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Old 11-13-2003, 01:56 PM   #101
The Squatter of Amon Rûdh
Spectre of Decay
 
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Pipe

'******?'

'No, ********.'

'********?'

'That's the one, old boy.'

'It sounds very earthy. What does it mean?'

'It's what you might call an all-purpose declaration of dissatisfaction. For when one of the sails parts, or someone who owes you money falls to his death.'

'Already you inspire me with talk of the rolling deep! I shall use that expression in my next great ode: The Rime on the Aged Seafarer!'

'Ah. Well, it's not the sort of word one normally uses in an ode. It's more what you'd call limmerick material. Still, the ways of Elven bards have ever been a mystery to me.'

Him too.

'Sh!'

Teaching Vogonwë the salty tongue of the sea was proving to be a nice rest from lifting mythological creatures by main strength. Already Earnur could feel his vertebrae sliding back into their wonted positions, and a strident crack from his elbow reminded him that his limbs, too, were returning to their customary lengths. When flying in a large chain of non-flying creatures, he reflected, a hero of average stature should always hold on below anything more than twelve feet tall. Still, it had been fun. Add a few creature comforts (like enough seats for everyone and perhaps something to drink) and there might be something in this flying business after all. He jerked slightly as some tendons in his thigh reached their normal length, and remembered another discomfort of the journey: 'Air fresheners too,' he mumbled.

Where, the more perceptive reader might ask, has Lord Etceteron been while the others have been drinking, gambling and engaging in aggressive corporate expansionism? Indeed, that self same reader (navigating unerringly towards a knuckle sandwich, I might add) would probably wonder how he had managed to remain in the area at all without being inveigled into a Dwarvish game of no chance.

The answer was, as with most such explanations, ludicrously simple. Some years before, during one of many trial separations from his mind, he had happened by the Glitzy Caves. At that time, Dimli's operation had been a good deal less sophisticated, and one of the most popular games had been a challenge set by the bar to see who could drink every cocktail on the menu. A roll of honour had recorded the names of the fatalities. There had not even been a board for successful challengers.

Needless to say that several hours later he had left Ham Steep quite a lot richer and with breath that could cut steel. He had also been promised that any further attempt to enter the casino would be met with violence of Singular proportions, plus ejection for any who accompanied him. So it was that he had quietly removed himself to guard the wagon of Ästôn-mar-Tín and its contents, disguising himself as a dwarf stable-hand using the time-honoured method of kneeling on the floor with his shoes on his knees. When destruction loomed he had guessed that their work in the Glitzy Caverns was done, and quietly followed the others to the bridge.

There was definitely something odd about the cart. It wasn't just the winged-rune symbol that festooned the vehicle, nor even the sporty wire wheels and extendable arrow shields. What really got his attention as never before was that beneath the driver's seat was a bank of levers, most of which seemed to operate hidden crossbows. It reminded him of someone he had once known, although the name escaped him. Something in
exports, he recalled.

Wrenching his thoughts from their oddly buouyant transportation, he considered the group. Although he had been reasonably sober during the adventure, the sudden appearance of what looked like a garden gnome, not to mention the fearsome Balfrog, had put him in mind of earlier errantry. A surreal panoply of bizarre and misguided quests danced before his mind's eye: waking in a glass case wearing a tutu; running from an enraged cold-drake with a marriage licence; his famous bid to steal the fabled potential diamond, the Eye of Teiresias (the only piece of coal he had ever seen that refused to burn under any circumstances); and now, having determined to start heroing sober, this. A lesser man might have given up sobriety in the face of such damning evidence, but Etceteron came of the mighty stock that had invented the whisky milkshake and he was implacable. For no good reason he began thinking about glue.

Pinkjin aimed a kick at a passing log. Ham Steep was legendary as an abode of loose fillies, but true to form his master had decided that they would spend their whole time there smoking something noxious and looking after a tree. It had been all right for the Lord of Misrule, since he had spent most of the time thinking that he was one of the Entish fragments (one conversation, which had consisted of Earnur and one of the Thighs shouting 'What?' and 'Pardon?' at each other for four hours in Old Entish and Low Westestosterone respectively, stuck in his memory with limpet-like tenaciousness), but it was no fun for a red-blooded young charger like himself. There hadn't even been any spilled beer to lick up. For a few moments he considered kicking the assinine aristocrat to the other side of the cart before launching the attack with pleasure.

Merisuwyniel paused in her consideration of some dust on her sleeve to glance at the tangled mess of limbs that was Lord Etceteron. An incurious and long-suffering syllable slouched from her lips.

'Why?'

'Umm... I think my horse has thrown a shoe,' replied the retarded avenger. 'I just wish that he'd throw his and not mine. Or at least that I wasn't in it.'

'Horseshoes are twenty Sorethighimish Guineas apiece!' shouted Kuruharan from the other end of the vehicle. 'Thirty with nails!'. By now his frequent special offers were ignored unless he used the contact hallucinogens, but Etceteron had found out about the trick and tended to shake his hand every five minutes unless he kept his distance.

'Entish artefacts many beseemeth me we hath,' spake Etceteron as he mountethèd once more to his feet. 'Lead us to their brethren mayhap shall they.'

'You don't have to talk like that to me,' quoth Merisuwyniel. 'I'm not a tourist.'

There was much up-shutting.

'I hope they can help us, though,' she continued thoughtfully. 'We reached the third-party claim limit on my insurance back in Grundor, and they can take Entish artefacts in lieu of payment.'

Lord Etceteron nodded understandingly, then realised he was doing it and stopped. 'Truly is it written: "Go not to the Elves for cover, for they will take both arm and leg."' he intoned.

'Look, I'm from around here too, you know,' snapped the Elven maiden. 'Knock that nonsense off before I brain you.'

'I will well,' he answered, and ducked away, deftly avoiding a well-swung bow that fell on his horse's flank. He returned to his philological discourse with a warm feeling of satisfaction.

'Now, ***** is a positively disgusting word. You should use it often in conversation.'

[ 7:42 PM November 26, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]
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