Assigned to Mordor RPG

[Celuien]

Rain poured down on Mordor, soaking the loose earth at the side of the Interstate. The resulting mud slid onto the road, obscuring the yellow lines that ordinarily divided the lanes from one another. Drivers moved about willy-nilly, leading to numerous near crashes that left Panakeia's knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Would you like me to drive?" queried Valde. Her driving is making me nervous, went a voice in his head. She's as bad as any of the others here.

"No. I'm doing fine, thank you," she snapped back.

And then, just ahead, the road broke into chaos. Cars skidded out of control and left the road. Others spun in spirals. "What's going on?" Panakeia cried in alarm.

The answer came in the form of a sudden switch in the position of the steering wheel. In a flash, the wheel vanished and reappeared on Valde's side of the car. He grabbed it and pulled to the other side of the road, deftly avoiding the stopped and disabled vehicles blocking the road. The kamura man commented, "And he's done it! What form. What skill!"

"Shut up!" barked Panakeia, who was none too pleased with the change in situation.

"It must be some strange manifestation of the Anakronism Dweomer," said Valde. His voice cracked and croaked as he morphed into an Orc.

Panakeia, now in human form, voiced her assent. Now that she was out of the driver's seat, she proceeded to offer Valde endless advice on his driving. "Why don't you speed up and go around that slowpoke?" "Don't hit the brake so hard." "Careful, don't oversteer. You'll go off the road!" Valde ignored her advice and concentrated on supressing thoughts of stopping the car and leaving Panakeia at the side of the road. It is her Cruiser, after all. But why does she have to go on and on?

And then they saw a new obstacle. An enormous peg-legged pirate-Balrog stood in the road. Panakeia screamed in recognition. "The Balrog! And he's bound to be furious." She had not forgotten Mardil's treatment of the creature.

She watched as the Balrog lifted the little group and set off. "Follow them," cried Panakeia.

Follow the Balrog, thought Valde. She must be insane. But at least he's clearing out the traffic. And I suppose we should do our best to help.

He followed, now able to go at great speed through the cleared road. As they went along, Panakeia watched the trio traveling with the bizarre pirate. To her lasting astonishment and relief they seemed to be friendly. However could that have happened. But she wasn't sure what the Balrog would think of her. "Valde, could you arrange to stay clear of that entourage? I'd rather not have a run in with their...um...chauffeur."

"That seems to be a wise plan." He fell back, keeping a respectable distance between the Balrog and Cruiser.

Shortly thereafter, they arrived at the foot of Mount Doom. With a quick, "See you around," to Valde, Panakeia hopped out, searching for a place where she could put her Pearie Ockcide Potion to good use.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina stepped out of the car. She was quite shaken, yet miraculously unscathed. And now, she was very, very wet.

“Mr. Swanky!” she called again and again, the sound of her own voice swallowed up by that of the thunder. She could barely make out anything in the darkness, not even the monolithic billboards, let alone a comatose ape.

Lightning flashed, making each pelting raindrop shine brilliantly. She thought she spied something out of the corner of her eye: a large shape on the ground, though it might have been part of the landscape. Thunder crashed once more, and it was followed by another bolt of bright light. Yes, that had to be Queen Quon!

The old woman ran towards the shape, holding her hat firmly by the brim to keep it from flying away in the chill wind. If her pet were dead… she couldn’t bear to think of it.

The giant ape lay upon the muddy ground as desolately as only a furry and possibly deceased animal could. Anxiously, Wilhelmina ran around to Queen Quon’s right fist, where Mr. Swanky had been tenderly nestled. The hand was closed tight, but after all that screaming, Wilhelmina found herself in a logical mood.

“If she’s dead,” she said to herself, “then she can’t have been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in. So I should be able to get this ginormous hand open. I think I can.”

Ten minutes and much more nonstandard English later, the Little Old Lady That Could had pried the fingers apart. Curled up in a little ball was the motionless ferret.

Wilhelmina let out a sob. This little creature had been her friend and companion for many, many years. He was one of the few creatures in the world who didn’t think her to be a complete nutter… and now he was no more.

“Nooooooooo!” she cried, falling to her knees and turning her face to the raging sky in a manner so melodramatic that it would have made Karís Mâtiktwít dance in delight. The orchestra swelled, the choirs sang heart-wrenching minor chords, and tears mingled with the rain.

There was a familiar squeak, and orchestra, choirs, tears, and rain all stopped abruptly.

“Mr. Swanky!” Wilhelmina shouted joyously as he shook himself a bit and then jumped into her hands. “You’re alright!” They both looked solemnly at the corpse of Queen Quon. “Queenie gave her life but saved yours! Isn’t that nice?” She screwed up her face contemplatively. “Perhaps ‘nice’ isn’t the best word. But even so, ‘tis better to have played Scrabble and lost than to never have played Scrabble at all, as they say. Or something like that. Let’s get back to the car and see if nice Mr. Fléin is alright.”

~*~*~*~*~

Nice Mr. Fléin was, in fact, alright, once he had been awakened and told that his beard had suffered no damage. He had a gash on his forehead from hitting the steering wheel, though, and Wilhelmina told him that he was certain to bruise as well.

“A fascinating bruise, probably, with all different colors in it. The rainbow after the storm will manifest itself upon your forehead!” she told him brightly, tearing off a scrap from one of her many petticoats to sop up the blood.

“How wonderful,” Fléin said dazedly.

“And look!” she said, holding up the hideous beaker. “Your free gift wasn’t damaged at all, either!”

“That’s impossible,” the Dwarf said. “That defies the laws of wotsit… fizzix.”

“I’ll bet that Mârtha Stewârt had something to do with it,” Wilhelmina decided. “Unbreakable glass – she’d think it was a good thing.”

“I think she’s right, in this case, at least,” said Fléin. “Even if it is ugly, it’s still a nice bit of glassware.”

“I think I’ll have to drive us to Mount Doom, and pronto,” said the old woman, prodding Fléin so he’d move into the passenger seat, and taking the wheel.

~*~*~*~*~

At this time, some of you may be wondering about the fate of the kamuraorc. Then again, some of you may not be. But if this poor creature is a friend of yours, be comforted to know that he is unconscious, but is currently deep in a very pleasant dream about an Orc-friendly and politically-correct world.

Let us hope he keeps dreaming.

~*~*~*~*~

Wilhelmina’s hat was still dripping water on her, but it didn’t matter – she had just seen a sign that read “OnE mIlE tO tHe BeSt GaMeS aNd EnTeRtAiNmEnT iN MoRdOr: MoUnT dOoM cAsInO aNd ReSoRt!!!!!1one!!!1”. The red glow in the sky gave further sign that they were close.

“HuRrAh!” she said. Then she cleared her throat loudly. “I mean, hurrah!”

In just a minute they passed through a pair of brightly lit gates and underneath a giant flashing marquee, declaring that although they were tired, wet, more than a little shaken, and driving a car with hardly any aesthetic qualities left to speak of, they had made it, and everything was going to be just fine.

Actually, what the sign said was “WeLcOmE tO mOuNt DoOm CaSiNo AnD rEsOrT,” but to them it meant something much different.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron stood just inside the entrace to the Mount Doom Casino and Resort complex. All of the Offending Party arrived on time. And all managed to breeze through using quite creative means, unforeseen and almost completely avoiding the foibles of the anakronisms thereby. Anakron was impressed. And disappointed.

"Each of you have arrived on time. Congratulations. As for points awarded, subtract one for failure to exhibit road rage; subtract one for failure to tailgate; subtract one for failure to drive through flooded roadway at full speed; subtract one for failure of windshield wipers to streak in the line of vision. Mardil: 6 points; Alli: 6 points; Panakeia: 6 points; Valde: 6 points; Fléin: 6 points; Sai: 6 points; Wilhelmina: 6 points. If you wish to contest your point totals by proving that you indeed performed one of the four anakronisms during the last Test, I will be happy to reconsider.

"You will have a three day rest period, here. You may stay here at the resort if you wish, or you may make forays into Trollywood and Lost Angles. If you go beyond the borders of these three places, you will be disqualified with no recourse. And you will become an orc permanently employed in the Mordorian bureaucracy, so do not trifle with me.

"I expect each of you to be precisely here at dawn, three days hence. Since you all have Trolls aplenty, you will not be financed for your three days."

With that, Anakron turned with an appropriately dramatic billowing of his cloak, and departed from the confines of the resort, heading in the direction of Lost Angles.

[Celuien]

“What a relief.” The Pearie Ockcide Potion had fully restored Panakeia’s hair to a platinum sheen. She smoothed the folds of her dress in preparation to make her appearance in the resort. A last check in her compact mirror showed Panakeia that her right ear was without its proper earring. Must have fallen off in the car with all that orc-transformation business. She headed back to the area where she left the Cruiser. As she drew closer, she thought she heard the sound, not of music, but of sirens. I wonder what that’s all about.

Panakeia rounded a boulder. There was her Cruiser, surrounded by traffic officials, their highway patrol cars’ sirens screaming at full volume. A tow truck was preparing to pull away the Cruiser. She hurried over to a large orc, who stood giving directions. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she said, a note of anger in her voice.

The orc reached into his pocket and whipped out a series of photographs. He handed them to Panakeia, and her mind raced back to the flashing lights from her trip. Dratted traffic cameras, she thought in frustration. “Multiple violations have been recorded for this vehicle. Therefore, we have been delegated the task of confiscating said vehicle and searching for its operator, to whom we shall deliver these violation notices.” He displayed a stack of papers, at least an inch thick. He looked suspiciously at Panakeia, then at one of the photos, then back at Panakeia. He pointed to the picture. “This driver would not happen to be you, would she?”

Panakeia’s heart pounded. Keep your cool, you’ll get out of this. She looked at the picture. What an awful photo this is. You can’t even see my face. Or clothes either. All probably lucky – that orc look is simply not me. And that horrid green hair…Can’t even see my face.

That was the answer. Suddenly, she laughed. “Me? Of course not. Look here. This driver has green hair. Mine is, of course, blonde. How could that possibly be me?”

The orc examined the photos. “I suppose you are correct. I apologize for the inconvenience.” He turned to leave.

“Wait. You aren’t going to take the Cruiser, are you?”

“In fact, we are. The Cruiser must be held in lieu of payment on these tickets.” He tapped the ominously thick sheaf of papers.

“But you can’t do that,” she protested. A clever twinkle came into her eyes. She took the orc confidentially by the arm. “Don’t you know who’s Cruiser that is?”

“No, that information is not available.”

“Well, I can tell you that it belongs to The Grand Anakronist himself. In person. And…” Panakeia decided to play her game to the fullest. “And, I have been sent here by the most illustrious Anakron Istkon Vayor to retrieve this Cruiser, which was stolen. The thief has been found by our staff and is now being properly dealt with.” She furrowed her eyebrows and stared at the orc. “You wouldn’t want to interfere, now would you?”

The orc wavered. The normal procedure was clear, but this didn’t seem to be an ordinary situation. “Very well. You may claim the vehicle. But what am I to do about these violations?”

Panakeia put on her best look of exasperation. “That’s not my concern! This matter is being handled at the highest levels. Do not trouble me with such trifles!”

“I am very sorry. Very sorry indeed. We will be on our way.” He called to the rest of the traffic officials. “Let’s go.” They scurried into their cars and roared off.

Panakeia stood for a moment, watching them vanish in a cloud of dust. Then she laughed and laughed again, the loudest, merriest laugh Panakeia had known in ages. She got in to the Cruiser, located her earring on the driver’s seat, and set it on her ear. Then, with a grin reaching from earring to earring, she entered the Mount Doom Casino and Resort in search of a place to spend the next few days.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin lifted his head from the papers in front of him. "Come in," he called in response to the knock at the door, before twisting around in his chair most uncomfortably so as to be able to see whoever had took it upon themselves to disturb him.

The squat figure of Wilhelmina shuffled into view. There followed what many novelists call a Moment, for lack of something more imaginative. A Moment, in any case, is when a series of events happen rather quickly, perhaps in the space of a few seconds. The writer has, then, to produce a large piece of text to cover a tiny period of time. It is conventional for the author to inform the reader before this happens, just to let them know what's what and pressure them to read the next little bit as quickly as possible.

Wilhelmina came into sight. The sun, usually feeble and exhausted in Mordor, sent a powerful beam through the window of the small room to rest upon the woman's face. The light glinted majestically off her whitening hair, reflected from her rosy skin, radiated from her ferrety ferret.

Fléin looked up at Wilhelmina. Their eyes met, hers gleaming and bright in the sun, his still a little red from the conjunctivitis.

Something odd happened to Fléin's stomach. It wasn't a contraction. It wasn't a grumble, a rumble, or any sort of omen of gastronomical problems. It wasn't cramp. Fléin put a hand to his stomach. It was oddly warm and felt sort of - well, the best way to describe it is sort of fuzzy. Yes, that was it. A warm, glowing fuzziness in his stomach.

The Dwarf broke into a fit of coughing.

The reader may note that the Moment is now over.

--------------------------------------------------------

Wilhelmina rushed into the room. "Are you alright, Fléin?" she cried. Due to the size of the room, she stopped rushing very quickly and simply stood awkwardly in front of the still violently erupting Dwarf, now standing upright but almost bent double.

"All... all right," he managed in between a few coughs, to signify his confidence regarding his continued existance. "It feels," cough, "like I," cough, "swallowed," cough, "a cat," he gasped, before falling onto hands and knees and making retching noises.

Wilhelmina watched with startled interest as what appeared to be a small Siamese cat clambered out of the Dwarf's throat and, still a little phlegmy, twitched out of the open door and ran away.

The Dwarf pushed himself to his feet, bright red, to face his visitor, now sitting calmly on his bed. "Whyever did you swallow a cat, Fléin?" she inquired politely, as if this were a regular occurence that people should be discouraged from doing, like smoking.

Fléin muttered something to the effect of "I didn't, must be a ruddy Anakronism, ruddy Mordor," before inquiring about her visit.

"I just popped in to see how you're doing my Dwarf," she said a little dubiously, regarding a little excess phlegm still on the floor where the Dwarf had been.

"I'm fine, I assure you... that was just a sudden thing. I don't know - I can't explain - that is to say, I'm not sure exactly what happened, but it hasn't happened before."

But the old woman was no longer listening. "What's that?" she asked, pointing at the desk where the Dwarf had been working before she came in. Before he could answer, she got up, walked over to the desk and turned to the first page of the book he had there. The title page had many titles on it, crossed out one after another, so:

My Diary. My Unexpected Journey. There and Back Again. Adventures of Seven Miscellaneous People. The Tale of the Great Escape, compiled by Fléin son of Fréin of the Ironfoots from his own observations of the nutters around him.

Wilhelmina leafed through the book, seeing that it was barely written in. Next to it was a smaller book, with Diary written across it, also nigh empty.

"I didn't imagine you as the literary type," she looked up at the Dwarf again. "You should talk to that Waldo, he loves this arty sort of stuff, you know."

"I'm not generally a very literary person," he replied to supplement the evidence of his attempts at naming the book. He continued in response to her puzzled expression. "When we're all done and out of Mordor, I can sell this for a fortune. It will be a hit!"

Wilhelmina thought for a second. "I don't see," she began after the pause, "how you can think about money at a time like this."

"Bah! Humbug! You're not one of those communists, are you?"

"No, of course not-"

"Good! Next time that Cahal Mahks hands me a revolutionary leaflet, I'll cleave him in two!"

"- but I do think that, if everybody were a little nicer to one another, and a little less obsessed with Gold, perhaps the world would be a nicer place, and Mordor would stop existing."

There was a silence save for the noise of Wilhelmina plonking herself onto Fléins bed. "That's a nice thought, but you realise there's no logic behind it?" Fléin finally answered.

In response, Wilhelmina stroked Mr Swanky. Fléin watched her on his bed, a scene of tranquility and peace, with a smile on his face. Several seconds passed.

A few seconds later, were one standing outside the room, one would hear the noise of vomiting, following by a small miaow.

[Encaitare]

Encaitare's post

"Poor thing," said Wilhelmina, snatching the second cat and delicately cleaning it off on the quilt on Fléin's bed. "It can't be very nice being stuck inside someone's stomach."

"It wasn't very nice having it inside my stomach either," Fléin scowled. He didn't feel much pity for the anakronistic creature, and he said so.

"You try traveling via reverse peristalsis sometime, and then see how you feel."

The Dwarf wrinkled his nose and changed the subject. "So what do you think Anakron will spring on us next?"

"Oh, probably an Oliphaunt. Literally on us, just out of spite," Wilhelmina said, idly patting the cat on the head.

Fléin cleared his throat awkwardly. "You know," he began, "I felt something... well, something strange before."

"I'm sure you did," she said. "Both you and the cats have had a very uncomfortable time of it. Not to mention you injured yourself earlier. You might have a concussion."

"I suppose so..." Fléin murmured. Wilhelmina was clearly too absorbed in imagining a trebuchet-driven Oliphaunt to pay much attention to him, so he turned to the book on the table and began to write.

~*~*~*~*~

"How're the creative juices?" Wilhelmina asked after a long while. She saw the Dwarf jump a little bit as the silence was broken.

"Um, they're alright," he said. "I've written a few pages. They're probably about as good as my title-selecting abilities, probably."

"Oh, you," Wilhelmina dismissed, reaching for the book. "In a hall in the mountains there lived a Dwarf. Nice opening line." She continued to read, but looked up when she heard a squeak and a meow behind her. Mr. Swanky and the Siamese cat were happily frolicking about.

"How adorable; Mr. Swanky has made a new friend!" she exclaimed. "You shall have to name the kitty, Fléin." She watched Mr. Swanky paw at the cat before letting out an enormous ferrety yawn. It was contagious, as yawns tend to be, and suddenly they all felt very sleepy.

"I should let you rest," the old woman said, rising and gathering her ferret. "Say bye-bye to the kitty, Mr. Swanky."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Feanor of the Peredhil's post


Alli diligently stumbled through several narratives, some wild ideas, and plenty of writers’ block before getting it right. She didn’t mind… she had plenty of time. First her mind was somewhat altered by the dubious effects of balrog smoke. It is a little known fact that exposure to balrog fumes causes cheerfully inaccurate feelings of invincibility. “I can fly, you fools!” Gandalf once cried jubilantly before imprudently trusting himself to the slightly less than supportive darkness of Khazad-dum. Anti-drug ads these days featured large billboards depicting the aged Istar with wild eyes throwing himself over a cliff and trusting that he could, indeed, fly. The Bemused-ship of the Ring stand shocked in the background of the image as they watch their fearless leader, hopped up on balrog fumes, fling himself to his death. “Just say no.” the billboard urged. “You won’t come back White!”

She had then cleared her disheveled head and pratchettly considered locking herself in a sublevel hotel accommodation for the duration of her break based on the belief that light merely blinds you while, when in the dark, your eyes are opened wider. That potential and possibly borrowed (though of course not admittedly, wink wink) narrative hit the ground with a resounding Thud and barely even twitched as it lay there dying.

Alli even rudely interrupted the dreams of her maker one night. As a line of potential suitors sauntered alarmingly along, she twitched and woke up. When and if Alli falls annoyingly in love, it will just happen, she thought with aggravation. After all, it was barely after seven and any time where the seven comes before the fifteen is not an appropriate one for such foul things as wakefulness. There need be no planning for romance beyond… well… all the planning that has already almost secretly occurred.

All in all, Alli had been very busy without having a single thing to show for it. She seemed to remember having called Mardil “Marshmallow” once or twice, or was that “Martini?”, but the look on his face failed to feature neither the shaking nor stirring that would come from those shorts of doings.

The Offending Party now stood outside Mount Doom Resort and Casino patiently listening to Anakron inform them in somewhat different words than what follow that Alli’s next obstacle was to manage a full four days in the same general area as Mardil without killing him in his sleep. Alli was willing to bet (though not with real money and certainly not at their current location) that she wasn’t nearly a good enough actress to successfully pretend that she harbored Mardil no ill wishes, so, on the spot, she decided to tweak the odds of his survival, or at least comfortable survival, a little bit in her favor.

As soon as they were dismissed (what is this, primary school? she asked herself with rolled eyes), she made her way to the most seedy looking corner of the place. She hoped nobody would think anything more of the action than that Alli wanted to show off a bit by cavorting with card sharks, loan sharks, petty thieves (adept at sharking people), mafiosos (such as Larry the Shark), and people who, when it all came down to it, were loyal to their friends and had some excellent connections. The Offenders didn’t need to know that she actually did tend to balance on a metaphorically sharp blade in life… While she often chatted academia with undeservingly assigned Respectables over a cuppa, she just as often could be found (or actually, she couldn’t… she was careful about that sort of thing.) with the Wrong Sort. She knew in the back of her head that she was judged by the company she kept… but it was quite alright because the company she kept publicly was very nicely judge-able… Heck… there were even a few official judges with whom she sometimes spent quiet evenings playing chess.

Slipping softly through the crowd of toughs, Alli was stopped only once. A hulking tattooed man with hand to blade halted her jarringly. She lowered her hood and glared. He released his hilt and her arm as though they burned him and nodded that she could pass with no further delays.

“Hey there, hot stuff.” joked Alli a moment later, sliding an arm around a black cloaked fellow in the corner that seemed to radiate terrifying cold. His breath rattled and he drew a pale icy blade from its sheath and sliced toward her neck with it in a rapid movement. Without flinching, Alli pulled a large magnet from a small black leather bag dangling from her belt. Mid-swing, the sword changed course and banged loudly against the magnet. The fellow swore brightly and tried to shake it loose. Alli used his momentum to fix the magnet [and the sword] to a metal pillar behind him and smirked. Finally the retired Nazgul released his hilt and motioned for his cronies to stop trying to look threatening and sit back down.

“Why is it, Miss Alumìne, that, every time we meet, you pilfer my blade? And where do you get such wonderful toys?” He cocked his head, though it was hardly noticeable given his billowing hood and cloak, toward her firmly situated magnet. “Surely not the gag shop? Such the joker, you are.”

She smiled broadly and looked around, searching to see if any of the other Offenders had noticed this exchange. She thought she saw a glimpse of the old woman over by the slot machines, but she was not certain… the ferret was nowhere to be seen.

“Khamul, m’love, you know that deep down I’d love to tell you, but if I did, every time you tried to lop off my head, my tricks wouldn’t work nearly as well as they do. I can’t share sources and suppliers with someone that keeps trying to kill me, now can I?” She scolded him with a grin and an exaggerated Southern drawl and he nodded amusedly. He rather enjoyed their little chats, with the exception of having to spend several weeks after them regaining the respect of his minions. An ancient and powerful Nazgul being disarmed by an unarmed teenage girl was not exactly convenient for scaring the bejeezus out of his followers, and unless he had terror to fall back on, he’d actually have to expend some effort to keep his minions loyal. Salaries… 401Ks… dental insurance… Ye gads, without sheer unadulterated fear, his control would be a lot more expensive. Then again, some of his cronies could use a good mouth cleaning… eh… he’d just make it a job requirement. But that was a thought for another time.

“Miss Alumine,” The shrouded Easterling offered his arm politely, “what do you say to making this chat private? I’ve been trying to keep my head down… a few weeks back some gallingly bright young reporter from Fox News decided to write his first novel about how not all of us Nazgul were destroyed. They haven’t found me, no, don’t worry, and there’s not a shred of evidence saying he’s right, though obviously he is, but now there are a bunch of pain-in-the-corporeal-posterior conspiracy theorists that would love to capture and probe me.”

Alli smiled and took his arm. “Just what I was thinking, actually, though not about probing. I’ve never been able to figure out what probing is good for anyhow… I’m supposed to be on reality television right now. I’d rather that this little chat go unrecorded and I’d prefer to be out of sight before the idiot kamura crew realizes I’ve disappeared.

--------------------

Hidden away in a quiet candle-lit room in the back, Alli sat primly with her fingertips gently tapping together. She was momentarily shocked when her old friend pushed his deep hood back to reveal the face of a pretty blonde child. The look in his eyes defied Alli to laugh at his currently unassuming form. Regaining her composure, she explained her request as the innocent looking lad nodded occasionally and asked a few questions in a shockingly sweet voice to clarify the nature of her order.

“Well, Alli,” he squeaked after a while, “It’s been a while… I shall have to ascertain that they are still in business.” Seeing the disappointed look on her face, he raised a hand to stop any comments. “No worries, lass… if they are unable or unwilling, I shall endeavor to find another provider. I seem to remember owing you a favor… or perhaps ten. This shall remove one from the list, I assume?”

“Of course it will. I’ll even count it as a few. This is important to me, Kammy.” She looked at him meaningfully. “Discreetly done, as well. The last thing I need is for somebody to find out any of this. Respectable Gondorian lasses aren’t supposed to have connections with the Mordorian Underworld. At least I’m not noble. That’d be a nightmare.”

“Indeed, and powerful ex-mob bosses are not expected to owe respectable Gondorian lasses favors. Makes you seem less than innocent, m’dear. I’d hate to see your pretty face on the cover of the news for being caught dealing with the likes of me. You’ve got destiny above that, lass. It would tarnish your good name.”

Alli blushed at the unexpected praise and changed the subject quickly. “Kammy, what happened to your form? You used to be so… well… scary looking.”

He made a “just a minute” motion and whistled through his fingers. He lifted his hood and adopted an intimidating posture as a sketchy looking man in black opened the door and stood ready for orders. The Nazgul beckoned him forward and whispered in his ear. The lad looked at Alli, appraising her body and measuring her up.

"One-thirdy?” he asked with a locally dialected academic interest. “Five-ayt? Lemme see… stan dup lass.”

Alli stood obligingly and turned slowly on the spot, raising up her arms and lowering them, bending her knees and elbows, and wiggling her fingers, though not all at once or her precariously bad balance would have left her all together. The man studied her, scrawling a few numbers onto a tablet.

“By’th’s aftnoon, y’ say? Xpensi--” he trailed off about the cost in order to catch the large bag of gold that the Nazgul had tossed at him. “Yessir.” He said after a quick inspection of the contents. “I’ll ‘ave m’bes’ guys on it. Room 745?” he asked to Alli. She nodded and tossed him a key.

“Realistic, and silently done.” She reminded him. “In, out, nobody sees. The key finds its way to Khamul when you finish. Am I understood?”

“Ah, ‘course, ma’am.” The seedy man was no longer interested in chat. He disappeared out the door with a look of thoughtfulness on his face.

“You’re sure this fellow can have it done that fast and that accurately?” Alli probed as the cute face showed itself once more.[/font]

“Certainly. His men are the very same that did the work for me just before start of the Fourth Age. Fooled even Sauron into believing me to be at the battle. This Mardil of yours will never guess it’s not you brooding away in your room for these few days. Anakron might… clever fella, that one… but I doubt he’ll say a word. If he gets too curious about what you’re up too, I’ll have my boys remind him that he owes me one or two favors himself. Vayor will not have forgotten the incident with the four Nurnian dancers, the chimpanzee, and the leprechaun costume. Took more than a few phone calls to make sure that got properly forgotten, let me tell you. The rest of the group won’t much notice if you take off. My sources tell me you’ve barely gotten to know them. Well… Sai might notice… sweet lass, that one. You might not want to underestimate her. Perceptive. Smart. Seems to be compassionate enough for ten but looks like she could put up a good fight if the need arose. I’d keep a sharp eye. She’d make a good friend, I believe. You know you can trust people, Alli, and not just those few that the rest of Middle Earth views suspiciously. You might get hurt a bit, but letting people see the real you will work out for the best.”

Wanting to change the subject, Alli pushed her own issues to the back of her mind for the time and turned back to the subject of Khamul’s current form of a small child.

“Speaking of the real you…” she teased. A few hours later, the fire had burned low, the good old days were thoroughly reminisced, and there was a knock at the door.

“Enter!” Khamul pulled his cloak over his face as the door opened.

“Done.” The man said, closing the door and bowing slightly. “She’s’leepin’ peace’ully in your room, ma’am. She’ll be ou’ ‘n’ abou’ once she wakes up and wi’ a keen int’res’ in a few games of Blackjack t’boot. Hope y’ drink… took the liberdy of fillin’ ‘er wi’ a strong d’sire f’r a few shots of Jack… maybe even one ‘r two…” he paused, reconsidering the name of the mixed drink he’d been about to use. He had nothing against making a lass blush, but he had a feeling that her cloaked companion might not be so favorable about him coloring this lass’s cheeks. “mix’ drinks. Id’ll explain quick t’anyone int’ristid why she’s got trouble rememberin’ details. Id’ll alsa cover the mornin’… too sick t’gid up ‘til afternoon, they’ll think.”

He laughed and Alli grinned with delight. “And she looks just like me?”

“Down t’th scar on yer lip and th’ gloves on yer ‘ands ‘n the missin’ gauntlet on yer right.”

Happy with the job, Alli tipped him a few trolls and the man left. “Well, Kammy, I’m off. Thanks for your help. Give my regards to the missus and here’s to hoping the heat’s off quick so you can go back to your usual body. The five year old kid look just isn’t working for inspiring terror. Oh, and if you want to get your blade back, just ask for Lia at the bar. She’ll get it released for you quick.”

He shook his head wonderingly as she opened the door and disappeared into the crowd, pulling up the deep hood of her own borrowed cloak. With minimal fuss, she was out the door of the casino in moments.

SimulatAlli was happily napping up in Room 745 and the real thing was happily escaping the Resort and Casino to enjoy the local haunts by herself and get some undisturbed thinking done. Perhaps a latte at a little place downtown? Who knew? Certainly not Mardil… She scowled at the thought of him and quickly lied to herself about not letting him ruin her day. At least not more than him holding her hostage to manipulate one of her best friends after he’d gotten the friend’s leg blown off had. Well, she thought pessimistically, such is life. She walked down the road enjoying the swishing sound of the black cloak, if nothing else. She thoughtlessly hummed the bridge to a song that she couldn’t get out of her head. “…and my parents will never consent to this love… but I hold your hand…” She paused for a moment and sang the refrain in a soft soprano. “And while the seagulls are crying, we fall… but our souls are flying.”

Looking around, though forgetting to check behind her, Alli disappeared into a small coffee shop nearly hidden from the casual passerby by absurdly large and lurid advertisements hanging on the walls, the windows, and even the doors. Without uncloaking, she set some gold on the counter and received a sweet smelling drink for it from the Native Mordorian on the other side of the counter. Moodily she found a seat in a dark corner, staring with unfocused eyes into the hot swirling liquid. She couldn’t be sure how long she sat there alone.

--------------------

She made her way silently back to the Resort some time after sunset with a bag in hand. She passed nobody in the halls and, feeling relieved at the lack of conversation, she decided to examine the status of the Resort’s pool. Following confusing directions on one of the walls, she quickly got lost and managed to find the laundry room. A short time later she found herself standing on the edge of a murky green pool of unguessable depth and life-containment.

Giving up on a swim, she slipped up the back stairs to her room. Coming in, she’d seen herself having quite a good time with a number of good looking men. She blew on one man’s dice while another slid his arm around her. Mardil glared from across the room and Alli watched as she won several men money, won several dirty looks from their women, and tipsily ordered another drink. She hoped she’d have a good time and not get into too much trouble. She didn’t want to see herself on television later. The idea of explaining that it wasn’t really her to her irate older brother when she got home wasn’t appealing.

Now in her room, she decided that she was done wandering for the night. She’d had an idea in the café and wanted to extrapolate now that she would be undisturbed. She bolted the door and sat beside it, unlacing her boots. Still seated, she unfastened her shin-guards and remaining gauntlet, leaving them in a pile on the table. Stocking-footed, Alli walked to the bed where she had set her bag. Khamul had seen to it that her pack made its way up here safely some time ago. It lay beside the bag. She pulled out its contents, smiling. Tiredly she traded her soft leather breeches and jerkin and her singed cotton shirt and hose for a pair of too-large flannel pajama pants and a black tank top. Even after tying the drawstring of the pants, she had to roll the waist-band thrice before they fit. Finally, barefoot and pj-clad, she went to her desk and the magic box positioned there.

Now to learn just who is traveling with me… she thought grimly. She could easily have had Khamul do the search for her… his people could learn anything about anyone… but she’d rather enjoy the magic of Gugl. What wizard had brought such spells across so wide a sea, or even what Dark Lord of the ancient past had used this tool for his own malicious use, Alli did not know, but she did know that Gugl was a tool of the Valar. With some patience and a good idea of what she was after, Alli was able to find a number of things very quickly. Just as she was close to finishing, the screen at which she looked turned blue. The magic suddenly stopped working. The box made several odd noises and suddenly she heard a crack. She smelled the acrid scent of burning metals and plastic and pulled the line through which the mysterious power of the box came from out of the hole in the wall through which it passed. The system had died but she didn’t mind… she had learned what she was after.

For a long time she sat in grumpy silence, staring at the blank screen. She fell asleep where she sat and woke up in the morning with a crick in her neck.

As the sun came through the wide windows, Alli saw herself laying sprawled in bed in the clothes she had worn yesterday. She wondered what time she had gotten in. She doubted that even she had any idea. She shook herself impatiently and rolled her eyes at the smell of alcohol on her breathe. She slapped at herself and muttered angrily. She was hungover, but more importantly, she was laying on her pack and she wanted to get to it. Alli grabbed herself under the arms and heaved herself to the other end of the large bed. She groaned and fell back asleep quickly as she grabbed her bag and pulled out a notebook and pen. Moving back to her desk, she ignored her snores and began to write in a fast and moody scrawl.

I have discovered, with the help of Gugl, the following about my companions:

The… Others: nothing important. I didn’t actually care enough to really look. I submitted their names and got nothing that I didn’t already know.

However what was important was that as I sat pondering over my latte yesterday, I began to remember my local history. I had been too busy before for the information I had available to connect into any sort of meaning, but I was feeling miserably angsty and felt like cheering myself up with a bit of leisurely name recounting. It went as follows:

Elendil begat Isildur and Anarion and Inzillomi known as Lothlome though she was oft forgot, and she begat Kathaani who was lost ere they reached Middle Earth. Isildur begat Valandil who through a long line of Aras and the occasion Orn came to Arathorn and his son Aragorn who became King of all of the lands of Importance in the days after the Ring and of him was born Eldarion whose name won Feanor of the Peredhil a book of maps once upon history surely soon to be lost. Anarion begat that guy who begat another guy and this continued in such a fashion until the line came to an end with that guy who decided to declare war on the Mafia of Mordor and rode to meet the Witchking who slaughtered him easily because That Guy was a bit of a wimp and didn’t even bother to beget anybody before getting himself killed.

At this point in history the Stewards of Gondor took over, making sure that every family had a nice bowl of hearty soup to eat at dinner and reminding everybody that they ought to stand in silence facing West before they eat it in order to remember Numenor that was around before the idiots declared war on Eru’s will and expected to win, to Valinor that is in some alternate dimension at this point and that mortals really ought to give up on since they can’t get there anyhow, and that which will ever be even if most of the world is clueless about it.

The Stewards of Gondor did a fantastic job making sure that none of the bad guys made it past the Anduin to steal the Soup of Kings and, really, could have gone on indefinitely protecting Gondor if Aragorn hadn’t shown up and said “Behold, I am Aragorn who is called Elessar the Elfstone of the North, as well as Wingfoot, Strider, Telcontar, and a whole lot of other names, and am born of Arathorn who was born of another guy whose name starts with Ara and probably also ends with Orn and that was born in a long line from Isildur whose name is utterly bereft of Aras and Orns but who was your last king’s really-great grandfather’s brother. I have come to reclaim the Stew of my people and get married and coronated in a few obscenely expensive ceremonies that will bankrupt your city!” And so Faramir gave up warding Minas Tirith because he knew that Aragorn would do a pretty decent job keeping the recipe secret and safe and that the Gondorians would ne’er go hungry again, except for a brief period after the coronation and wedding where the whole city was a bit keen for vittles while the Important Ones tried to figure out a way to pay off the bill.

For a long time, Aragorn was a wonderful and charismatic King and everybody loved him and wished that he would just get on with it and die so that they could marry his wife who used to be an Elf and was seriously really hot. And the kids he spawned wound up being pretty wimpy and let things get totally out of hand and Anakronisms popped up and here we are in this mess.

And then I began feeling a bit better, because I realized that it was really Elendil’s fault that we’re all stuck in Mordor because if he hadn’t come to Middle Earth with those darned kids he spawned, Aragorn’s tool of a descendant wouldn’t be mucking things up so bad and you know, we could really do with having another Steward of Gondor because Faramir’s grandsires were doing a pretty good job of things except for Crazy Ol’ Denathor who almost ruined everything, but he doesn’t count, and you know, I bet I’d feel even more cheerful than I do now if I started naming all of Faramir’s grandsires. If naming the Kings of old and casting blame on them for the way I’m trapped with a bunch of strangers and an arrogant noble from my hometown while in the midst of Mordor could put me in such a cheerful mood, then naming Stewards ought to work even better!

Now what was the name of the first ruling Steward? I don’t remember. I think I’ll go Gugl it.

And so it was that Alli learned a few things that she probably should have remembered some time ago but had been distracted from noticing. She knew now that if she just had some time to write things down and sort them out in her head, she’d be fine, but where in the world was the appeal of sorting out emotional messed-up-ness when she could remain wallowing in self-pity for quite a long while?

And so Alli spent her break sleeping late, rising sometime after morning had officially ended, taking obnoxiously long showers, and trying to figure out the best way of convincing the world that Balrogs weren’t evil while occasionally wondering just when Life would start up again. The rest of the time she spent sorting out personal issues, but not The Issues, because those ones would take entirely too much effort and she didn’t feeling like paying them any attention just yet, so instead she concentrated on things like “What do I want to do with my life once I go back? I can’t be a Balrog-Winger in Gondor… Balrogs aren’t found in Gondor. Maybe I could establish a society for the protection of balrogic welfare and show people their horrible living and working conditions while trying to stop the film industry from type-casting them into the roles of monsters and convince brutes to stop trying to attack them.” and “What color do I feel like painting my toenails?” while locked in her hotel room with a lot of fresh produce, a pen and notebook, a large number of books, some art supplies that she couldn’t use for lack of rough-toothed paper, and a lot of repeats of the same songs because she had forgotten to bring along her own music and was stuck listening to that which was available, only about four songs of which she actually liked. She sang along occasionally because she really loved the line “And the anchor-person on TV goes ‘la de da de da‘.”

Occasionally she rousted SimulatAlli to go wander the Resort so that questions would not be raised about her staying hidden for so long, but really, come now, she was on break and would use every excuse in the book in order to avoid doing any real work until it was over. And then… before she knew it… the break actually was over and SimulatAlli had disappeared in a wisp of smoke even as Alli stood ready to leave and wondered what to do with her simulacra.

She stood now in the bright morning sun with the rest of the Offending Party and with her pajamas, supplies, peculiar items and weapons, and a pretty dress that she really didn’t want the rest of the party to know that she had shoved into the bottom of her pack. She was clad again in her Balrog-Winging outfit as she’d realized that the sturdy material was dead convenient when it came to things like not tearing. She’d had to purchase a new shirt to wear under the vest, as the old one was burned and torn and she was unsatisfied with the amount of skin that it now covered. The new shirt was a pale grey that somehow made her eyes seem very blue. As Anakron gave the instructions for their next foray, Alli tried not to be spotted as she glanced side-long at Mardil II of Gondor. Sai slid to a spot next to her and tapped her on the shoulder. Alli looked slightly down into her eyes and saw a question there. Alli had tensed first but now remembered what Khamul had told her. This girl could prove a strong ally. Alli nodded and smiled hesitantly, a question in her own eyes. Sai smiled back and handed Alli the gauntlet that she had lost at RCA. Alli grinned now and fastened it to her right arm as Anakron spoke. The next step was about to begin.