[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Earnur Etceteron approached the dread salad bowl with an unsteadiness that was due in part to trepidation but mostly to a day spent drinking, and reciting bad poetry. Vogonwë's latest masterpiece had left him feeling inspired, although it had sadly fallen short of providing more than the sensation; and the fruits of this had been lavished upon all whose ears remained unblocked:

Oh give me a flask full o' the warm South
And let me sup it alway'.
There is a crust within my arid mouth,
And I must wash it clean.
Behold the goblet's sheen
Reflects to me wobbly squiggles and lines

It was with these mighty staves in his mind that the warrior almost-poet strode through the wreckage of the mystic salad, stepping neatly over a puddle of Sauce Vignette to pause awhile and contemplate the wilting depths of the prophetic receptacle. Stooping slightly, he brushed aside the momentary distraction of a stray morsel of Juvenal and gazed deeply into the heart of an artichoke, wondering blearily what wonders he would see.

At first there was only a rather sad assortment of squashed vegetables, drizzled with oil and not a little mucus, and a vague smell of equine halitosis. Then images began to form: first the mouth of a silver flask, then a drop of pure amber liquid. His gaze being naturally drawn to spiritual things, Earnur looked into the depths of the drip and was engulfed.

He was standing in a sward, over some former feared bandits, a bloodied and broken sword in his hands. The leader of his erstwhile opponents wore a fine sable scabbard for his impressive weapon, and without further ado he set about unbuckling it. No sooner did he take the blade to sheath it, however, than there came a voice seemingly from his hand:

You useless twonk! I've seen bleedin' toddlers 'oo could've parried that! I 'ope you 'ad that pansy good an' proper...

There was a sudden, pregnant pause.

I'm not talkin' to Slasher am I?

"You address Lord Earnur Etceteron of Ilvers-in-Slógin, O hidden foe. Stand forth that I may test the mettle of this sword." replied the great warrior, glancing about him wildly.

I am the sword, you berk. 'Ow the 'ell did a prat like you ever beat Slasher Grimodur?

"Peace, my brand. Th'art mine by right of looting corpses. Henceforth we shall be as brothers in battle, and many shall wonder at our deeds..." retorted Etceteron grandly, but his new sword interrupted him.

Leave it aht, Sunshine. I've 'eard it all before. Last bloke 'oo said that it took 'em five days ta find all of 'im. I'll stitch you up 'nall, ya great steamin' tit...

But Etceteron was no longer listening. A brightly-coloured mist was swirling about him, which differed from the usual rainbow in that it eventually coalesced into something resembling reality. He was in a grassy glen, looking on some sort of grey hammock. Near it, a very familiar-looking bow lay close beside a crudely made wooden foot, which was fastened to a leg that clearly belonged, even at this merciful distance, to a plastic surgeon's retirement scheme. Although it was doubtful that even a mother could love a limb so revolting its owner appeared to have prevailed against plausibility and taste; for entwined with the disgusting appendages of the beast were those of someone rather more attractive. Were it not for his certainty that every Elf he knew possessed both keen sight and a functioning sense of smell he might have thought this better-looking half familiar, but as it was he could only mutter something about Cupid being painted blind before a welcome veil was drawn over the scene.

Now he stood in a black landscape. He faced some great and terrible evil, but his sword would point only at the ground. The faint words of an argument reached him, cut short as a huge taloned hand swept into view and his vision darkened.

Now he sat in what could only be a tavern, slumped over a rough-hewn table. Someone at the bar was buying a round for everyone, and he sprang to his feet to order a large Miruvor and soda, but the vision faded as swiftly as it had begun. For some reason an unexpected earthquake had begun, and someone was shouting at him, presumably to beg assistance.

"Lord Etceteron? Lord Etceteron? Oi, Clothears!" said the Lady Saladriel daintily, and never, it seemed, had he heard a voice so fair. Suddenly struck by the beauty of the not-Queen at a delicate moment when relative sobriety was beginning to set in, Earnur muttered something indecipherable, to which she replied: "Your visions have fatigued you greatly, my lord. Perhaps you would lief retire?".

Suddenly being alone with a bottle of wine didn't seem the attractive proposition it usually did at this time of day. Aware that he really would rather like some company this time he made the greatest conversational sally of the month:

"You've got nice hair." slurred Lord Etceteron feebly.

"Ummm... Very well... I think you ought to go and have a lie down now." decided his hostess uncertainly, obviously none too happy with the compliment: the not-royal court was not used to such gin-sodden idiocy. Realising that he had failed to make an impression, and too embarrassed to speak further without a drink, Earnur did his best to extricate himself from this new blunder with no more than the usual loss of dignity.

"Gratefully, Lady." said the daredevil dipsomaniac, "For I have seen much that seems to me strange, and I must ponder on it ere I sleep."

Lightweight

"Shut it." Etceteron told his brand, which had spoiled his momentary satisfaction with his apparently successful gambit; but it was an ill-advised moment of remonstrance, since only he had heard the word.

"I beg your pardon?" inquired Saladriel sharply.

"...Mmmm? Nothing. Sorry..."

Mumbling apologetically, Lord Etceteron made to retire. Pausing only to grab a jug of wine from the table he left the Fellowship and made for his quarters to commune in spirit with the elven vintage. He left surrounded by derisive metallic laughter that only he could hear.

[ February 09, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]