[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Etceteron realised the enormity of his deed even as the blow fell, guided with callous efficiency by the ill-will of the sword Wylkynsion, which was of all weapons the most apt to turn a mere close shave into a painfully final cut. He had never liked Lord Gormlessar much, but still he would have liked to spend more time exploring the dead ground (he shuddered, and took a nip of the liquor of Topfloorien) between cordially disliking the man and brutally stabbing him to death.

Wylkynsion itself was unrepentant: Got the fairy! That'll teach 'im ter be an 'airdresser! it announced gleefully, and not for the first time Earnur considered how woefully inappropriate was this choice of weapon for a noble hero. "Shut up, you insensitive bugger!" he hissed, and covered his embarrassment by screaming theatrically and charging a knot of nine Orcs, who had taken advantage of the It-ship's momentary distraction to charge them.

Nine dead orcs later, Earnur was once again in a position to lament the slaying of his comrade. "He was a bit of a pillock," he reflected, "but his death was ignoble, to be so cruelly slain by the hand of a companion."

Less poncy talk, more chopped Orc interrupted a coldly metallic voice, and for once he was in accord. All of this noble musing was all right in sagas, but right here and now, outnumbered by fast-diminishing yet overwhelming odds, his best bet was to kill as many of the enemy as he could to keep them from his companions.

Although he could see that the Orcish hordes appeared unwilling to attack, and their leader's tactics clearly consisted of marching his troops into the two huge ravines that framed the battlefield, some of the mighty Uruks had managed to overcome the demands of advanced theoretical mathematics and harmonic interplay, and were suicidally determined to win their dark master's favour. These intrepid few, numbering some three-hundred heavily-armed (and still more heavily-stomached) Uruks were charging directly at Earnur and his companions, and the Black Sword, forged by the very hand of Eöl himself, thirsted for their bit-part blood. Alone he leaped to their midst, laying about him in all directions, until they bizarrely broke and ran, presumably thinking themselves under attack not by one, but a whole army of alcoholic assailants. A brief respite thus won, an arterially sodden Lord Etceteron and his gloating sword made their way back to their surviving companions, all of whom maintained a respectful distance from the ensanguined warrior and his blood-drenched brand, almost as though they could hear the crazed and exultant chanting of the great sword, which ran through the mind of the Lord of Ilvers-in-Slógin like an armoured division.

Come on you buggers! I'll kill all o' you! 'Ere you! Wotchoo lookin' at? You want some? Eh? I'll nut you from 'ere ter next bleedin' week! I'll 'ave any ten o' yer! Come get some!

But enemies and friends alike were far enough from the blade to render pursuit hopeless in Earnur's current weakened state. Instead, despite Wylkynsion's dire imprecations, Earnur sank to his knees by the corpse of the mightily manly Lord Halfullion Gormlessar, and moved not for some time.