Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: There is No Soap in Ladros (#214)
Author: Halfwest
Chapters: 1

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Palantir Section
Description: What happens when you put Gorlim, former exiled warrior of the highlands of Dorthonion, into a fully-stocked modern bathroom.
Published: 20 Aug 2003
Updated: 21 Aug 2003
Warnings:
Type: Humour
Characters: Gorlim


Chapter 1 - There is No Soap in Ladros

It began with the Very Unwise Experimentation, involving an overly curious, unsuspecting former-woodland-outcast-warrior... and a bottle of strawberry shampoo. *DREAD!* Immediately following the discovery that the purpose of this magical brew was the removal of unwanted substances from the hair, liberal quantities were applied.

Shortly thereafter came the Revelation.

"I smell like a fruit salad!"

…and trailing on its heels, the introspective soliloquy.

“DAMMIT!”

Suspense built as the Fruit Salad Problem was forgotten, its unfortunate victim having been distracted by yet another ingenious creation of modern man. Body oils. Removing the cap of one of the several sparkling bottles lounging languidly about the shelves in the bathroom, our hero was quick to discover a most pleasing quality of the substance contained therein.

“Well, it smells better than fruit salad…”

Further steps of logic led to the heretical belief that two scents of equal strength would perhaps cancel each other out… or at least weaken their respective bouquets. Even now this theory remains highly untested, as the pioneer of this area of study found his attentions demanded elsewhere at the most essential moment of observation. Just as the time was ripe to sharpen his senses towards the effects of the oil’s aroma working against that of the shampoo, he was struck by the realization of what exactly oil does to hair.

“Eeee! Slimy!!!!! Getitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetitoff!!!!!!”

More of the fearful pink nectar was utilized for the removal of the slime oil. Still, some of the floral mixture clung to his skin, mingling its sweet pastoral nature with the hint (if something so obvious may qualify as a “hint”) of summer essence in his hair in a marriage of the firm fruit of the hills and the gentle springtime bud, and a brilliantly cheesy metaphor for romanticized Elizabethan sex. (Who knew soap could be so dirty?)

Ignoring the mortification derived from the literary use of his personal hygiene as a phallic symbol, our hero rose splendidly to the occasion, following his razor intellect and keenly honed senses as they found inspiration in yet another bottle.

Its contents could barely be seen through the encasement of hand blown dark glass. Its shape almost resembled a primitive interpretation of the female figure, the hourglass form whispering vague suggestions of breasts and hips.

The label read “Un parfum féminin de fleurs célestes.” Deducing the strange language to be some form of Elvish, the Toilette Marauder plucked the cap from its secure perch about the rim of the bottle and found beneath a strange contraption. Some small amount of hands-on research resulted in a new gem of expanded mental capacity: the awareness of a spray-cap.

Our hero uttered a cry of joy, bubbling from the glee experienced by a mind which has been exposed to ideas that radically alter its caretaker’s existence.

“Neat!”

This exclamation set free into the world, the smooth wit focused itself on one nagging question: What did the bottle contain? The application of pressure to the top of the cap sent a cloud of tiny chemical molecules into the air… or would have, had not the front end of the sprayer been pointed at his face. Sputtering, out hero turned the bottle in a different direction, braced himself, and tried again.

This time, he met with unqualified success! Feline reflexes were made more adept by the pride of true accomplishment, and a quick hand shot through the cloud, collecting the drifting liquid on calloused fingertips. This test proved quickly that the liquid was no sort of oil, and its scent was both pleasing and subtle.

The spray cap, its usefulness and fascination long outlived, was screwed off. Sparing not another moment in hesitation, our hero raised a triumphant arm and turned the entire bottle of perfume onto his head.

Now came a pause in the drama. The world hung still in suspense, the tension building as dawn came to the mind of the daring adventurer.

“Some days, it’s just not worth getting out of bed.”

Everybody agreed that the climax of the tale was rather a let-down. There was no raging battle, not even a bit of dueling-with-toothpicks over chilled cocktails, although of a surety any of our gentle readers with sufficiently dirty minds have been amply entertained by the hidden innuendos and carefully crafted double entendres contained in the narrative. Additionally, we, the author, speaking of ourselves in the first person plural because it amuses us, feel it necessary to add that the preceding actions have all taken place while our hero was somewhat lacking of even a single scrap of clothing.

But out story does not end here! Oh no! We have yet to let loose our olfactory masterpiece on the world. He shall be dressed and groomed to the pinnacle of perfection (inasmuch as such a pinnacle may be reached by one who has formerly been accustomed to the extent of his personal grooming amounting to running his hands through his hair and perhaps having a cold bath, if his companions saw fit to throw him into the lake), and then shall make his way through the Steward’s Quarters, attracting what adventures will come his way.

And so, gentle reader, we leave you with a final word from our hero:

“ARG!!!!!!”
------------------------------------------------------------------

Printed from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) on Sat Nov 14, 2026 8:13 pm