Meadhall of the Comitatus

The herding tribes of the tundras call him Foal Stricken, a formless terror that blights their livestock and fertile women. Here in the castle we don’t so much have heaps of that good stuff as we have the fealty of our battle-brothers, who the monster had so recently predated upon. In search of him I went, probing the stankiest and jankiest rafter shadows. A eye-blearing smell from the last corner assaulted me, and deep therein, his Mars-touched eyes shuddered open.

“You fucked up this time, Fu. Fucked up bad. Dead German Guy will be avenged.” My blade assented, sheathslid forth.

“Foolish Ring-Giver, know you not that my name comes a full two squares before yours in the Registry? You cannot HOPE to DEFEAT me! A-HAHAHA!” I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. I mean bellowed.

“Dead German Guy could have made his own column, Fu. At the very least, he would have read all my stuff, and he would have really enjoyed 3/5ths of it. Now you owe the weregild. HEAAAAAGHH!” I threw myself at him. I’m not sure how I did that, but my blade sank fast into rancid monkeydemonflesh. A glorious moment, and exactly the opposite of what happened to me in Scanners.

“…How have you CUT me?” My only answer, a smile. Until I thought of the Zinger. Oh, cursed zinger! Eternal tempter!

“The thing about magic swords, Fu,” I quipped, smearing his sticky blood onto a stray beam, “is that they hurt like a Magic Bitch.” Now we had ourselves a SAGA.

The foul Schnickens made this face then, like he’d left something on at home, except he WAS home so that couldn’t have been it. His barrel gut rippled and, as I closed in for the envengeancing, he started throwing up all over the place. These rafters were narrow as wolfspine–was this just mockery, or a weapon? “Cut it out, monster,” I mustered bravely, “Stop, boogeyman.” Then it got all chunky and even had its own steam. And his retching noises. Oh wow.

“Fu, you’re bein’ a dic–” The beast twisted its torso in a great leap, easily clearing the gap ’twixt those hewn branches, trailing vomit as he went. So much for my saga, and my dignity. Beastbarf had besmirched all. Cautiously I descended the slope, mindful of every grody splinter, resting only at the smooth stone of the corridor where I’d jauntily arrayed myself for battle not three hours before. Then I had to hurry back out when puke came down in little orange curtains. I yelled some nonsensical Norsy-thing that might mean something stern somewhere, and returned to the Hall in failure…and in ’vom.