[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Etceteron casually swept a couple of unfortunate Crebain out of the sky, noting as he did so that Wylkynsion's balance appeared to be off. Not enough blood, he decided, and skewered another feathery body by way of an appetiser for his undernourished sword. It was obvious that the gates of Gol Dulldor weren't going to open on their own, and he was hoping that the enemy would be stupid enough to open them for him, as they usually did when he was so ludicrously outnumbered. The Black Sword was one of the few men who could realistically expect to use a massive numerical handicap as a tactical ploy.

Luck and dramatic purpose were with him this day; for as he paused to brush some guano from his tunic the dread portals swung back on their under-oiled hinges, screaming like a legion of film buffs at an enforced five-hour screening of Wednesday-afternoon game shows. His blade was ecstatic as a veritable army of Orcs issued forth, waving an ill-assorted collection of spears, scimitars, axes, hammers and, in one particularly misguided case, a pair of nail-scissors. At their head rode a familiar figure, one-legged and brandishing at once sword and spear.

At last, enthused the brutish blade. Oi! 'Andsome! You want some?! Come 'ere an' get it!.

"I just washed this tunic" mused the lord of Dun Sóbrin, absent-mindedly taking up a fighting stance by Oragarn Two, who was clutching his crystal once more as he too prepared to meet the advance. Vogonwë had an arrow in each hand, and was already beginning the greatest chant of accuracy known to the Elves of Workmud:

Is there an allegory in these sections? It seems to me that...

His words were lost in the din of a thousand battle cries, ranging from one Orc's "This bit is soooo kewl!" to Etceteron's own "Heart shall be higher, will the bolder as our enemies perish in unconvincingly high numbers!" Even Pimpiowyn was holding a dagger uncertainly, as though worried that it might bite her. Kuruharan, axe in hand stood close by his business associate, which might have been heroic comradeship or the desire to be near the largest and most lethal being in the field. Already the noble dragon was casually picking the remains of a barbequed Orc from his teeth and eyeing up its erstwhile companions as a hungry man regards an all-you-can-eat buffet.

The Entish Bow was still half-way through the hastiest war-chant it knew, although its fair owner, her hair streaming conveniently away from her eyes, was acting rather more swiftly as arrow after arrow thudded home into the ranks of the enemy. Anyone perceptive enough to notice, which ruled out every participant in the battle, might have noticed how few of these came close to the huge leader of this wild tide of destruction.

Not laughin' now are we, Sunshine? sneered the dread sword Wylkynsion, as it neatly bisected an Orc's head and swept back with all the strength of Earnur's mighty and gin-soaked arm behind it to skewer another that had somehow got behind him. He was too busy now to notice the actions of his companions as he cheerfully fought three huge Uruks with one hand whilst drinking the strongest spirits known to Middle-Earth with the other. One particularly callow Orc got too far inside his guard and was rendered unconscious by the very fumes of this concoction; a mixture of Strangereek's, Orc homebrew and Miruvor that was favoured by poisoners rather than drinkers in most societies. As the flood swept past him he could hear skulls cracking as his fabled black stallion tried to fight his way closer to Pasdedeux, but his own thoughts were on the need to parry that clumsy thrust , remove an arm and swing back for a groin job on the other fellow. As he fought the words of his sword formed a vicious counterpoint to his expert butchery:

Don't... (hack) Come... (crunch) Out... (gurgle) To... (squelch) Play... (slash) Unless... (whimper) You... (snap) Know... (squish) How! (splat).

Mithadan's Post:

Gravlox led an army of Orcs, 3000 strong, from the gates of Gol Dulldor. Before him stood a small knot of heroes. He grinned. Knowing precisely the correct tactics to employ when attacking a small force with vastly superior numbers, he ordered the army to do exactly the opposite. "Spread out!" he cried. "Form a single line! We can't let them get around us! Defend the Keep!"

The Orcs hurried to follow his orders and spread out to form a single line in the space between the two bottomless ravines that protected the flanks of the citadel. Unfortunately, there was at best room to form a line of perhaps a thousand Orcs between the sheer drops. And drop they did. They marched off the edges to topple into the chasms by the hundreds.

"Lemmings," muttered Gravlox under his breath. Then he spurred Shagoff to the left swinging the mighty ZigZag sword as he went. This action relieved a couple of dozen Orcs of what passed for their heads. Halting at the side of the line of soldiers, he shouted, "Sing, boys, sing!" Oh, we are the Uruks, the mighty mighty Uruks, and everywhere we go...

He could barely contain his laughter as he watched the army try to keep time, count and fight at the same instance. He would make sure that Merisu was safe at any cost and Sourone be damned. If Gravlox would lose his head as a result, so be it.

[ March 01, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]