish and gave Thorin a cold hard stare.

“What is he saying?” Gloin cried, “Does he offer us insults?”

“He is offering you food Master Dwarf,” Gandalf explained.

“Then why did he say it like that?” Gloin demanded, “Is he taking the piss?”

And all the dwarves bristled.

“No, it was purely to create a bit of artificial tension within the scene that can then be relieved with a humorous response from you, and has nothing to do with what is actually happening, its just cheap writing to get us out of this scene, he really is just offering you food.”

The dwarves went into a huddle again an this time Gloin replied, “Well that's all right then. Lead on.”

“See,” Gandalf said,”If you had not ruined the tension that would have worked, in a cheap sort of way.”

And the Company entered Rivendell.



Bilbo and the dwarves were seated mainly at one long table for the dinner provided by the elves.
Ori was sitting staring in an annoying fashion at a lettuce, pretending that dwarves did not know what a lettuce leaf was.

“I don’t like green foods,” Ori whined annoyingly.

And to drive the point home Dwalin joined in, clawing his way through a bowl of salad and demanding to know where the meat was.

“But dwarves pass through the Shire all the time,” Bilbo interjected, “there are lots of lettuces in the fields there and you stop at our inns to eat, and at Bree, they have lettuce their too. And dwarves are well known travellers you must have seen it and eaten it before?”

The dwarves ignored this and instead Ori annoyingly said, “Have they got any chips?” pulling everyone out the moment and once again betraying these dwarves Scottish roots through a love of deep fried foods.

Just then Gandalf and Elrond entered sharing some banter and ignoring the rest of the Company whom they walked straight past without a second glance to take a seat at their own table a distance away on the open veranda, which was bathed in a faintly pink artificial light which looked a bit, but not quite like the light of late afternoon, where they were joined by Thorin who was not about to pass up the chance to act like a dick to an elf.

Around them elvish musicians played on harps and flutes, much to the apparent dislike of Oin, who had his ear trumpet to his ear and was frowning grumpily at the sound.

He removed the ear piece, and betraying a lack of thinking of any sort proceeded to stuff a napkin into it and then put it back to his ear and smiled like a satisfied idiot that he could now only hear the muffled offending music, and not, if he had simply not used the hearing trumpet, nothing at all.

Elrond was examining the elven swords they had found in the troll cave.

“This is Orcist, the Goblin Cleaver, a famous sword,” Elrond said examining Thorin's sword, “forged by the High Elves, my kin,” he handed the sword to Thorin and took up Gandalf's sword, “ and this is Glamdring, the Foe Hammer, Sword of the King of Gondolin. There is an interesting story attached to these swords in connection with my own family, but we don't have the rights to tell it,” Elrond said,”so we better cut away to someone else.”

At their table at the other side of the room, Bilbo glanced down at his sword and Balin, who was next to him noticed, “”Can we really hear their conversation from way over hear, what with the music and chatter and everything?” Balin queried.

“It seems so,” Bilbo said, drawing his sword partially out from its sheath.

“I wouldn't bother laddie. Swords are named for the great deeds they do in war,” he said shaking his head and looking at the short sword.

“Are you saying my sword hasn't seen battle?” Bilbo asked.

“Not sure it is a sword laddie,” Balin said, even though as a dwarf he knew fine well it was a superbly made elvish blade of superior workmanship and quality, “more a letter opener.”

“Did you just say that for a cheap laugh?” Bilbo demanded crossly.

“Aye laddie,” Balin admitted, “what you really want to do is name it yourself after the first heroic thing you do, or your first kill maybe, something appropriate laddie.”

Bilbo nodded.

Having filled Gandalf and Thorin on the copyrighted material Elrond asked, “Where did you find these swords?”

“In a troll hoard, and then orcs attacked us on the road,” Gandalf said, wisely deciding to leave Radagast's part in the affair out of the story.

“And what were you doing on the road? I mean apart form obviously travelling along it in order to reach a destination at the other end which dwarves commonly do when travelling between their mines and when selling their wares?”

“Our business is no concern of elves,” Thorin growled, continuing the conversation even though the scene had now shifted to another location in Rivendell some considerable time later when it was dark, as the story would be needing the moon very shortly.

“Show him the map, Thorin,” Gandalf insisted.

“Bugger that!” Thorin insisted stubbornly, “its mine to protect, as are its secrets. If it has any secrets, as we don't know for sure yet as only he can read them.”

“Save me from the rottenness of this script!” Gandalf lamented,”you force me into foreshadowing events again,” he warned, “your pride will be your downfall,” he foreshadowed menacingly, “now this is very simple, we can't read the map, he can. So stop being a dick.”

Slowly Thorin drew the map out from within his armour somewhere and stepped forward to hand it to Elrond.

“No, didnnae do it laddie!” cried Balin uncharacteristically, as up till now he had seemed to be the most conciliatory and thoughtful of the dwarves.

Thorin brushed him aside and handed the map to Elrond.

Elrond took the proffered map and walked away into a space open to the night, and where an impressive cgi waterfall, but not quite as impressive as the real thing would be, thundered down into the darkness.

“Erebor?” Elrond said, “what is your interest in this map?” he demanded, even though the very fact it was an ancient dwarf map showing Erebor, and was in the possession of dwarves travelling east over the mountains in the company of Gandalf should have been fairly self explanatory.

“Its mainly academic,” Gandalf lied badly for no real reason.

Elrond held the map in the light of the moon and then muttered something in elvish.

“Moon letters,” Gandalf said, “of course,” he turned apologetically to Bilbo and smiled, “an easy thing to miss,” he explained , “only I didn't really miss it did I, after all that was my whole point in contriving to bring you here in the first place, and I even highlighted the likelihood of just such a message right back at the start in Bag End. This really is very clumsy stuff you know.”

“Moon runes,” Elrond explained, “can only be read in the light of a specific moon, on a specific day.”

“Can you read them?” Thorin asked dramatically.

“Yes,” Elrond confirmed, “But not here, its not spectacular enough.”

He lead them out onto a ledge which jutted out over a great height and had an even higher cliff towering above it from which no less than four separate cgi waterfalls cascaded down in the odd artificial blue light of the cgi moon.

At the  very end of this ledge there was a table of rough hewn crystal, which had an odd almost plastic quality to it.

Elrond placed the map on the crystal like table and right on cue the clouds rolled back from the crescent cgi moon and its odd light fell onto the map, making sure to break into many god rays as it passed through the waterfalls for extra spectacle.

Shining letters began to appear on the map. The moonlight seemed to have unnaturally congregated into a single beam that fell solely on the table, as if the moon were a single spotlight.

Elrond read out the words on the map, telling of a prophesy of a time when on Durins Day the keyhole to the secret entrance to the Mountain would appear to those who were there and the door could be opened.

“We have to be standing at exactly the right spot, at exactly the right time, then and only then can the door be opened” Balin explained.

“You just repeated what Elrond just said,” Bilbo pointed out.

“So you mean to enter the Mountain?” Elrond said pointing out the obvious.

“Oh,” Bilbo realised, “you only said it so Elrond would know that's where you are going, even though that's completely obvious, and has been for ages. Got it.”

“What of it if we are going to the Mountain?” Thorin challenged, ignoring Bilbo.

“Some would not deem it Wise,” Elrond said, “but that is really a double meaning aimed at Gandalf more than you.”

“What do you mean?” Gandalf asked.

“You are not the only Guardian to stand watch over Middle Earth,” Elrond said, telling Gandalf something he knew full well, despite this as Elrond dramatically walked off into the background Gandalf looked concerned and puzzled by Elrond's words in order to add some sense of dramatic tension to the rather awkward end of this scene.

some of the ripest parts are coming up!  

Ripe, smelly, pungent and ready to be poked at and burst  

''Thorin frowned at this, as deep down he knew that he too was unclear on exactly what the animosity between dwarf and elf was supposed to be''.


I think an Elk was involved  

I have an unexplainable view on this, Petty. I have read a substantial amount, and think it brilliant. But it depresses me too. Proceed, young Laddie - but I might have to read it down the track when I get over my angst with what PJ has done to my beloved Hobbit.  

There is more of this to come Ive written a bit further on but not edited yet, if its depressing to read youve no idea how bad it is to write! (And I have to rewatch the bloody film too  )

Can we expect an special extended version?  

He'll have to go in and add his take on all of the just-leaked EE scenes!

They may get a reference, in some fashion.  

Far away, in a location shoehorned in because you might remember it from the film that cannot be named but over-arches all, the orcs were gathering.

The Warg riders had returned to report to their master, Azog, the Pale Orc at Weathertop.

The leader of the riders stepped forward into a pool of moonlight before Azog, who was standing for dramatic effect at the edge of the circle of silver with his back turned, and he had been feeling happy about the fact all the Rangers of the North appeared to be away on holiday somewhere allowing him to set up his base at the most obvious landmark for a hundred miles in any direction without any problem at all, but he had a feeling his happiness was about to be shattered.

The light fell in a well orchestrated stream upon him, highlighting his over large musculature, emphasising how different in size and appearance he was from all other orcs, the lower half of his right arm was missing and in its place, for some inexplicable reason, someone had jammed a giant toasting fork which glinted in the moonlight and still had a bit of slightly burnt muffin stuck to the end.

“We lost the dwarves,” the orc reported worriedly.

“How?” Azog asked without turning round.

The orc hesitated, he had been dreading this bit, “We were tricked, we chased a wizard on a sled pulled by giant rabbits, and he led us into an elven trap.”

There was a chilling silence, then Azog said, “A sled? What on runners? And pulled by giant rabbits?”

“Um, yes,” the orc replied carefully.

“And why,” Azog enquired with an air of politeness but increasing menace, “were you chasing a wizard on a sled, pulled by giant rabbits, at all? And not say chasing the FUCKING DWARVES YOU WERE SENT AFTER?” he roared.

The orc cowered before his master as Azog turned around and approached him snarling, “I do not want excuses.”

“We were tricked!” the orc squealed, “that wizard was so stoned he had us all going round in circles!”

Azog loomed up over him looking every inch the cgi monster he had become, “Let me give you a flashback of note,” Azog said in a low growl, “Once upon a time there was a great orc chieftain named Azog, and he united the orc tribes beneath the mountains, he ruled a people cunning in the making of devices, the implements of torture, of war, they invented new technologies, they devised ever more devious artefacts to inflict pain and to exert control. They could delve and build beneath ground as well as any dwarf. They were strong, and powerful, and the people flourished in the darkness. But this Azog grew too sure of himself, he thought none now could stand in his way and so he challenged the might of the dwarves themselves, and for a generation there was a terrible war. A war in which he lost all that he had gained, including his life, and was known forever after, to all beings, as the Defiler,” he sighed, then threateningly leant in close to the cowering orc before him, “and now, here I am, where I should not be, bereft of my tale, resurrected against my will as a lesser being in every way, not dead but maimed in such an embarrassing fashion," he held up his toasting fork as exhibit A,  "reduced to snarling threats, sentences of no more than five words, and a body that appears to have been put together at the eleventh hour by the WETA B team,” he snarled under his breath and sighed again before fixing his cold dead cgi eyes firmly on the orc, “And I am reduced to doing things like this to obviously loyal soldiers, for no real reason other than to demonstrate my role as the bad guy in this,” and he thrust his fork, toasted muffin crumbs and all into the orcs belly and lifted him up into the air.

“Although,” Azog snarled up at him, “you do deserve it for trying to spin me all that shit about a wizard on a sled pulled by giant bunnies, pull the other one, its got Rings on,” and then he threw the orc aside where he crashed into a pillar, and like a basketball player getting a score whooped as the orc fell neatly in the warg pit, who did not waste time when they saw a free meal land right in their lap.

Azog slowly strolled back to where he had been standing before, on the lip of the hilltop, where the lighting was good and made him look menacing, “The dwarf-scum,” he began to say and winced at his own poor dialogue as if speaking it burned his mouth, he tried again, “The dwarf-scum will show themselves soon enough,” he forced himself on, “And when they do, no matter where they do, we shall inexplicably be close by to chase them!” he announced with a triumphant flourish to the other warg riders, “Go!” he ordered, “send out word, even though from Weathertop there is no chance of getting word anywhere before the dwarves get there first, but given time and distance so far in this débâcle I doubt that will matter much. GO!”

And as the warg riders thundered and howled from Weathertop Azog roared into the sky in despair for what his character had become.



Back in Rivendell, where it was now mysteriously earlier in the day again and lighter, or possibly it was meant to be the next day, but their was no context to tell, Elrond was strolling in the gardens with Lindir.

“But I do not understand Lord Elrond,” Lindir was saying, “dwarves are known for their courtesy, for their rigidity to manners and to custom, for a dwarf to treat even a host they disliked with open disdain would be a dishonour upon himself, and yet these dwarves...”

He did not finish his sentence as they turned a corner in their strolling and beheld the sight of thirteen naked dwarves frolicking in a fountain.

“See what I mean?” Lindir said pointing at the dwarves who were leaping from the fountain top now and performing impossible spins I in the air before splashing into the water, “surely we must throw them out?”

Elrond did not get time to reply as the scene swiftly shifted to dark and night again as if no one concerned in the making of it really cared about continuity or creating any sense of time and place.

The dwarves had decided that having come this far into representing their race as uncouth buffoons they may as well continue it.

Bofur was busy smashing up hand-crafted elven furniture, this was despite the fact Rivendell had many chimneys from which smoke curled indicating the availability of fuel, not to mention it was both rude and probably criminal damage.

Bifor was displaying a type of stupidity that not even an axe in the forehead could really account for, for despite years of travelling of the road he was attempting to cook a bunch of asparagus by holding it in the yellow flames of the fire, where it naturally burnt and went black. As it would still have done, even were it meat.

Bombur had found himself a bench to sit upon which was clearly to flimsy for his weight and ripe for comic potential, and right on cue it arrived in the form of a well thrown egg which he adeptly caught in his mouth before the bench comedy collapsed beneath him and the dwarves rolled with laughter.

Elrond and Lindir stood nearby and frowned.

“Surely now Lord Elrond , when they insult us to our faces, destroy and burn our goods before our very eyes and insult us upon every turn we must throw them out? Look that ones actually stealing our belongings right now and putting them into a sack! He's not even really trying to hide it.”

But just then Gandalf approached,, “I must speak with Gandalf,” Elrond  excused, “its an extended scene,” he said turning away, then turned back and added, “pray to Elbereth for me.”


On a balcony above Bilbo walked, he was worried about several things.

Firstly he could not shake the feeling that earlier in the day he had seen something, a painting perhaps, that had greatly disturbed him, given him auditory hallucinations and seemed to not only foreshadow upcoming events but events for the rest of his life and cast them in an entirely new, and unsatisfactory light.

The second thing which was troubling him was that he seemed to be getting edged out of his own story.

He walked to the end of the balcony and looked out, Gandalf and Elrond were approaching together in conversation.

“What should happen if your plan fails?” Elrond was asking, “and you awaken the dragon?”

“What if it succeeds?” Gandalf countered.

“I am sorry Gandalf,” Elrond said sternly, “but I cannot let you proceed any further without giving you some portent laden foreshadowing.”

“Of course not,” Gandalf replied wearily, “I've been doing a lot of that myself lately.”

On the balcony above, Bilbo deciding this bit of the story also had nothing to do with him sighed and turned to leave and almost jumped out of his skin. Thorin was standing brooding right behind him and must have crept up unheard whilst he was listening in to the conversation below. It was almost as if Thorin had arrived just in time to overhear something he should not.

From below the words of Elrond came drifting up to them heavy with foreshadowing, “A strain of madness runs deep in Thorin's family. His father lost his mind, his grandfather succumbed to the same sickness,” Elrond said.

“Are you talking about the effect of the Seven?” Gandalf asked.

“Did I mention them?” Elrond replied with a frown, “No, its a sickness, like a hereditary dementia or something.”

“Oh,” Gandalf responded flatly.

“Will you swear,” Elrond went on,” Thorin Oakenshield will also not fall?”

“Well I expect everyone knows he is going to now you've bloody well said that!” Gandalf retorted annoyed.

On the balcony above Thorin tried to look emotional by what he had heard, but as it was the same as his Thorin looks moody, Thorin looks angry, Thorin looks heroic, Thorin looks happy pose it was hard to tell. He turned and stomped away.

Bilbo sighed sadly as he noted that even in this bit of his own story he had been in it just to further both Gandalf's and Thorin's stories.

He cursed under his breath as the story  moved off him again and went  to focus on Gandalf for a bit.

'The second thing which was troubling him was that he seemed to be getting edged out of his own story'.

  as Norclettina would say, 'fuck dat'

its brilliant but sad reading. Every point is another nail in the proverbial. Every point shows how cheap and empty of meaning this film is. If only someone with sensitivity would remake it.

Brilliant stuff Petty almost, almost makes me want to watch AUR again to compare it.

Was Elbereth actually mentioned in that scene then? Probabaly another example of Boyens trying to show off her 'knowledge'...

No Elbereth mentioned in the film in that scene, cant remember if she gets a name check in it later though, just an addition of my own, a prayer for having to be in a PJ extended scene.

Ah Ok. I haven't watched the extended scenes yet (I'm not exactly in a rush;) ) Frankly I'd be shocked if Jackson even knew who Elbereth was.

malickfan wrote:Ah Ok. I haven't watched the extended scenes yet (I'm not exactly in a rush;) )

I'm not either, then again...
Nobody lives forever. Unless you're an elf, but then you'd live long enough to see all of Tolkien's works slowly fall into the public domain; there'd be great happiness in seeing some faithful adaptations and then some tragedy in the truly abysmal stuff based on the Silmarillion that could put Jackson's work to shame.
Dwarves live a while longer though, three hundreds years is akin to a one hundred year old man, I think. Gimli probably had some time to think about it. He's lucky. I like to think he made it to the West.

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The thing is I never understood how The Silmarillion could under any circumstances be a faithful adaption-besides the tonal/scale/small audience problems it's part creation myth sketchy/overblown historical chronicle with description giving each viewer their own personal images any visual adaption would have to invent or change so much to be worth the effort it wouldn't really resemble The Silmarillion I know and Love.

A tv series of LOTR, Aldarion and Erendis or Children of Hurin combined with The Wanderings of Hurin is something I might possibly warm to slighty.

No Norcing my thread RA!  Ive got the WC section due up very soon! (But I'll let you off on discussing Tolkien Malick, but only for the Profs sake  )

The prof wrote Gimli, the real Gimli not the John Rhys davies' Gimli, though that's another story I suppose.