# Hognominé: Etymologeine ov'a Prolombate, Cavanates I-III



## Crudblud (Dec 29, 2011)

*Hoofstuk Ein*

Ah, the colloq and winsome vagueries done one collected in the fire there. Whence and what horm might be influctuated gravously and storthwit. Vaqu, vaqum; the vacuum in situe was not best pleasantised nor hospit did come, for the English are a strangled people of small means and wit smaller still. But be known that wherest arrangements for vacancy is sparse, that sparsity may be usulated and usurped for the good of mankind. And yet, I babble beyond my precipitude, for the protagon and firent do approach the view of this halpstated narratide and time it is for us to mean them, and well.

"Heron! Heron!" The voice ran thick and deep in the brush and Cantwell surround, such that it weren't not heard for mines besound. Indeed, heron there was but for brief momints, 't did fline and flow 'way over brush and Cantwell insurmount, for mount don't doubt what it hone and hurt when it did. The voice belongated to Harp Swittleswidt, a man of malabooth and stupor, or merely torpor. Friend Frund Dibds did resplend: "'Eron gone, so 't has, eh want 'Arp?" Switt did nit respring, for 't was not his court, him being of zetetic persuancite and thus not gib'd to unobus phenoms and such.

But there continued putter pint footward motionings in a genericised easterly maniére, at appropus tree mines an whole, where it stooped and bloomed like tur and ton in flagrant oburescence. Making way to when crow'ther and su'et, protagon and firent did recite and make good for night and when mourning came Switt was sharp and delibranitic. Dibds 'ad 'ad twun and tweeberry too many, Switt did dedunk, and set eastwarts whence more.

Eastbert Rigor and Ridden were rife and ransacked ruminously in rank ruborence. Umbert gallant and funt, but not twent mons lint was the raisin detract known and shouted forth from rooftips and wonders. "The Devil herself were him and home, so breget and borst yon sides and rend forth, lesser demise be sharper and stuck!" The cacophonitude was all permetrating and ran bunk to brush and Cantwell betrunken o'er it spitsnot. Yeigh, Eastbert bunt and bent to the wyrm o' the Devil hirself and hem and horn and rote and ring and sprunlike, for 't was that the Devil - him high, her hope - had sent fir and fur crumb on the board, rock and cobule. The feetward ascinate began again but mostly qu'unker, for Switt o' the Harp and Le Swîdt owned none time for frivolution!

*Hoofstuk Deux*

Abft some deliberand Horg Mulk returned to a sitting positance, in winch he contined to theise on the matter most urgent of the Devil Hermself.
"Horg - I say, Horg!" The voice was delinc and corusaic in its hurrend way down the hall. And its owner hurr'd twunce, for she had theised on the matter most urgent as well't. "Horg, you realise that the Devil Heimself's aparitance in Eastbert cannot be coinciduous, do you not?"
"That I do, for 't weren't not possible to be ungrimonious, weren't not possible to avoid Plibt. You know that."
"Yet his occulatory ritae was scibated to yorn by your own hand."
"'T was, 't was. But Plibt's library was far'n deep to simply ariate and aleive."

Horg Mulk were a scrubinous man, fort halpstated and funt not, merely arbine and flernt. Atop the library tower he occured himself away to stine the ritae of the fondularii of the field, a man of muritation by the naming of Pliszór Plibt. His friend, Arfine Freelk, were herself of muritation, most sturinous and wise. Like Mulk, she remanted in the Sectre, the most opurine and hidden wing of Plibt's library tower. Here the diminitic types and their lord the Devil Ximself could be stined deep and without preonification. The library held secrets arcane, and the rine and foerine, it was said, made their spirit home in the walls.

Freelks voice knated the sindence with winch the aboer paranite were possible to be u'urnt. "With Plibt's dispent we are left one hunnerd and two hurr'd. He ascates fast for an urwent, eh want?"
"But then, the two hurr'd ascate fast alt t'weyn ways."
"But then, Rigor and Ridden done whence or twunce... 't can't ascate fast enough."

Abrupting sporingiously, soluences rang out over the mount northerly, notting coneir and conei'er. Shook it down the canoptic shilt o' below and ran fast to fond'r. Rumbent in forward fruul, ritae dispent their shent and ran apolaxis. As one, Mulk and Freelk levelled huroar and funt fast: "The tabulate ever'whence fru'unt under and under still, but sancre hold them better in rancidious sturn and send the hurr'd qu'unker, for fruul fills not the walls of this house!" The soluences passed and sindence retrovienn'd.

*Nodaļa Viens*

Amazingly fast for a man who was asleep, Frund Dibds shot in to the air with great vehemence. He had detected the approaching sound of unfamiliar boots and reacted by launching himself upwards to a safe location, or so he thought. In reality, Dibds had simply stood up, and was now in plain sight of the oncoming trio of vagabond looking guys, where he remained for some time, even after they had passed by without saying anything. I'm sure this seemingly insignificant encounter upon which I have obviously placed some importance will never be mentioned again within the confines of nor will impact upon the direction of this narrative, which as you may now have noticed contains no words alien to the common English language, save for a few stragglers included for the purposes of continuity.

Dibds assumed, correctly, that Harp Swittleswidt had moved on without him due to the urgency of the situation. Indeed, looking east to Eastbert and its sibling townships Rigor and Ridden, he saw the immense damage visited upon it and realised that the rumours of the resurfacing of the Devil hermself must be true. Of course, being of Pliszór Plibt's school, he knew it was foolish to assume so readily, but it seemed that Plibt had done the same in his sudden disappearance from the great library tower. The obvious choice of movement from this point was to move around Eastbert rather than directly through it; in historical accounts of diminitic appearances there was always some fallout, leftover energy that could turn a man in to a frog, or worse, a professional art critic. Dibds determined his course of action - he would travel north, a simple plan which would hopefully keep him away from the action, and was surely influenced by his unwillingness to be involved in something so ridiculous as this ********. Characters that know they are characters are really quite annoying, post-modernist meta nonsense, says I, but apparently it means I get to spruce up this otherwise rather pedestrian plot with all manner of stupidity, so let us continue on this path a while longer.

Heading north on the narrow dirt road that intersected the path from Cantwell to Eastbert, Didbs amused himself by playing I Spy. As you can imagine, the classic laugh riot second in entertainment value only to charades had limited appeal when played solitaire. Of course, even solo I Spy held more entertainment than this, the bleakest and most nondescript of roads which seemed to unfold endlessly before his eyes. At one point, the I Spying of a solitary twig that must have been transported quite a way from the forests to the east raised a whole host of questions. How? Why? Who? Had it in fact been placed there by extra terrestrial beings from one of the campfires in the sky? If he got hungry, would the twig taste good? This brief foray in to detective work made him hungry. The twig did not taste good. Setting the half chewed remains of the lone discovery he had made back down on the road, he continued on his way, considering the possibility that the twig had in fact been picked up by one or many other people like himself, perhaps he would meet his fellow twig carriers further on, or perhaps they had all been travelling in the opposite direction and silly old Dibds had proven a minor setback to its eventual destination in the south.

Approximately one hour later, and what felt like three, Dibds happened upon a mobile roadside vendor of hot and cold foodstuffs. Our ravenous momentary protagonist wandered up to J. Bimm's Eatin' Hole and received with much delight a hot dog, topped with mustard and onions.
"Naa, yer gun pay fer thayut aincha?"
"Eh?"
"Praablum wit mah dickshun boah?"
"A'you 'avin me on, r'is that reely 'ow yoo toek?"
"Ah seey, praablum wit muh dayum dickshun. Weyl, ah gut uh praablum wit yurz tew."
"Yewat?"
"Hmph... F'get it, b'heer awl dayum day yawl keep tawk'n. Pay. Muh-neh. Caysh. Kurrnseh."
"Yewannakwid, 's thaddi'?"
Dibds placed a pound coin on the counter, the man who was presumably J. Bimm picked it up and examined it.
"Dayum farners, caynt git yuh dayum munneh strayt. Ahl tayk iit, butchawl brang dawluhs nextaam, y' heer."

Mutually relieved that the strange encounter was over, Dibds and J. Bimm proceeded to return to their own businesses. Mr. Bimm lit a chewed up cigar, the burnt end of which dropped in to the chilli sauce as he nonchalantly flicked it. Now further along the path, Dibds heard the proprietor of the Eatin' Hole's strange squawks of displeasure in that inimitable foreign tongue, a marvel of linguistic nonsense, he thought. He continued along the path at no great pace, occasionally looking up to observe the sun's position in order to plan where and when to make camp. He did not know where Swittleswidt was and hoped, with the nature of their mission in mind, that their paths would not soon meet. And if that isn't foreshadowing, then I don't know what is.


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