As the camera closes in, we see that at the head of the file is an exceptionally tall female figure, a supple longbow slung across her back and her copper-coloured hair flowing loose in the breeze. Behind her walks a sturdy man, slightly shorter in stature than the woman. He is of rather disheveled appearance, his dark hair liberally flecked with grey and his brow furrowed. At the crest of a long green slope running down to a forest of towering broadleaved trees, the woman stops, allowing the man to catch her up and stand beside her. They turn to watch as their companions stagger towards them.
The tall woman speaks.
‘This bow is totally amazing! I’ve shot nineteen orcs already today, despite only having a dozen arrows in my quiver when we started. And I fired one so low over Fishy Gollum’s head - to scare him off when he was following us - that it parted his hair, which was hilarious! But seriously, Tom - are these pointy ears really necessary?’
‘They’re an essential part of being an elvish warrior, I’m afraid, Sally.’
‘Then at least let me change my shoes. My feet were frozen in these flimsy deerskin pumps when we were up on the snowfields and they’ve got no grip on wet, slippery rocks. Safety boots would be so much better.’
‘You can’t wear your safety boots, lass - you’re in Middle Earth! We don’t have safety boots here in the Third Age.’
‘That’s a serious breach of the Factories Acts, especially with all the fortress building that’s going on around here. Those orcs ought to have been using proper scaffolding at Helm’s Deep, not ladders and as for Isenguard - Isn't Guarded would be a better name, as there are no guards on any of that machinery. It needs closing down before there's a serious accident! Edoras isn’t great either. A timber-frame structure is good, sustainable technology, but with an open fire…?’
As she talks, a lean-framed, elderly man in a tall, pointed, wide-brimmed hat, who is carrying a long, gnarled staff, comes to a halt beside the first two walkers.
‘Thomas, old chap, I know it’s a well-established trope in this genre that wisdom and venerability are instantly established by means of a voluminous beard but I should prefer to shave, if you wouldn't mind. This ghastly thing has a mind of its own, almost tripping me into a quagmire as we were making our way across those wretched marshes, and I’m not entirely sure I’ve picked all of the midges out of it yet.’
‘You’ll not really look the part as a wizard without the whiskers, Vaughan. It’s traditional.’
‘Oh well, I suppose beards are rather de rigeur. However, if I might be permitted to trim my eyebrows a fraction and perhaps get this disreputable cloak dry-cleaned at the earliest opportunity…?’
Before the beleaguered leader of the troop can give an answer to this request, another of the party approaches. A black woman of a little less than average height, she is finely dressed in a long crimson tunic, trimmed with rich gold embroidery. Her black hair is intricately braided with gems. A short but splendid sword hangs at her side and she has a richly embellished round shield on her back, marking her as a warrior of high status. She stands in front of the band’s ragged leader with her hands on her hips.
‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re on a quest, Tricia.’
‘What for?’
‘I’m not entirely sure of that. I’m waiting for someone wise and powerful to tell me my destiny.’
‘It looks kind of Lord of the Rings to me. I’m guessing it’s not Game of Thrones as none of the female characters in this scene are naked.’
‘Nice use of logic, sister!’
‘Hi Sally! Oh my God! What’s happened to your ears?’
‘Ask Tom. This is his movie.’
A young man strides up to join them. His sandy-brown hair is cut short and is slightly spiky. He wears chain-mail and carries a medium-length pike, decorated with a red banner, in his right hand and carries a Saxon-style helmet in his left. He too adopts a confrontational posture in front of their erstwhile leader.
‘So when we’ve brought down the Evil Empire of Cam'ron, we are not replacing it with a fucking monarchy, okay? I don’t care who you are or who says it’s your destiny to be king, the days of patriarchy, nepotism and elitism are over. We need to smash the system, not replace one tyrant with another. If this isn’t a proper revolution for the people, you can fuck right off!’
‘I had a feeling you’d say something like that, Martin. You have to be realistic, though. This is only the Third Age, after all. I don’t think Socialism is due to reach Middle Earth until the Sixth or Seventh, at the earliest, though I hear the Ents are experimenting with quite a radical form of militant environmentalism.’
‘Jeez! I so don’t belong here! I should never have followed Sally into that fucking wardrobe!’
‘Don’t say that, lad. I know the politics isn’t to your taste but you've still got your friends here with you - and look at this glorious scenery!’
‘I can’t see it properly. Because it’s the fucking Third Age, I don’t have my glasses or contact lenses!’
The disgruntled young warrior slouches to the side of the elf-woman and strains his eyes to focus on the last member of the group, still making his way across the heather-covered moorland towards them.
‘How come Toby’s still so far away?’
‘He isn’t. He’s just smaller than usual.’
The last of the group stomps up to them. He is a short, stocky figure bearing a battle-axe and bronze armour, the weight of which has clearly hindered his progress on the march, making him irritable. He too appears to have a quarrel with their leader.
‘I suppose this is your idea of revenge for all my Lady Chatterley jokes about you and Hilary?’
‘Not at all, Toby. With your quirky sense of humour and irrepressible good cheer, you seemed the obvious choice for the comedic dwarf or hobbit character. You might yet end up as the real hero of the whole tale, my friend!’
‘What is the "tale” then? What’s the quest, mate?’
‘It’s either to find an extraordinarily powerful talisman, or to destroy an extraordinarily powerful talisman, or possibly to find it and then destroy it. The Fair Lady of the Forest will know.’
‘When do we get to meet her?’
‘When we get down there.’
Looking more disheveled and perplexed than ever, the first man leads his semi-mutinous troop down the hill. As they grow closer to the margins of the forest, the grass beneath their feet grows greener and richer, wild flowers of many colours rise from the sward around them, birdsong fills the air and the musical score becomes soft and lyrical. Beguiled by the beauty around them, the travellers lower their guard, only to find themselves unexpectedly surrounded by elvish soldiers arrayed in deep blue and silver, bright swords drawn in warning.
Escorted into a clearing under the soaring trees, the wanderers stand in awe as the Fair Lady of the Forest approaches. There is an other-worldly quality about her beyond mere mortal beauty. Her hair is dark, crowned with a silver tiara formed of flower shapes and she wears a long, close-fitted gown of sapphire velvet. If she is indeed an elvish woman, her figure is unusually curvaceous for one of that kind. She smiles at the wanderers before turning her hypnotic blue eyes on their leader. Her voice is deep and sultry as she addresses him:
‘Hello Ranger! Is that a broken sword in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?’
He steps forward, sweeps her into his arms, kisses her passionately and carries her away to a mossy glade under a gnarled pear tree. Laughter, then the sighs and moans of enthusiastic love-making, drift back to where the other companions remain under guard.
The black warrior princess speaks.
‘My mistake, people. It is Game of Thrones.’
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