[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

A breath of wind stirred into whispers the leafy groves athwart the road as Baklava, the mighty steed of Lord Earnur Etceteron, kicked its dust heavenward to settle on the sable raiment of his mighty master.
The horse was somewhat bored, as would be any of his great line, given a long day of ambling passage through some of the greenest, leafiest and, well, most repetitive landscape in all Middle-earth; for such was the manner of Lord Etceteron's errantry: ever since defeating the grey wizard in a trial of smoke-ring blowing, his technique had been to wander aimlessly around the countryside until some random and unlikely chance should happen to direct him to adventure. This was remarkably convenient for the master, but for the horse it was a trial of drudgery unheard of in the proud herds from which he sprang. Even the regular encouters with Orc-bands that he and his master had experienced of late failed to pique his equine interest: even the largest and fiercest all too quickly fell to his master's blade, leaving him without even the opportunity of issuing a satisfying kick or two. Baklava often toyed with the idea of throwing Earnur the Simple and kicking his head in, if only to relieve the boredom; but honour was honour and this Man had caught him fairly, whilst his mind had been occupied by thoughts of his favourite mare. Women were indeed trouble, for now he was burdened with this tobacco-stained, Miruvor-sodden fool, albeit that his harness sat as lightly as thistledown.

Meanwhile, astride the great Lord of horses, and blissfully unaware of his rebellious thoughts, Earnur himself was occupying his manly hands with the manly deed of manfully smoking his manly ebony pipe. Between manly puffs, he would pause to blow smoke rings of great intricacy and beauty, although of a deeply masculine and heroic fashion. Reaching back into one of his inky saddlebags, he extracted a blacked silver flask of Elven make, and took from it a manly swig of whatever manly spirit was to be found therein, before replacing it neatly with a single flick of his manly wrist. Many were the rumours of what mystic potions of invincibility Lord Etceteron imbibed from this flask: some said it was Miruvor that he kept therein; others that it was some foul Orcish draught, captured from a hapless raiding party; others still that it was the very distilled essence of life itself. Naturally most of these rumours were absolute codswallop. In sooth Lord Earnur cared little what was in the flask, save that it warmed him against the chill in the air hereabouts, as well as that in Harad and Khand.

His humour improved by this draught, Earnur the Mighty knocked out the sooty bowl of his pipe on a jet-black boot-heel, whilst his steel-grey eyes raked the road ahead for sign of foes. He saw none, but this failed to surprise him, as any robber bands with sense knew him at two miles' distance and made themselves scarce. Most of those who failed to do this had ceased to be robber bands soon after, enduring the inevitable demotion to hapless corpses that befell all who stood against him. The rest lived in unfashionable parts of the Wild, where no hero of taste was like to fare, and had thus not encountered him as yet.

Lest there be any such folk near the road this day, Earnur allowed his steel-sinewed yet elegant hand to stray towards the hilt of the great, razor-edged sword Wylkynsion that hung from his saddle. Mighty were the tales of this blade, whose fame was almost, but not quite, as great as that of the mighty hero who wielded it. Forged by the Dark Elf Eol it had been, though none save its master knew it; after long practice on other famous blades had honed his skill to an edge as keen as those of his creations, of which this alone had survived into the current age of the world. Only this morning he had been accosted by Orcs whilst preparing his breakfast. Two of them there had been, huge and surly, yet one sweep of this mighty blade had severed all three necks with a single manly blow, and four Orcish bodies had stained the glade with their blood. Earnur liked not to be pestered with enemies before breakfast, especially five such foul-smelling foes as these. He took another swig from his flask, satisfied that no enemy was there to be seen and straightened his lean, strong body, although Baklava detected the scent of soiled breeches and the faint, receding sound of running feet.

As he re-filled his pipe, Lord Etceteron's manly eye detected something strange at which his manly curiosity began to stir: ahead the road forged on, and yet to his right was also the faint image, seeming painted on the air, of a bend curving round and away towards the river he had crossed earlier that day. On a whim (and because such things usually led to a good fight that he invariably won) Earnur turned Baklava's proud head toward this bonny, bonny road and kicked him on, unwittingly drawing another inch closer to skull-crushing agony. As he rode, he sang to himself in his manly baritone a ballad written for him by the greatest bard in all Minas Tirith:

Black, his gloves of finest mole,
Black, his codpiece made of metal.
His horse is blacker than a hole,
His pot is blacker than his kettle...

Suddenly his voice trailed off, which irritated Baklava, as he had been about to reach the bit about his jet-black steed. Ahead was a homely-looking farmstead: a sure sign that he would be required to rescue some simple family of farmers from the attentions of a group of wandering mercenaries, which usually led to free food and beer (little did he know that the nearest such group had heard of his coming three days earlier and scarpered pronto). As Lord Etceteron gripped the mighty hilt of the sword Wylkynsion he heard its noble voice in his mind: Wot in Eru's name d'yew want, yer bleedin' great raspberry? I was 'avin' a luvly dream abaht a rapier. She had a bootiful scabbard on 'er, 'nall.
"Silence, my blade!" roared Earnur manfully. "We know not what subtle foes await us yonder; and even now methinks I hear their speech! We had best not alert them over soon!"

Indeed, as the echoes of his great voice died away amid Wylkynsion's grumbling that it spoke only directly to Earnur's mind anyway, it was possible to detect the sounds of conversation ahead, as though of two men and a woman. Looks like yer classic damsel-in-distress caper, mate said the sword again. Remember wot yew got last time? And she 'ad a luvverly dagger 'nall. Right cutie was that little tickler.

With this, Earnur urged Baklava on, soon seeing ahead the small group that he had overheard: two men, both handsome, one with the most impressively blow-dried hair that he had ever seen, the other cast in a similar ruggedly manly mould to himself. And with them stood the most beauteous maid whom ever he had encountered, willow-slender and with flowing silken hair. In a clear and musical voice she was explaining that no, she hadn't seen a wallet anywhere around here lately. "So they seek to relieve this flower of her gold, do they?" muttered the great warrior, raising aloft his gleaming weapon ('Ere we go, 'ere we go, 'ere we go! sang the sword Wylkynsion). "Then they shall have more than they bargained for this day."

His mind filled with the ancient war-chant of his blade (You're goin' 'ome in a bleedin' ambulance, it sang), Lord Earnur swung elegantly from his saddle and approached the group. "Ho, there, varlets!" he called manfully. "What mean you so to accost a lady, and to thus demand her goods? Desist or thou shalt answer with thy bodies. For I am Earnur, which men call Etceteron; and this blade I wield is none other than the sword Wylkynsion, whose edge cuts all things. What say you of wallets now, Sirs?"

His challenge made, Earnur stood foursquare, proudly brandishing his great blade and awaiting whatever might befall, whilst in his mind the voice of Wylkynsion sang on:
Come 'n' 'ave a go if ya think yer 'ard enuff!. Battle, it would appear, was about to be joined.

[ January 10, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]