[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

The mighty Lord Earnur Etceteron was feeling distinctly confused. In the past few days a lot of very peculiar things seemed to have happened very quickly, and only now did he feel that he had sufficient grasp of the situation to sum up his manly confusion. Putting down a paper plate half-filled with half-eaten chicken, he looked squarely at the bizarre newcomer in the slightly awkward manner of one restrained from speech by the demands of mastication. "Mfff mm mmff mm..." he ventured, accompanying this intellectual sally with violent gesticulation in the vain opinion that this would stave off further conversation until his mouth was in a fit state to join it. In this intent he failed miserably, as Pettygast was already far progressed in the buffet queue by the time he could swallow, and besides there were other matters to attend to before the council could reach a conclusion.

To this end, the mighty Lord Etceteron addressed himself to the hugely complicated task of removing the mighty sword Wylkynsion from his host's once-valuable antique chair. His mouth by now clear of its fowling, he felt ready to venture yet more opinion on the matter: "Sorry," he said, forgetting his mythic status in his general confusion and embarrassment. "That happens from time to time." but inside his head bitter words were being spoken:
I'll 'ave yer fer that, yer flamin' great ponce! Oos 'and was 'oldin' me bleedin' 'ilts eh? Yours, yer pillock. All I said was that you could 'ave them girlie fairies wiv wun 'and be'ind yer back. Owww! Yer bugger! Mind me bleedin' quillions! I swear I'm gunna....

This conversation was cut mercifully short as the great blade tore free of the now decisively defeated chair, neatly depositing sword and bearer in a crumpled mess on the floor.

Mustering his routed dignity, Lord Etceteron placed his errant sword upon the great conference table. Although everyone was more concerned with queueing for dinner by this point, he felt compelled to draw attention to his manly decision:
"An 'tis needed, mine brand is at the service of this company." he intoned gravely; but the effect was marred by the brief debate about this decision that went on in his head once the valiant words had been spoken:

If you fink I'm doin' a job wiv that bunch of muppets you've anuvva fink comin', Sunshine.

"Yet their quest promises great glory, O my blade."

Great glory?! That bleedin' 'ippy 'oo just turned up's lookin' arahnd a load uv bleedin' jumble sales! It'll be like that job we pulled up in Forochel where 'arf the bleedin' company went doolally an' we 'ad ter be rescued by them bleedin' snowmen!

"Yet verily 'tis a noble enterprise. And thou art but a sword. The decision is mine."

Oh yeah? We'll see about that. I won't draw. Ye'll 'ave ter use a bleedin' extendin' potato knife like that uvver berk.

"Oh go on. There'll be fighting...erm...eth."

Chance ter give someone a good kickin'?

"We may be called upon to vanquish many foes, yes"

Awright, mate; yerron. This goes tits up, mind, and I'll 'ave yer guts fer garters.

"Then we are decided." he thought. Then he cried "I shall undertake this quest, though it lead through the foulest bring-and-buy sales in all Middle-earth. Yea though it bring us unto the dreaded Closing-Down Sale of Souls, or the Charity Shop of Doom, nevertheless shall I do my part. Behold! I swear these things upon my naked weapon, and so pledge myself to this great cause!"

This mighty vow having been greeted with the approval it merited (there was some half-hearted jolly-gooding from the front of the lunch queue, where the proximity of food had inspired a spirit of charity. At the other end, the great pledge of Lord Etceteron went entirely unnoticed in the shoving), Earnur retrieved his flask, pipe and tobacco pouch from various sable pockets about his nighted garments and began his lunch in earnest. He had been gasping for a shot of whatever he'd last filled the flask with since the meeting had begun, and his unwonted antics during its course had only put an edge on his thirst. Stuffing his bowl with rough shag, Lord Earnur settled down to blow smoke rings and drink hard liquor until order might be restored. He'd had a lot of close shaves while carrying the sword Wylkynsion, he mused, but this seemed the closest yet. Still, a nice sharpen and polish would mollify the blade.

Wot's "mollify" mean? asked Wylkynsion, clearly affected by the word despite its ignorance of its meaning; and with that Lord Etceteron began to while away the long minutes before he could again legitimately claim everyone's attention in improving the word power of his offensive weapon.

[ January 14, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]