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[Ubiq]

Imagine, if you will, a coconut. Now take that coconut and impale it in four places with the thinnest, shortest sticks you can find. You would then have a fairly remarkable approximation of the creature in charge of the rockclad horde currently occupying the field before us. I believe he (I think; being male myself, I often assign that gender to creatures where such qualities are dubious) referred to himself as Zedan Warmheat the Firey Flame-Fiend of Firey Warmth and Redundant Taxonomy Apparently, Tick Fiend, Esquire. I admit that part of that is my own addition, but suffice to say that one's eyes tend to glaze over halfway through his introductions.

ZWFFFFWRTATFE walked toward the footrest in as impressive a manner as possible, which is not much when your legs are only about a tenth as long as your body is tall. He would have been faster if he had just laid down and rolled towards the pit. He's been out there for about twenty minutes now, hurling verbal abuse at the assorted digbeards on the wall, in a voice that sounds remarkably like the sound a rhesus macaque makes when you step on it. He's been trying to get the digbeards to lower the bridge so that they can come inside and kill everybody in the footrest. I think that is what he is saying; his accent is atrocious and I can only make out about half of what he is saying since he speaks so quickly. Zedan put about ten times the elocution effort into pronouncing his name as he has the entire spiel he's unfolded since then.

At any rate, the digbeards seem to have no intentions of complying with his demands, which is one of the more intelligent moves I've seen from them to date. One of them beside me has been fiddling with an odd rectangular device made out of bone for a while now. Some sort of musical instrument would be my guess. He's now taking what appears to be a shiny rock needle not unlike a porcupine's quill and is laying it across the instrument. Well, I can't see what good that wi... Sweet Merciful Koganusân, that instrument flung that needle clear across the pit and took a rockclad's leg clean off! That has redoubled Zedan's remonstrations towards the footrest; he has moved to the very edge of the pit to make his threats heard. Ah, the digbeard has another needle ready to go and seems intent on belimbing Zedan with this shot. This should be amusing.

---

Well, it was, but not in the manner originally intended. Either the digbeard just missed or Zedan managed to dodge the needle, but either way, the result was the same. Zedan fell to his side, couldn't get back up again thanks to his spindly legs and rotund, presumably blood-engorged form, and rolled right off into the abyss. The rockclads are still wandering outside (well, stumbling at any rate since it's now a new moon), but are not really doing anything. I think that they are lost with Zedan to give them orders (which is odd since one would think he would be little more than a parasite thriving off the life's blood of their society), but are too embarrassed by the situation to want to leave. Every so often, a crowd of them with gather by the edge of the pit and the digbeards will drop the bridge down on them two or three times out of spite. There are still more rockclads out there than I can be bothered to count. This has made a sizable dent in the local walloon population, let me tell you.

---

Rockclads outside or not, life goes on inside the footrest. I think Blueclad has become used to my role as a bodyguard. For the first few days after the completion of his harp, he kept glancing back at me while I was following him in apparent confusion. I suppose I can understand this. If I were the size of a digbeard and a creature my size happened to start following me one day, I might be a bit put about it as well. Well, perhaps not, if I were as fortunate as to have such a handsome and debonair devil following me about as Blueclad is. A greenclad eventually explained the situation or so I gather since Blueclad went up and talked to one of them the other day and now seems more accepting of the situation.

In other news, one of the tuskstick bulls uncovered a grotto packed full of fluffy wamblers. The nest was disturbed in the process and the digbeards are up to their armpits in the creatures. The digbeards seem unperturbed by this and Purple Pain-in-the-trunk has spent much of his time taming those wamblers brought to him by the various greenclads wandering around the footrest. I'm not sure what to make of them actually. I'm not one for cute, which the digbeards (rather surprisingly) are, but some of them have quite interesting stories about travel and some rather unique theories about the structure of the universe. They also have some odd, apparently religious-based ideas about the body of Shiny Rockthing that still stands in the corner of the Dining Hall. Some legend or other from what I understand.

However, no matter what the wamblers might say, I have no intentions of ever dancing my cares away.

Next time: Reginald and the Megaproject or Cast In The Name of Elephant God, Ye Not Guilty!

[BurningLed]

I love the reference to the Beheading of the Colossus at the end  .

Also, my money's on the megaproject being a giant Reginald.

[monk12]

Great story, chuckles and outright guffaws all the way through. Keep'm Coming!

[Ubiq]

There are, as it happens, right ways and wrong ways to do everything. For elephants, the right way involves not setting one's surroundings on fire. By all appearances, digbeards disagree. At the very least, they have an extremely high tolerance for grassfires. I will say, though, that they seem mildly irritated when a large collection of black cubes caught fire. Those burned day and night for weeks on end. Judging by the smoke and heat generated, there must have been some of these cubes within larger, hollow cubes that were also dark in color. The latter continue to burn now even after one of the digbeards finally managed to put out the grassfires by dousing the entire surface layer of the footrest in water. She accomplished this by hitting a rock stick sideways so that water came flooding out of the overland tunnel and drenched everything to about waist deep. Waist deep on a digbeard, mind you; if it were waist deep on me, then a great deal of my problems beyond the fire would have been solved all at once.

I will give them this: the digbeard method is much more expedient than the pointy-ear method. The latter involves a great deal of wheedling some spirit or other to do something about it. A  bit of rain perhaps. From what I saw lately, it seems that the pointy-ears are wasting their time; trees, despite all logic, don't seem to burn. Counter-intuitive that, but such things are par for the course for the digbeards. Still though, when they want to be, the digbeards can be nothing short of ruthlessly efficient.

On the other hand, this method had its hygenic downside. Mud everywhere. Dustings of dirt. Mounds of muck. A plethora of peat. How thoroughly unsanitary. On the other hand, nobody has been sick lately despite the mess; this may have had something to do with a great number of hollow stumps that had recently contained an unusual and quite appetizing liquid that promptly boiled off when the fire came close to where they were being stored. The digbeards were much more put out about this than the other destruction wrought by the flames.

Old Uncle Alfie used to get the giggling staggers after eating certain fermented fruit; I suspect that the digbeards have somehow duplicated this effect and are storing it in the aforementioned hollow stumps. The smell was similar at any rate; sort of a sickly sweet odor. They drink it constantly. If I did not know any better, I would think it were medicinal in nature. I do know better though; the digbeards don't give a fig, fermented or otherwise, for basic preventive medicine. Those of a delicate nature may want to divert their attention elsewhere for a moment. Please understand, however, that such knowledge is essential if one wishes to understand the digbeard, Many a time I have seen a digbeard stumble up to the surface, blink their eyes for a second as if stunned, projectile vomit, and then stagger off. Not once have I ever seen a single one of them so much as chew a blade of grass to expedite the situation or consume a kobold bulb to soothe their nausea. These creatures seem to lack the basest knowledge of a mere calf!

Those with a weak stomach can come back now.

At any rate, there seems to have been some sort of flaw in their firewater mechanism as they managed to cut off the flow of said firewater and then went back to work on it. I haven't the foggiest notion as to what this was about. They appear to be testing it even now. I've seen them do this before; they have a great number of cage traps such as the thrice accursed one that planted me in this situation scattered across the countryside. Every so often, a digbeard will dart out the gate and lug a now occupied cage back into the footrest and stow it somewhere.

Most of often that not, the cage will contain a walloon, but there have been the odd rockclad or random creature. Once, I saw them carry in something that looked like a mountain goat that did not seem the least bit distressed about its missing face, fur, or skin. Now, the sheer amount of rockclads loitering about has put the quietus on these little shopping sprees; I presume the cages remain out there for the most part thought eh rockclads are presumably freeing their comrades in such instances. This is of little import as the local stocks were rather large anyway.

But I drifting further and further away from the object of this story. To the point. The digbeards will take a cage with one of the local undead roughnecks (they seem to be saving the rockclads for another purpose) and move it out in an enclosed area near the firewater tunnel. They connect something or other to the cage. They then move away from the cage and another digbeard will move a rockstick or other. The former inhabitant of the cage will now be let loose to wander around in the enclosure. If it escapes from the enclosure, the inhabitant is dealt with in some fashion or other. Luto roasts it or Eydri bores it to death or what have you. A digbeard will then go in and construct a wall to control the gap. The process is then repeated as necessary.

If it doesn't escape, they let the area fill with firewater. This doesn't agree with the free-roaming creature, but such is unlife. The process is then repeated shortly later. In this manner, they see if there are any holes or missing areas in the system. It is a slow process, but trying to rush it as they did recently leads to great consequences. Haste makes waste and digbeard haste makes burning wastes.

I admit, this entire process has sparked my interest.

Next time: Reginald and the Megaproject, part 2 or Gleaming the Cube.

[Meta]

They drink it constantly. If I did not know any better, I would think it were medicinal in nature.

So right!

[synkell]

"Haste makes waste and digbeard haste makes burning wastes."

Not to mention flooded forts (^_^)

[noodle0117]

bumped this thread for great elephatiness!

[Ubiq]

It is said, in some circles, that "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." It is likely, nay, probable that this is true in most cases, but is certainly not in the case of the rockclad horde that had, until recent, encamped itself on the doorstep of this very footrest.

Our deliverance, oddly enough, began with the arrival of a large crowd of squeakies. Apparently, this stems from how the odd battle between the walloons and the rockclads that had provided the digbeards with a giggle and idle way to pass some time. Several rockclads shuffled off this mortal coil in the process and were freed of their need for material possessions as a result. These possessions apparently attracted the interest of our gibbering neighbors, who began to show up in force after all a while. The most recent of these involved a sizable contingent armed with some sort of odd stick and vine contraption that tossed pointy sticks are the rockclads.

The squeakies were quickly expunged from the plains, but enough damage had been wrought upon the rockclad force that the digbeards decided to treat with them. They chose an Ambassador Plentipotentiary to go out to deliver their terms and lowered the drawbridge to provide him access to the rockclads. Judging by the zeal with which he went at this appointed task, Ambassador Luto has a promising future in the field even if the rockclads did seem uninterested when he came bearing the gift of flame and fang along with the digbeard request that they "Burn in hell, Gobbos!" I'm not sure as to the translation of this though I'm quite sure of the phrase since many of them shouted this from the walltop when Luto out. Furthermore, Luto repeated the line himself with a voice whose volume would have made the average avalanche envious.

The rockclads ignored this offer to treat and snubbed every entreaty after his initial advance. Shocking breach of protocol on their part if I may say so. They could have at least requested a list of terms. But it was not to be; the minute he announced his initial position and punctuated it with a cone of fire, those rockclads not roasted headed for greener pastures. His speech failed to enflame their passion for peace, but did set some of them aflame.

Perhaps it was his inflection.

In the meantime, the digbeards have completed whatever their grand design was. At the current juncture, it appears to be a massive cube of black rock. One of the purpleclads seems to be explaining plans for whatever the final result will be to a group of tusksticks, who take turns mocking her behind her back. There's a smaller squarish pillar of black rock close at hand that was the recipient of loving care and much work from a group of whiteclads. The pillar has been carefully polished and waxed until its reflection in the sun is nigh blinding.Proof of concept I think. At any rate, the digbeards seem to be ignoring it though it had collected a large group of admiring troglodytes.

It had been relatively quiet since Ambassador Luto's failure to communicate. I haven't seen a rockclad or squeakie in nearly a full moon cycle. The last one I saw was about three quarters moon ago. This was when a bemasked rockclad lunged out of nowhere at me while following Blueclad amongst a host of other digbeards who had ventured outside to collect the various leaves and rocks dropped by the now-defunct rockclad herd. I know not what the rockclad expected to accomplish with this trick, but I must admit that I derived a great deal of satisfaction from stepping on him. His trick, my treat.

Next time: Reginald and the Megaproject, part 3 or The All-Encompassing Statue

[Dante]

Excellent; pray continue, master wordsmith.

[Ubiq]

Absence makes the heart grow ever fonder. Would that all the digbeards would go away long enough for me to grow fond of them and that I could live the necessary centuries it would require.

Another Titan came to call today, which suggests that Nature itself hates the digbeards with a passion rivalled only by that of the rockclads. This one, reputedly a Titan of the Marsh, according to Eydri, was a great shambling heap of, all things, sandy loam. It attempted to slaughter an innocent kitten, received the merest nick from that tiny claw, and promptly exploded when a small chunk of its loam went flying. I believe the digbeards are trying even now to figure out a way to bag the creature's corpse and sell it to the pointy-ears. This entire episode would suggest that Nature, while possessor of a multitude of fine qualities, is not possessed of great intellect or sensibility in designing her champions.

The digbeards have apparently finished their magnum opus of rock. After smoothing it, they carved numerous tunnels at random points and heights and then clad it with that shiny yellow metal that they have been dragging up from the earth. I may not know art, but I know what I like. It is not this and, while not an expert, I can safely say that it is not art either. One of the cows informs me that this is what is known as cheese and is derived from the milk she provides on a semi-monthly basis; she cannot, however, say as to what this monstrous monument to solidified cow extract represents. I congratulate her on her inability to understand as the only way to safely know one is sane is if they do not comprehend the daily shenanigans of the digbeards.

The monument has been celebrated and the digbeards have moved on to a new interest. The events, as best as I can piece together, began like so: Mr. Zedan, Firey Et cetera, Et cetera and So Forth managed to survive his fall into the abyss and had spent the time since his plunge into oblivion skulking about in the underground in a section that was no longer accessible from the rest of the footrest. A digbeard had blocked it off for some reason that I doubt even she or he remembers; it is possible that the region had been stripped bare of its shiny rocks and other worthwhile supplies. Curious as to why he wouldn't simply leave, I discussed the situation with a Mr. Tobrul, who had been born in the footrest wild and free before being captured and turned into a pet by Purpleclod. His suspicion is that the section in question was one that was a narrow spar of land that was backed by a sheer wall with water on two sides. With the section connected to the larger caverns blocked, our Friend Tick Fiend had nowhere to go. With his legs and arms, Zedan would simply float at the mercy of the water and be cast time and time again upon the same spar. Anyhow, the digbeards could hear him stumbling about and shrieking curses at them for several days. 

So the digbeards prepared what was, for them, an ingenious trap. The following I can vouch for myself as I witnessed a great part of it. A great, winding burrow was dug by a tuskstick that came close to the area that they guessed Mr. Zedan frequented and a cage placed partway through it. A door was placed on the far side of the cage nearest the end of the tunnel and the operation began. An occupied cage would be carried next to the first cage and by some magical show of dexterity, the inhabitant from the new cage would be transferred over to the second. Following this, the digbeard would shake and kick the first cage to insure the occupants were kept in an internal state of constant rage. My Blueclad himself participated in this. This went on for a great long while and the first cage was magically never filled despite its many occupants. A redclad showed up and worked on the first cage while a purpleclad and whiteclad worked on the opposite end.

As this went on, preparations took place upstairs as well. The digbeards provided the cavern level above with a marvelous clear rock floor and roof and accentuated it quite tastefully with a charming statue of your favorite narrator as well as one of the rocksticks that was furnished by a redclad. They then settled into this room for a while to keep tabs on Mr. Zedan.

When the whiteclad was finished with whatever she was up to, everybody retired upstairs save only a single tuskstick who ventured downstairs and carefully waited until Zedan was on the far side of the spar to chisel out the last section. After this, he ran as if all the demons in digbearddom were on his heels; as soon as he was out of the burrow, a digbeard child pushed the rockstick down. This had two results. The first was that a rock wall sprang out of nowhere at the end of the burrow, which blocked it off. The other, more amusing result was that the cage collapsed releasing its inhabitants.

I am no expert on their body language and their lack of facial skin prevented any expressions from registering, but the distinct impression is that none of the thirty walloons jammed into that cage were happy and, in fact, felt quite put upon by the lot given them by life... death? Unlife? Whatever. They were certainly unhappy and chose to express this to Mr. Zedan as best they could. He gave quite a good accounting of himself and obliterated about twenty and a half of them before being rolled to death by the remaining half of number twenty-one. The tuskstick responsible for the day's entertainment was given many an encouraging slap on the back and seemed absolutely delighted that he made it in time to see the show. I'd call the whole thing barbaric if not for the fact that Mr. Zedan almost certainly had equally unpleasant plans for all the inhabitants of the footrest and probably would not have given them as much of a sporting chance either.

It was then the problematic aspect of the event reared its ugly, wallonish head. The footrest was blocked off from the battlefield by three things: the instant wall, the more permanent one erected near the end of the spar, and an underground lake. Can you see the problem, gentle listener? If so, you're well ahead of the digbeards. If not, feel not ashamed as I had not even realized it myself until the moment it happened and the fatal flaw of this plan realized. Namely the sad, simple fact that water is not an impedient to an aquatic creature, be it dead or alive. After finishing with Mr. Zedan, the remaining walloons came out of the burrow and promptly swam into the water towards the footrest itself. This was met with, let us start with consternation and work upwards and outwards from there.

Next time: Reginald, Zombie Slayer or Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones.

[Phenixmirage]

Huzzah for the return of Reginald! Another fantastic installment. 

[Taricus]

REGIN-ALD!,REGIN-ALD!,REGIN-ALD!

[squeakyReaper]

I would raise my trunk to the sky and make a heroic cheer in reward for this amazing account by Reginald.  Lacking a trunk, I am sad that you will have to settle for the sounds my hands make when slapped together.  Many times over.  Good show, dear Elephant.

[Thief^]

More! More! More!

[monk12]

Jolly good! I simply cannot wait for the next installment.