[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Having been most graciously accepted to this august and, dare I say it, ludicrous company, I feel it behooves me to create a character with all the originality and diversity required by the adventure's theme.

It is in this spirit that I present my own character: Earnur Etceteron. What poor words of mine can describe this paragon of manly virtue? Picture his rugged good looks: his square, roguishly designer-bestubbled jaw; his piercing, fascinating gaze; his thickly (though not grossly; hey, don't diss my character; he's really good-looking, okay?!) muscled body; his long legs and classical nose, and you have an image of the perfect hero. Yet would it surprise you to hear that he is also wise beyond his years? No, really: he's possessed of much arcane knowledge gleaned from years of travelling; right? In particular he is a herbalist of prodigious talent, known to remain at all times in possession of the best Athelas to be found on whichever side of the Misty Mountains he happens to be at the time.
Were this not sufficient, those same impotent armies that refuse to face Halfullion Gormlessar live also in fear of the dread name of Etceteron; for he carries the mighty sword Wylkynsion: last, greatest and yet most secret work of Éol, of which even most of the Noldor have never heard. And small wonder is this, since it was spirited from its hiding place when he made his ill-fated trip to Gondolin, and by manifold and implausible paths found its way into the hands of the elm-tall bearer in dusty black who wields it now.
Elves and Men speak also in hushed tones of his mighty jet-black steed Baklava, sprung of the same wild herds as Felaróf; whom Earnur caught and tamed single-handedly, and whose back will accept none other. This tireless stallion will bear even heavy loads as though they were no more than feathers, and shies not from fire nor weapons, nor sudden sound; nor even from the beasts of Sauron.

Etceteron has come to The Last Home-Grown Cows after long wanderings, having been dismissed as an advisor to Denethor, Steward of Gondor, due to his over-eager belief in the counsels of Gandalf, whom he once beat in a smoke-ring contest (the one man to have done so). In return for never revealing this to Men or Hobbits, he has been placed under a charm that enables him to seek out glorious adventure wherever it may be hidden.

Loved by women; feared by men; regarded with mute indifference by sheep and kine: such a man is Earnur Etceteron, bearer of the last Black Sword of Beleriand. Evil, look on me and despair.