[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Earnur Etceteron awoke from a deep dream of peace to a hangover of Biblical proportions. Time had passed, and it was now about four-ish, he guessed wildly. Apparently they had a new companion: an orc, no less; would wonders never cease? Still, one of the secrets of gonzo heroism is never to allow confusing mutations to reality to throw one off-balance. He put the bizarre defection to the back of his mind and swallowed his much-belated morning constitutional. The battle would appear to have been won, since he appeared to be gawping bemusedly at some enormous stone heads; some grim, some fair, some porcine and all tediously repetitive of countenance. "Funny looking blighters," he mused, and was just about to compose a profoundly unmemorable limmerick about it when he realised that something was not quite as it ought to be.

This sudden prod from his uncanny sixth sense for danger had been prompted by the sight of a large party of armed men, more accurately an army, he realised on further inspection. It was an impressive force by any standards, but as seen by a man with treble vision it was a legion. This imposing throng had completely surrounded the It-ship, weapons drawn, its cohorts all gleaming in scarlet and gold, and its tasteless and outmoded jewellery and brutally ornate weapons shining in a manner most offensive to the alcoholic eye. Here were enemies too numerous to face before breakfast: he reached for his elven flask, but instead awoke his jovial blade.

'Ere, this is more like it! You bin savin' this lot up ferra rainy day or summat?

"Not as such," replied the doughty dipsomaniac, wincing at a particularly garish uniform. "I think they're more of a surprise gift from a secret admirer."

You wot? Shuddup and kill summat!

And with that, battle was joined, for the enemy had not made the traditional pause to allow character interaction and had instead simply attacked. Earnur lost sight of his companions in the confusion, as he fought and slaughtered some of the most fearsome opponents of his career. He was just beginning to appreciate the challenge of the fight when some future member of the opposing general staff clubbed him on the head from behind. Not for the first time that day, Lord Etceteron felt the velvety embrace of unconsciousness, although this time it was for a new and exciting reason.

**********

Baklava had been roused from a romantic reverie with alliterative rudeness when his master was finally reunited with consciousness. Not for the first time he was pondering the relative merits of retaining his honour and galloping off into the sunset with the lovely Pasdedeux, and once more duty and responsibility to his hapless master were losing ground. Therefore as soon as battle had been joined he made his way to her side and intimated in equine semaphore his intention to ditch the losers and split.

Time seemed to stretch into an eternity, in which he brained a couple of would-be equestrians from the scarlet ranks, before he had his answer, which was delivered amid the rout of the It-ship, and punctuated by the cracking of impertinent skulls.