Errm apologies I might have gone a bit overbored....
The Barbadian lifestyle has been comfortable, Michael and DaRC have enjoyed many mohito's whilst topping up their tans and Bob is looking svelte from frisbee chasing through the surf.
One afternoon, whilst the siesta sun shines over a snoozing Michael and his golden Lab', DaRC is wandering through the market looking for something for supper. He notices a new antiques shop, The Bazaar of the Bizarre, upon noticing the picaresque doorway DaRC is cantering across the dusty market square before his brain has quite registered what his body is upto. The place is a palace of nik-naks, brass constructions of indeterminable purpose and rugs, lots and lots of rugs. Interspersed there are various wooden containers of various sizes. Some could loosely be called magazine racks, others tea caddies there were also alien and vaguely obscene wooden objects of indeterminate nature.
Complementing the bizarre shop there was a little man in fantastically bright silks and enormous, curved sinbad-esque slippers who followed him round praising the goods in the shop. DaRC tried to ignore him and ventured further and deeper into the shop, lifting a rug here, peering behind a rug there.
At the back of the shop, just as the bright colours and constant wittering of the shopkeeper were beginning to beguile him, he noticed a movement
. A very strange, almost disconcerting movement
as if a large wooden container had moved of it's own volition. The shopkeep became panicked, desperately trying to both persuade DaRC to buy something and move him away from the movement at the same time. DaRC whips off the concealing rug to see a large dark trunk, with legs hopping from feet to feet in the background.
DaRC opens the trunk to look inside as, with a shuffle, the Trunk trips him inside and snaps it's lid shut.
on he see's a gift receipt
"To DaRC, I hope this trunk called Son-Of-A-Luggage or Soal for short, finds you well. Sheelba and Ningauble."
Which means that derivative fantasy mickey mongerer T. Pratchett must still be alive and Hillda the hill back in all her quantum glory, small but perfectly formed. Just like the previously mentioned Austrian physician's moggy it was time to open the box and find the true king of the Hill.
DaRC had kept a sod of earth from Hillda in his pocket and instructs his Soal to take me to the sodding L-Hill, if baggage could suspiciously squint that was the look the trunk gave him. Fortunately he could sit on his Soal now and enjoyed seeing the luggage tear through time and literary space into a large library with a hill and a Minerva sitting smugly on it. The luggage charged up the hill and knocked Minerva down then through the powers of L-magic seemed to dislocate it's hinges until it could swallow Hillda whole.
DaRC jumped back on the lid as it charged back in time towards the nuked non-hill before barfing the L-Hill in it's spot and swallowing the L-Hill and non-Hill back again.
DaRC is now feeling vaguely quesy but climbs back on for their furore through time and string theory. At this point DaRC is feeling a little stretched as if he's in many concurrent spacetime's just as they arrive at the original Hill. With Shadowcat smugly on top.
The luggage belches and with a little spacetime shimmy barfs out the L-Hill, non-hill over the almost original Hill.
The almost in the hill is a rock...
with a sword in it...
and Shadowcat holding the sword.
The rock rolls down the hill leaving Shadowcat at the entrance to the Pwcca Diner.
DaRC smugly sits on his soal "It's our hill now, well if it'll have us". The Soal folds it's legs and squats on top of the hill. If it were a fantasy trope of a bodyguard it'd be picking it's nails with a very large Broadsword.