Far to the North, deep inside Carad Nuath Torpor, Shatnir the mighty Dragon stirred fitfully on his sprawling bed of jewels and gold coins. He had been awakened repeatedly by an intolerable noise, a pounding bass beat that seemed to spring from the very bowels of the Earth. Shatnir groaned, grumbled, and changed position for the fiftieth time. He attempted to count naked virgins hopping over a mulberry bush. Nothing worked. He was unable to fall asleep again. A perfectly good 312 year nap had been utterly ruined, and he had a case of dragon-breath that would have withered a Morgul toadstool at twenty paces.

"Orc-Rap!" He muttered. "I HATE Orc-Rap!" He blew off clouds of sulfurous green smoke, growing more irritated by the minute. Finally he rose stiffly from his warm hoard, and shook his armoured body from head to tail in rage. "What idiot would dare to play Orc-Rap under the very foundations of Cinex Morbucks?" he snarled. "What suicidal fools dare wake the mighty Shatnir? Verily, they shall PAY the penultimate price for their foolishness And by Gosh, the Price Is Right, as they shall discover!!!"

Shatnir had been aroused. Let the World now tremble.

Deep in the grottos carved out by slave labour beneath Cinex Morbucks, an excited Orc scout reported to his section commander. "Shatnir rises! The Dragon comes forth!"

"Excellent," gloated the commander. "Mauron will be pleased. Continue playing most loudly," he instructed the Orc-Rappers, who were pounding huge drums and chanting maniacally. "We must ensure that he ventures forth into the open air and takes flight, thus once again terrorizing the world of Elves and Men, and setting whole cities ablaze in his anger. All MiddleMax shall burn, permitting massive new development contracts to we who shall rule over the shattered remains! It is thus that Mauron has decreed!"

The Orc-Rap grew even louder and more penetrating. It shook the walls of Cinex Morbucks.

"Hell and damnation!" snarled Shatnir. "Flaming hell and damnation!" He slithered toward the rear chambers of Cinex Morbucks, working his way down a narrowing shaft that led into the depths of Carad Nuath. The way grew narrower and more tortuous as he pressed on, ever deeper. Lurid flashes of volcanic fire cheered him, and urged him to further efforts.

"I shall root out this vile noise at its very source if I must tear up the roots of this whole damned mountain to do it," hissed Shatnir.

Meanwhile, another Orc scout had reported the troubling news that Shatnir, although definitely awake, had not come outside yet.

"Louder then, you scabby wretches!" yelled the commander. "Louder!"

Shatnir had reached what appeared to be a cul-de-sac, and he was furious. He began to hyperventilate (a bad sign in Dragons), accumulating a massive head of steam, then released it all in one mighty, roaring exhalation that atomized the stone wall before him in a white-hot explosion of fire and brimstone. It fell away, revealing a sprawling gallery in which 75 toiling Orcish musicians were giving the Orc-Rap performance of their lives, while ten thousand of their comrades cheered them on and danced demonically under flickering torchlight.

The Orc Commander blanched as he saw Shatnir debouch through the gaping hole his breath had just blasted. "Oh....Shit!" he said, dropping his swagger stick from nerveless fingers.

"DIE, ORC-RAPPING SCUM!!!" bellowed Shatnir and he vomited forth a torrent of flame which consumed both drums and musicians in a tremendous booming conflagration. The very walls began to melt. Gibbering Orcs fled one way and another as the furious Shatnir hurled fountains of flaming breath amongst them and charged forward, trampling and exterminating them with extreme prejudice.

Far off in the distance both Rangers and animals, and the people living on the fringes of the northern mountains gazed in fear and awe, as towering columns of smoke, now black as coal, boiled up from the summit of Carad Nuath Torpor, and distant thunder grumbled beneath it. The mountain was angry, and so, most certainly was "Old William" as the villagers colloquially called Shatnir in tales to frighten and entertain their children. Many ran to their homes in panic, taking shelter where they could.

By the time Shatnir had finished with the destruction of the gallery, not a living Orc could he find, so he contented himself with barbecuing the remains of those who had not gotten away, but he ate none of them. Instead, he left them lying around half-incinerated as a gesture of utter contempt, and returned to Cinex Morbucks, where he took a long draught of liquid fire from his favourite volcanic shaft.

"Idiots!" he muttered. "Idiots!"

It took most of the evening before he was feeling even slightly drowsy again, so he set about counting his ancient hoard instead, just to make sure it was all still there. Relative peace returned to Carad Nuath Torpor, as the fires of his rage receded.

- LH