[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Etceteron the Quite Well Dressed was listening enraptured to the chanting drones of Saladriel the Verdant. It was an ancient piece, timeless and deep, and it resonated with the use of centuries.

"They sing the Lay of Lús-scrú, which is in our tongue 'The Statement of Mission'" he said quietly. "It tells of the great vow of the Gnomes of Dun Rómin that was their undoing long ages past."

"Ah! The Fisher-elves! Exclaimed a trembling Vogonwë. "Many are the tales told of their mighty vow."

"Aye." said the rosy-cheeked warrior sadly. "The folk of Dun Rómin, excelling all in their manufacture of patio sets, swore a mighty oath so binding that they writ it, lest error turn awry their plans; and for a scribe they chose Taepo the Swift, who knew better than any the Elder Tongues. But they were all deceived; for Taepo had mistaken his letters in his haste, so that they vowed not to be the best at lawn ornaments, but to be the best as lawn ornaments. Still they stand around the pools and swards of Dun Rómin, plying hookless rods to snare fish that will never bite, moving never. Such is the folly of oaths."

You useless ponce! Right! That's yer last stupid poem until I get ter kill sumthin'! I'm sure there's Orcs rahnd 'ere sumwear.

Etceteron's hand had moved unbidden to the hilts of the Sable Sword, Wylkynsion. More and more of late, his mind had been drawn to the glimmering black blade, and no amount of goodly tincture seemed fit to prevent it. Still, one more try couldn't hurt: he took out his flask and drank deeply, noticing as he did so that Vogonwë's haunted eyes followed each move of his drinking hand.

"Sir Poet:" he announced generously. "Mayhap thou desirest of me a draught of this spirit. Drink thou well, for there is yet a deal more."

And with this he passed the strongest liquor within thirty miles to the weakest head in forty, recking little what he did in his merriment. Vogonwë grabbed the bottle greedily, drinking the remainder dry, at which Lord Etceteron decided to hide the leathern bottle containing the rest of his supply. The Elf spoke again:

"Poor Elvesh. Poor ikkle Dun Róminsh. Fissshing furrever. Just likhe me with rhymes. Shlave tomyart."

"I must've drunk a bit," thought Earnur. "I wonder where the toilets are around here."

"No hairofthedog for Voghonwee. Notevena hairoftherabbit"

"It's a pressing need now. Where do they hide them?"

"O oft-besplatterèd Brock on ground,
What goes around must come around.
Soon all things must leave their road,
Or else fall in it and get squashèd too:
Many, many, many, many, many,
Many, many, many, many times.
Lo! Until they are as flat as they can be
From the passing of a thousand, thousand heavy things
That their intestines make to Eccles cakes
All stuck around with little bits of grit
That look a bit like currants. So do flies
That weave around the way the soft annoyance
Of their hellos and goodbyes, and sometime must-be-dashing-nows.
Such befalls all things, even ploughs, but never me:
I shall not go all nasty and squashed,
And start to smell horrid, like a rotten
Tomato. I'm immortal, you see.
Good for me."

"This is really getting too much," said Etceteron, sorry to leave off the viewless wings of poesy but feeling acutely the results of Bacchus' driving. He got up, and a few seconds later an enraged shout from the base of the tree indicated that he had found the edge of the platform. He returned.
"A bard of great cunning hast thou become, Master Brownbark," he said. "I wonder now what the dormouse says, for in sooth it must needs be dictation."

"...And all the vales and hills around
Became like little spots of jam
That stick to things like who knows what
And will not come off whatever you do..."

"Verily these hares of Saladriel art fair" observed Earnur. "What companions one of those would make."

"All stained with jam... just like a careless sandwich. Half a loaf, half a loaf, half a loaf onward."

"I'll see if I can find out how light they are..." thought Etceteron manfully, and resolved to ask if they could take a bunny with them. Something seemed very right about asking for a hare from Saladriel.

As the poet became as drunk as a lord, and the lord faded from consciousness entirely they failed to notice the gleam of financial inspiration in the eyes of their Dwarven companion. Someone else might well be asking for something very similar before the night was done.

[ January 30, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]