[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

'Twas brillig, and in a wabe somewhere toves were gyring and gimbling slithily, as is their wont. But there was nothing at all mimsy or borrowed about the lone black-clad figure who strode with almost cretinous fearlessness through the pathless eaves of Workmud the Okay-I-Guess.

Lord Earnur had gladly accepted the fair Merisuwyniel's herbal challenge, with its fringe benefit of making that smug git Lord Gormlessar look bad. Not for the first time he considered how much restraint he had shown in not simply cutting the hole hand ("whole", he corrected, briefly wondering how he could be mis-spelling his own stream of consciousness).

Finding all of the ingredients for a vindaloo in this part of the world wasn't going to be easy; but fortunately he happened to have in his saddlebag some rare and exotic spices, which he had bought from the venerable herbalist Madhyr J'Affrey during his last trip to Far Harad. For some reason in that searingly hot part of the world it was impossible to get hold of a cold beer, and the natives quenched their parched throats with tiny thimblefuls of something that could have floored a rhinoceros at fifty paces. He would have to return when the quest was over, he reflected: some people there were still unscrupulous enough to sell it to tourists in pint mugs.

This gave the Lord of the Castle of Dun Sóbrin another brilliant idea, as he suddenly remembered the bottle that had been his salvation from the pirates. Captain Strangereek's Olde Amber Amnesia Special Reserve (aged ten minutes within a mile of oak casks, and guaranteed no more than 30% turpentine per bottle). He inhaled some of its heady aroma, which was far less painful than plucking his nasal hair, and took a deep draught.

Unfortunately not even so seasoned a boozer as Lord Etceteron should take a draught of the Special Reserve, deep or otherwise; for draught-taking is close akin to quaffing, and some drinks just aren't intended to be quaffed. The world spun crazily on a shifting axis; the sky did things that no self-respecting atmosphere should even know about and the ground chose a bad moment to take up ballet. After what seemed an eternity of falling he found himself lying on his back, gazing up into an infinity of azure sky.

Suddenly he realised with a cold stab of fear that he was remembering things that had happened more than two days ago. He must reach the bottle again. No, not the bottle: that way madness lay. He needed good, friendly, perpetually-replenishing Elven draught; or even at a pinch the bottle of balsamic vinegar that he'd taken from the uncourt of Celery and Saladriel in case of an emergency. Even Athelas would do, if he could reach his pipe. If this went on much longer he'd start to remember... what? Curse his manly ability to achieve his goals: now he could no longer remember why he wasn't allowed to remember what it was that he couldn't remember. "Ah, pour the meths an' stone me well!" he cried in his anguish, as he tried in vain to reach some alcohol, any alcohol, and slip the surly bonds of memory.

Too late! He was from his womb of substance abuse untimely wrench'd, and a curtain of long years was swept aside. Now once again he was the young apprentice dashing hero, trying hard to look manly as he hefted his father's impressively-beruned, yet as it had turned out atrociously-made brand Windósil, the sword-that-was-on-sale. Once again he stood in memory within the glade of Careless Gardenhon; suddenly realising why the place had looked so familiar before and why he had drunk half his bodyweight in armour polish every night he had spent there.

O Vinaigrettiel! O Fair One! No wonder he had momentarily gone all gooey over her goose of a sister, who had clearly forgotten all about him. Great had been their love when first they met beneath the clouds, near lunch-time on the fourth day of Autumn. He had come upon her unaware as she practiced her scales in the drizzle; and he had touched her soft arm and she had half-heartedly fled from the smooth, well-muscled young man with the imposing yet apparently crooked mythic sword.

You wet bleedin' ponce. If yore gonna think abaht that wet blanket I'm gonna find anuvva pirate ter kill yer wiv.

Suddenly Earnur's brain and arm resolved their differences and joined forces. Slowly, dreamily he drew his sword and threw it into a nearby pile of goat droppings.

"Mmmmm?" he said distractedly, wishing that the sword wasn't so indispensible to his work. It had, with characteristically crass insensitivity, reminded him of the very memory to quell which had taken two bottles a day of Orc-draught (or the nearest equivalent in lamp-oil and furniture polish) for the last ten years.

They had been so happy. Her father had cut up rough at first, demanding that he go on a wild-goose chase after some stolen jewellery; but Earnur had made a secret counter offer, which was that he simply ran off with Vinaigrettiel anyway and sod whatever problems Thingy was having with the finance company. For two years they dwelt in blissful harmony, for being immortal she didn't receive his mortality, and being chained she received his freedom. And her bliss was greater than any other bored rich girl has known.

Why, oh why hadn't he stuck with Windósil? It wouldn't cut butter and broke if you looked at it in the wrong way, but it had belonged to his father and at least it wasn't forever swearing at him. Oh, and it had never killed his girlfriend's cat and then called her a toffee-nosed cow. "The sword or me" she had said; but there had been a lucrative adventuring offer on, and his participation had been conditional on taking the legendary black sword. And he was going to get her the biggest, most tastelessly overpriced piece of Dwarven jewellery he could possibly find with the money. He didn't think she was serious until he'd awoken to find himself very alone and sleeping next to the sword, which had laughed at him.

Finally buggered off 'as she? Good riddance. Right, when d'we kill summat

That recollection was the last straw. He determined to leave the sword where it was for the next sucker who came along. Finding that his long bout of crying over spilt milk had restored his motor functions, he went off in search of some wild garlic, swigging the suddenly very strangely flavoured Strangereek's.

All of a sudden, and without warning, the sun disappeared. He had blundered into a small copse of withered, weather-beaten and strangely hairy trees. What was more, they seemed to be moving independently of the breeze. Horrible realisation began to dawn as he looked up to see a pulsating and luminous mass above him and a massive sting dripping lurid fluorescent-green venom in front of his face. Actually he had already walked into it, but since concentrated spider venom is one of the main ingredients of Harvest Haemorrhage (whence came its unusual name), he had remained unharmed. Drawing his black-bladed dagger, he made ready for a fight, but without warning the creature emitted a scream of deafening proportions and leapt ten feet into the air before running off, gibbering incoherently. As the demented racket dopplered into the distance all he could remember was "...Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! A human! There's a human in my bedroom! Help!"

Rather sheepishly Lord Etceteron sheathed his dagger and went to collect his disreputable weapon, happily finding the very bulbs he required growing right next to where he had thrown it. Wylkynsion would get the roughest whetting of its long life when he reached camp; and it was the thought of this, along with the last dregs of what he now realised was the bottle of vinegar that caused him to sing the Lay of the Broken Sword as he walked back to join his companions.

[ February 16, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]