ATM II RPG

[Hookbill the Goomba]

“It reminds me,” said The Barrow Wight, “of the time I met the fell worm beast of the sea!” Smilog turned around to look at him, with a slight confused look upon his face. Every time he settled down to sleep, the Wight started telling one of these ridiculous anecdotes about his time on the Downs. “It was on a winter’s night,” he continued, “I was out fishing when a large creature covered in what can only be described as CDs rose out of the sea and asked the way to Numenor. I told the fellow that it hadn’t been around for a jolly long time and he up and left in a flash, by Jove you should have seen that thing swim!”

Once more, Smilog settled down in his sleeping blankets, hidden amongst the rocks to the side of the entrance to the Crack of DOOM. The Wight eventually fell asleep too and Roggie had the first watch. Tollin snored rather loudly, but they were all so worn out that they hardly noticed and sunk soon into a weary, troubled sleep.

It was dark when Roggie awoke them all with a poke from his peg leg, saying, “Now’s our chance!”

“What are you talking about?” whispered Smilog looking around with an odd look in his eyes. “Where are the others?”

“Over they’re,” said Roggie, pointing, “look, something came out of the door only a minuet ago. It was a shadowy figure and I didn’t get a good look at it, it said something about not having enough snacks. Now is our best chance to investigate the Crack of DOOM!”

“We need someone to go in first to make sure its safe,” advised Tollin, “someone dispensable, who we wouldn’t miss if he got killed or mutilated in some strange way.” There was silence for a moment, and then everyone looked at Smilog who sighed and walked to the Door.

“You do realise,” said Smilog, “that you will all rue the day you sent me to Doom!”

“Yes, of course,” said The Barrow Wight, “Now, off with you!” they all pushed the Dwarf though the door and it closed behind him with a click. He tried to open it, but it seemed to be locked with some unseen lock. He picked up a torch from the wall beside him and walked forward, covering his mouth and nose to block the stench. He walked along for a while before he came into the great cavern of DOOM, the place where the Ring of Power had been destroyed. There was a long extended platform stretching over the lava vent, and built in a semicircle at the edge were a series of controls for driving the dreaded thing.

There was a large leather seat in front of a steering wheel; to the side of it was what looked like a gear changer and a hand break. Smilog went up to it and examined the controls closely, stroking his beard, forgetting the stench. There was a large blue button in the centre that had a picture of an eye on it, wondering what it did, Smilog pressed it and was hit on the chin by a rising pseudo television made with palantir technology. It showed the view out of the front of Mount Zoom; the LA beach to the left, and the City to the left.

“I should go back,” said Smilog, “Roggie will know what to do.” He turned away, but stopped and looked back at the controls. The steering wheel looked so inviting, the leather chair looked so comfortable. “NO!” he cried, shaking his head, “Must go back to Roggie and the others, they’ll know what to do.” He tried to leave once again, but only went three steps before looking back and stopping. “Well, maybe I could try a few more buttons, to see what they do.” He sat down in the chair and felt how comfortable it was, he sighed and looked at the controls. There was a big red button. You can probably see where this is going.

He reached out his hand towards the button, sweating and smiling inanely, his breath bated and full of strangeness. He pressed it. The whole mountain shook as the engine started up again. Smilog laughed a long maniacal laugh, “I am Smilog!” he cried, “Master of Zoom! Now, Middle Earth, prepare to meet your horrible DOOM!” He took the gear changer stick and began moving it randomly, causing the gearbox to groan and make unearthly noises.

Halfway down the mountain, the strange shadowy figure stopped and turned to look back up at the crack of DOOM. “My vehicle!” it cried, “My beautiful vehicle! Someone is stealing it! Curse you snacks! CURSE YOU!”

“Now,” said the maniacal Smilog, “to release zooming Mountain of DOOM!” he pulled on the gear stick some more and the engine groaned. He pressed another button on the control panel, which cause a volcanic bomb to shoot out of the volcano and head into the City. He laughed and tried to get the Mountain moving again, but nothing seemed to work, he did not understand the controls and randomly pressed things. “Obey me!” he cried, his eye becoming a great green fire, “I am your master now, Zoom! Hearken to me!” The last button he pressed opened the door to the crack of DOOM and Tollin ran in.

“What is going on?” cried the Minotaur, “Smilog, what are you doing?”

“My victory begins now!” he cried, laughing, “I will drive the mountain to the destruction of Middle Earth!” he laughed some more and then pressed a button that fired a rock at Tollin. He fell back and lay on the floor. “I told you, you would rue the day you sent me to DOOM,” laughed Smilog, “now, begin your rueing! I will sit here… and watch!” Roggie and The Barrow Wight entered looking rather worried.

“Get away from there!” shouted Roggie, “You’ll kill us all! Are you insane?”

“Insane?” said Smilog, “As insane as a moose!”

“I’d call that pretty insane,” said Tollin.

“Silence!” cried Smilog, “I must now wreak terror on the people of Middle Earth!” Tollin rolled his eyes and grabbed the Dwarf by the scruff of the neck and dragged him kicking and screaming from the chamber. “Release me!” demanded Smilog, “Release me or suffer the Wrath of Smilog!” They came out of the crack of DOOM and Smilog was cast upon the floor.

The Dwarf sat up and shook his head, “What happened?” he said, “All I remember was being in the control room and the… something weird.” As they sat there, a shadowy figure passed by and went into the Crack of DOOM, closing the door.

“Bad form, old chap,” said the Barrow Wight, “you went positively mad on us back there. Trying to take over the world. Maybe that’s what Project Zoom does to people. Sends them barking.” He lit a pipe that he seemed to have got from nowhere. “Now, lets deal with this like gentlemen.” He walked up to the door and knocked on it, “Excuse me,” he said, “would you mind awfully, letting us in?”

“Do you have any snacks?” came the reply.

[Lhunardawen]

"Dracomir, wait up!!!" Maika screamed with multiple exclamation marks in spite of herself; she had to express her anger somehow.

"M-m-maika...?"

"What?" Maika blurted with a hint of irritation, swinging to face Lola. "This is all your fault. You shouldn't have done that, no matter how tempting or amusing it was. Now look, we're back to square one. We have to find Dracomir, and together we'll all have to find Roggie. We will convince him to recommence the negotiations. You hear?"

But all Lola could hear was the swishing of the silver robe as Maika gesticulated frantically. This time there was horror marked all over her pretty face.

"I-I can't hear you..." she said, slowly shaking her head.

"What?!"

"What?"

"I said 'what?!' "

"What did you say?"

Maika threw her hands up exasperatedly and turned back to the direction in which Dracomir had disappeared. She wanted to run after him, but somehow she could not move. What had he done? More than anything she wanted Alli to learn of this, and let her do what she will. Surely she would be disappointed with the ambassadors...and Maika shivered at the thought. They would have to solve this on their own.

Quickly yet gently taking off the silver cloak wrapped around her, Maika decided that she would have to catch up with Dracomir in any way. With the cloak haphazardly folded in her hands she took a step forward, hesitated, and turned to Lola.

"If you want, you can stay here. I'll go after him."

Lola gasped, her hand over her mouth. "I can hear you now!"

It did not take any of the brains in Skittles's secret laboratory to work things out: the silver cloak had rendered her inaudible. Maika slowly nodded in enlightenment, and quickly turned her mind to the task at hand, tucking the offense done against her in a deep pocket of her mind. Not waiting for a more relevant response from Lola, she started pacing down the hall. Each step took more breath, she noticed, and soon she could not go any further. She stopped, caught her breath, and looked back.

Lola was not even a step away from her, laughing deliciously. "My poor dear, if only you could have seen yourself. You looked...utterly ridiculous!"

"You are too kind," said Maika, curtsying gracefully. "Now, perhaps there's anything you can say to help me?"

"He brandished a wand. He mounted a flying broomstick. It's hopeless."

"Thanks a lot," said Maika, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Wait...a wand? Hmm..." She grabbed one of the chopsticks perched on her hair and swiftly pulled it out, in a manner worthy of a shampoo commercial. Lola could only chuckle.

"Lola, we're a bit desperate. It might work," Maika said as she waved the wannabe wand awound and abwuptly stopped. At the same time, unknown to her, the Impediment Curse began to wear off. Maika stepped forward tentatively to test, then took another step, then another. She grinned inwardly at her success.

"Come on," she called to Lola behind her while expertly reinserting the chopstick. "Bother Dracomir--let's go straight to Roggie. Audience chamber."

[Anguirel]

Cut, yes, cut that Malfoy character, the Map scribbled in a demented, increasingly Hispanised script, he's only marginal anyway, si, si...

Dracomir scrunched the parchment into a ball and stuck it in the inside pocket of his robe, yet still felt it writhing and pulsating against its heart as it continued to maniacally scribble plot alterations. He slumped against a wall, as characters written by this author tend to do at some stage or another. He felt a great urge to burst into tears, but did not dare in case he was interrupted by some guard. No one could witness a Malfoidacil crying!

Yet his plight was dire, and all, he realised, caused by his own pettiness. He had been in the company of two Mordorian ambassadors...well, that is, one ambassador and one Diva...headed, solidly, for an audience with King Roggie, and had managed to fool at least one of them into falling in with his plans. Some guilt now returned to Tom as he recalled Maika's quivering mouth, undoubtedly screaming as hard as she could at him, but completely Inaudible...now he was lost in the midst of the Castle, the former Mount Doom Palace and Casino, with no idea of his further direction.

He picked himself up and stumbled a little further on. And then he saw something which raised his spirits somewhat. It was a window.

It was glassless, like any decent castle window, and beyond it lay the smog and ashen sky of the Black Land. Yet any air was better than none. With a barely-suppressed whoop Tom leapt astride his Nimbus once again and took off, leaving the Mountain behind him in only a few miutes. However briefly, he was free.

He soon found that the thick smoke was actually hiding an almost oppressively blue sky at the beach paradise of Lost Angles. The intense positive glare of the cloudless weather made his head ache, but he soared off. He saw the decadent city lying obnoxiously below him, and the vast array of azure swimming-pools in its plentiful de luxe hotels. He saw whole deserts of imported sand, occasionally punctuated with mounds of cigarette-ends, broken beer bottles, and used needles. He saw three enormous female Stone-Trolls sunning themselves.

Stone-Trolls sunning themselves? Apparently so. For the rays of Arien, it was revealed, did not slay Stone-Trolls, but merely sent them into an inane but rather pleasant torpor, as their skin changed from pink to a greyish-brown tan. It seemed, Tom realised, that this tan was a sought after asset for Troll-women.

"Ooo, yer've caught it luvverly, Doris," one commented. Somewhat surfeited with Trollological insight, and feeling the heat of the sun himself, Tom wheeled his racing broom about and started elegantly swooping towards Mount Doom's summit...to the very Cracks of Doom themselves.

[Celuien]

Grimly determined to have a good time if it killed her, Panakeia sauntered onto Rode-o Drive. Her friends were gone, their block razed to the ground by an out-of-control mountain. Anakron was teetering on the brink of destruction. Love. Despair. Folly. Those words brought a melody from an anakronistic musical work to give her earworm. All, of course, in an equally anakronistic language that would not exist for many thousands of years, but Panakeia's mind translated automatically and easily into the Westron. Or English. Whichever seemed more convenient to her at the moment.

It's madness! It's empty delirium!
A poor, lonely woman
Abandoned in this teeming desert
They call Lost Angles!
What can I hope? What should I do?

Enjoy myself! Plurge into the vortex
Of pleasure and drown there!
Enjoy myself!

Free and aimless I must flutter
From pleasure to pleasure,
Skimming the surface
Of life's primrose path.
As each day dawns,
As each day dies,
Gaily I turn to the new delights
That make my spirit soar.

For indeed, Panakeia left her life empty without Anakron. And the only way around that emptiness, she decided, was to find as many superficial things as she could to force herself into cheerful forgetfulness. Panakeia knew that the endeavor would be as fruitless for her as for the heroine who originally sang the mellifluous (and capriciously difficult) melody in her head, but she went forward with the idea, nevertheless. She browsed the display in the window, and gasped at the image of a ghostly Anakron (or was it Elempi - the hat, cloak, and staff were gone) on the street outside. Oddly enough, he was singing the same melody that resounded in the concert hall of her mind.

Love is the pulse

Oh! (Panakeia joined him in a duet)

... of the whole world ...

Yes! Love!

Mysterious, unattainable,
The torment and delight of my heart.

And the image wispily curled off into nothingness.

Madness! Follie! Anakron was gone, and certainly not an anakronistic tenor. But she had seen him all the same. It must have been a delusion. All it meant was that Panakeia missed him terribly. If only he did care more for love than the Dweomer. It would have been so much better for the both of them.

"Can I help you?" Panakeia whirled to face a saleswoman. Before she could reply, the store-employee went on to say, "I don't think we can." She looked Panakeia up and down from head to toe. "We only sell designer items here. They're quite pricey." The saleswoman brushed at the sand clinging to Panakeia's gown. "I don't think we'd have anything in your way."

"What are you trying to say to me?" Panakeia thought the woman was quite obnoxious and ignoring the first rule of selling – never turn away a customer.

"What I'm trying to say is that we don't take beach-bums here."

"Do you have any idea who I am?" Pankeia yelled.

The saleswoman smiled a falsely sweet smile. "I don't believe I do. And that's just the point. Only people who are known are welcome here. Anyone else spoils our image. I'm sure you can find your way to the door. Good-day!"

Too tired, frustrated, and unhappy to argue, Panakeia left.

A bus ride or two later, Panakeia finally found a place where no one would bother her. She sat in the food court at the Fallen Arch Mall and drowned her sorrows in an orange smoothie as teenaged valley-girls strolled past. Violetta was not her style. But what had the vision meant? Taking another sip of orange slush, Panakeia tried to puzzle it out.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Picking up a tree root that had been caught in the wheel of Mount Zoom, Tollin made a torch, for the night (and indeed the day) of Mordor was black and terrible. They followed Sauron's road up the Mountain for a while, not talking, but sometimes, Smilog would grumble something incoherent. The Barrow Wight took out a pipe and began to blow smoke as they walked; he was the only member of the party who didn't seem annoyed or unhappy.

"Wait a moment!" cried Tollin, stooping to the ground, "these are strange tracks." Smilog looked down and saw weird shapes on the floor. It looked like tracks made by webbed feet.

"It seems odd thing have been going on," said Smilog, "we've been out of the mountain too long. I'd better find the other delegates and see what has been decided." There was a small opening just above them, the same hole made by Tollin in an earlier adventure. Swiftly they clambered up and entered inside the Mountain. All around them they could see Orcs looking afraid and suspicious of everything; they regarded Tollin especially suspiciously.

"What has happened here, old boy?" asked The Barrow Wight as a small Orc passed by.

"Don't know," it replied, "some are saying there has been murder in the Mountain. Werewolves, or worse."

"What could be worse?" asked another Orc.

"Were-ducks." said Smilog, laughing.

"How did you know?" cried the first Orc in amazement.

"Eh?" said the Dwarf, "you cannot be serious." the Orc nodded solemnly and then dashed off. "Ah, who cares," Smilog snorted, "I've had enough adventure so far. Whatever this is can sort itself out."

[Formendacil]

"How far is it to the tavern?" Hyarmenwë asked Maika. "I'm afraid I don't know Mordor too well."

"About half an hour, as the Nazgûl flew," said Elrogorn, "more like two hours as a vulture flies, and probably about three or four for these old nags."

"I think he was asking me," said Maika, a bit stiffly.

"Why, so he may have been," said Elrogorn, "but as official Ranger of this company, it falls within my expertise."

"So we're a company now?" Maika looked faintly amused.

"Well, we're getting there," said Elrogorn. "We still need a flatulant Dwarf, a wisecracking Halfing, and an anti-hero. We've already got the noble, dashing hero (that's me), the fair maiden, and the wise old sage."

"Don't you think that's a little... passé?" asked Maika.

"This is Mordor," shrugged Elrogorn. "Passé is the fashion. Well, one of the fashions."

"Surely there aren't halflings here in Mordor," said Hyarmenwë.

"Sure there are!" said Elrogorn. "For some reason, the culture that all these anakronisms come from is fascinated by Hobbits. There's a whole "Little Hobbiton" section in downtown Lûndûn. Some great ethnic food there. Ever been to that decadent little mushroom shop on Bingo Bolger-Bracegirdle-Boffin-Baggins Boulevard, Lady Maika?"

Maika had, and she and Elrogorn reminisced briefly about the delights of the shop, which Hyarmenwë resolutely attempted to ignore. A couple hours later, as the midday sun was rising to its highest point in the sky, they returned to a familiar point in Gorgoroth, the Gondmordorian tavern in sight.

"Ah, the good old culture-in-exile," said Elrogorn nostalgically. Abruptly, Elrogorn slipped from nostalgia to a stiff battle stance.

"Wereducks!" he cried, somersaulting backwards off his horse, ending up standing right side-up, facing the opposite direction, in what must have been an anatomically impossible manuveur, sword already flying to his hand.

"Enter the building and do what you must!" he cried at Maika and Hyarmenwë, who had already begun leaving him. "I shall fight these foul beasts!"

As Hyarmenwë was dismounting and tethering his nag, he happened to glance behind him. Quickly, he averted his eyes and dashed into the inn. For he had seen the immense, orange-billed visage of a towering rubber-duckie waddling into sight.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron left Caer Pairadocks and hied him back to Mount Zoom. From a regal distance (which amounts to the distance between one end from the other of Bugging Ham Ballast) he espied none other than a Dwarf, a Minotaur, and a Barrow Wight ascending the mountain by means of the great road of the former Dark Lord.

He walked across a number of historically ascendant (whatever that means) city blocks of Lûndûn, passing through a Slottish Bank district, a Twee Eight Oor district where moving pictures showed the misadventures of various Not Ready for the Big Screen Players flatulated, vibratedly exhaled, Bronx cheered, and behaved generally badly in an effort to score laughs at the expense of good humor. Anakron quickly passed on, pleased with the Theatrical ExtremISM anakronistically imposed thereon.

He was climbing the mountain, wondering what in Mordor a Dward, Minotaur, and Barrow Wight had to do with the seemingly not-pressing pseudo-negotiations between Gondorian and Mordorian ambassadors.

He approached the threesome, and a passing orc. Anakron absent mindedly konveyed a bit of anakronism on the orc, who immediately donned thick black glasses, began murmuring "heck is other people", and otherwise behaved as an exitentialIST playwrite.

The threesome were commenting on Were-ducks and werewolves.

"What's this," Anakron interrupted, "about lycanthropy?"

[Celuien]

It is written in the annals of Mordor that a group of odd folk was conveyed to the Fourth Age of Middle-earth through the devices of the Anakronism Dweomer. The name given to the strangers (from a stranger land known only as the 60s) was the hippies. The word hippie was a source of puzzlement to those who met them, as they had no particular vastness of hip. Be that as it may, little ill was spoken of them, or inscribed upon the hard drives and data backup systems of the Mordorian networks, and in time, it came to pass that they were accepted, for their knowledge of herb lore was great, and their calls for peace and love, while seeming out of place in the former Land of Shadow, could not be easily protested.

They settled in a valley to the north of Lûndûn, and their happiness was great, for they had much time to plant flowers, and herbs of multitudinous type, and to sing to the accompaniment of guitars and drums. All was well for them, and as the years went on, their long hair began to turn grey, and their hips grew outwards until they did in truth merit their name of hippie. Then too, their middles grew broad and flabby and sagged over their hips, and it was said that their time had ended and they were hippy no more, for their midriffs surpassed their hips. Thus they came to be called the Were-hippies.

Alas for that ill-fated jest! For as it was spoken, both puns and lycanthropy were assigned to Mordor, and through that cruel dual agency, the hippie's happiness was, if not ended, at least diminished. Those who decide such things thought that with the removal of punctuation, the Were-hippies should be Werehippies, doomed to a life of transformation along with other werecreatures. By day, they yet retained their human shape, but in the night, they took on the shape of the dreaded Werehippopotamus, shortened for convenience to Werehippie.

But even as Werehippies, their love of peace could not wholly be undone, and while other creatures wrought great destruction, their attention was turned only to plants of various shape, which they consumed with great hunger until morning, when they again took up their headbands and beads and sang in their gardens. They regretted their fate as much as might be expected, though they had to admit that shapeshifting was rather groovy.

It was said that there would be one who would deliver them from their fate, though it was not known where or how this one should appear. They would know only at the moment of their rescuer's appearance, which would be in the most unexpected fashion. This deliverer was awaited with great expectation, though many despaired of ever being cured of their calamity.

~*~

Panakeia's taxi rolled past miles of countryside until a calm green valley caught her attention. Cottages could be seen in its depths, smoke curling out of their chimneys, and flowers bloomed everywhere. The scene was so un-Mordorian that Panakeia blinked. Could it be real? She resolved to find out.

"Stop here."

The driver hurried helped Panakeia with her baggage and, hardly stopping to collect the fare, fled the scene. As she descended into the valley, Panakeia wondered what could have caused the driver such a fright.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The air was heavy in the Mountain, despite the sounds of mirth mixed with frustration coming from the few remaining casino rooms. Smilog and the others wandered along the corridors seeking any way to bring them back to the conference room. Most of the signposts and maps with "You are Here" written on had been broken or destroyed in the moving of the Mountain. The Dwarf stroked his long beard and hummed with frustration.

"I begin to loathe this mountain," he muttered, "It was once good and a homely place, especially after the Dwarves had carved out the lower halls, but since Roggie turned it to his own uses it has lost its charm."

"Did the dwarves build the labyrintttthhh?" asked Tollin, suddenly getting flashes of his old self, but slapping his own face in order to get rid of it.

"That?" mused Smilog, "No. No I don't think so. It looked Mordorian to me. Orcs, most likely. You remember how easily those walls fell down. If it was Dwarf make, it would take a thousand men a thousand years to crack the walls." He grinned and almost laughed at the thought until, all of a sudden; he was tripped over by a small man with a scowling face.

The man was short, only a little taller than Smilog, with no beard or, indeed, any hair at all, it seemed. He was dressed in a long black robe with red lining and he carried a great halberd in one had while the other gripped a scroll tight. "You!" he cried, "murderer! Wretched Dwarf! I've been searching for you!"

Smilog sat up and shook his head; he examined the man carefully and said, "Do I know you?" The fury that covered the face of the man made even Tollin step back while The Barrow Wight leaped to the floor and covered his face.

"You wretched fool!" the man shouted, "you killed my son! Ten Months ago! When Roggie had you looking after his Orc and Haradrim re-education establishment!"

"I-" stuttered Smilog, "I don't remember any of that. I have no idea of what you're talk- WAIT! It's all coming back to be now!"
...

____

Ten Months earlier...

A rather frustrated and slightly grimmer Smilog sat at a desk in a small office filled with bookshelves and paintings of Roggie that he had tried to tear down but had been unsuccessful. A man with a tremendous locks of hair down to his ankles stepped into the room. He was dressed in the manner of the Haradrim and had a great hat of many colours upon his head. "You wanted to see me?" he said.

"Ah, yes..." grumbled Smilog, "Mr... erm... Palthwait?" The man nodded, "well, I'm afraid it's your son. He's been in a spot of trouble recently."

"Oh dear," sighed Palthwait, sitting down, "if he's in bother, I'd like to nip it in the bud right away." Smilog grunted and put his newspaper down.

"Well, Mr. Palthwait," said Smilog, lighting a pipe, "he's always in trouble. He never joins in the sports and activities. He never enters into the spirit of the establishment and it's been weeks since anyone has seen any work from him." Mr Palthwait shook his head and sighed, "Quite frankly, Mr. Palthwait, if he wasn't dead, I'd have him expelled." Palthwait nodded and then thought for a moment, before the words sunk in.

"I beg your pardon!" He exclaimed.

"Yes," grunted the Dwarf, "Expelled!" He blew a smoke ring over the man's head, "He's lying in the houses of healing now, stiff as a bone. And this is very much typical of his current behaviour. One minuet he flying around like a paper kite, the next he's immovable and starting to smell."

Blinded by rage and confusion, Palthwait stood up and slammed his fist on the table, shouting, "What happened? How did he die?"

Smilog raised an eyebrow, "Is that important?" he asked, Palthwait nodded, "well," he continued, "he was caught eating in the corridor. I administered a beating, during which he died. Now, the reason we have a no eating policy is quite simple. It's taken us ages to get rid of the rats in Mordor and we don't want litter attracting them back. So each student carries a card with which-"

"You beat my son to death?" cried Palthwait, now consumed with fury.

"Yes." said Smilog flatly, "I must say, I find your morbid obsession with your son's death quite disturbing. But anyway," Smilog stood up, "my work here is done. Today is my last day and I'm going off to another project this afternoon." he left the room and walked down the corridor running through, in his head, the list of things he needed to do that evening.

"I’ll get you for this, Dwarf!" cried the man, "You'll pay! £4.50! And more!"

_____

Back in the 'present' day or whatever...

Palthwait stared at Smilog with a confused look, "How did you remember something I said if you weren't even there?" he asked. The Dwarf did not reply, instead he made use of this distraction to run with all his might down the corridor, swiftly followed by Tollin and The Barrow Wight.

"You killed his son?" asked Tollin, "was that necessary?"

"I don't know!" cried the Dwarf as he flew down a flight of stairs they had just found, "It was a long time ago."

[Diamond18]

After DracoTom’s departure Skittles spent a great deal of time pretending to be a hawk. This involved preening her feathers; swooping down upon small rodents, breaking their necks, and eating them; and flying. Flying in this case simply being running about with her arms extended.

Hissyfit yawned wide. “Lord, I am so bored,” she said. She had briefly enjoyed hunting rodents with Skittles, especially as she relished swallowing the small beings whole. To achieve this feat, she first chomped on the cranium to break up the skull and made it more palatable going down. But perhaps that is too much true-to-life detail, so let us merely say that she relished the rodents, but was now full and bored.

“It’s not yet nightfall,” Skittles told her.

“So?”

“We must wait till nightfall to reconvene with DracoTom and make our move.”

“Says who?”

“Says the aforementioned pale wizard, that’s who.”

“Since when do you take orders from that freak?”

Skittles stopped and lowered her arms. “That’s a good question,” she mused. “I don’t take orders from anyone! Besides Roggie and Alli, anyway! And occasionally Ms Martinet! And my parents! Also, the muffin man.”

“The muffin man?”

“Yes, the muffin man. Do you know the muffin man?”

“The one who lives on Drury Lane?”

“Yes. Anyway, I don’t take orders from Malfelton. So there’s no need to wait till night and reconvene.”

Hissyfit flicked her tail and nodded. “What shall we do?”

“Hunt wereducks, of course.”

“Wreck havoc? Cause mass hysteria?”

“If said wrecking and causing is done to wereducks, yes.” Skittles turned on her heel and stalked off down the corridor. “Come along, then, we have to round up the likely suspects and jump to conclusions and make vague statements and overuse conjunctives.”

Hissyfit trotted off after her, ears perked up with anticipation.

[littlemanpoet]

"What's this about lycanthropy?" Anakron asked the Minotaur, the Dwarf, and the Barrow Wight.

They walked away, and into the mountain. Anakron stared after them in disbelief. No one ignored the Grand Anakronist. It was simply unheard of. Or, perhaps it was better to say that no one ignored the Grand Anakronist for long. Not if he could help it. He stomped after them.

~*~

Many hours later, still following the threesome as they apparently had gotten themselves completely lost, without the aid of any anakronisms(!), Anakron saw the Dwarf accosted by a little man who was clearly in a blithering rage. The man accused the Dwarf of having killed his son. Next moment (or two), the Dwarf, followed quickly by the Minotaur and the Barrow Wight, fled right by him, again as if he was not even there. Most peculiar. Have I been rendered invisible by this staff? But Panakeia could see me. Anakron shrugged. The little man charged after them, apparently taking no notice of him either.

If nobody sees me, then why should I stay here?

Anakron began looking for an exit to Mount Zoom.

After a while he heard footsteps coming from ahead of him. He wondered who it might be, and if he would be noticed. He stopped and waited.

[JennyHallu]

Lola sat perched gracefully and precariously on the corner of her desk, long legs extended and one ungloved long-fingered hand reaching down to test the quality of the waxing job she'd had done on her recent mission. She'd just arrived back, stopping in the office to sort through the mail even before she'd taken off her thick fur coat. It had been her idea to have a contact placed in the staff of the "Sea of Nurn Day Spa", a skilled masseuse in fact. Alli'd given her a suspicious look when she'd received the proposal, but Lola's poker face was legend. She'd calmly explained that it was an unrivaled position to overhear the words of the rich and famous, and Alli, rolling her eyes, had given in. Lola rolled her shoulders luxuriously. Debriefing had taken an especially long time this week.

When the door opened unexpectedly, Lola didn't even look up, much less cover her extended leg. She deftly adjusted the tops of her hose and garters and looked up at the man facing her from under long, thick black lashes, platinum blond hair (with brand-new honey blond highlights) falling over her eyes with its usual perfection.

[Kath]

Igor had been standing on the balcony staring out at the scenery for a long time, but the frequent stopping and starting caused by that unpredictable thing known as a save had affected even his stomach and he began to think that perhaps he should go inside and see if the negotiations had restarted yet. Of course, for that to happen everyone would have to be in the same room, and since it took most of a day to even find all the ambassadors let alone convince them to leave off what ever it was they were doing, that probably wasn't going to happen.

As he mused Igor felt the first few drops of rain hit his head, and looked up just in time to see the skies open and a deluge of water begin to fall. He reached for his trusty umbrella, which was always kept in a pocket somewhere, but found that it had inexplicably become a missing umbrella. Well, perhaps not quite so inexplicably he thought darkly, remembering the covetous looks a certain Gondorian negotiator had been gracing the item to recently.

Turning on his good heel Igor marched back inside, for once allowing his now wet feet to slap against the floor to show his annoyance. This whole arrangement was beginning to get to him, and he just wanted to find a way to take his mind off it for a bit. Perhaps finding a good book to read, though that was generally hard considering little of a good nature had ever been assigned to this land.

Again lost in his thoughts Igor failed to notice the man in front of him until a sharp knock on the head brought him back to the present. Pressing a hand to the slowly forming lump he glared at the staff which had delivered the blow, and then allowed his gaze to fall upon the person holding it.

"You don't have to hit me with things to get my attention you know." He said, forgoing the habitual lisp and hoping the Grand Anakronist would see the humour in his words and not turn him into anything ... unnatural.

[Celuien]

Down, down, down into the valley went Panakeia, all the while tripping over flowers of many bright and cheery colors. As she went down the slope, she began to think that she had found a place where she might be, if not happy - for what happiness was there without Anakron? - at least content.

She reached the bottom. No flowers were to be seen at the bottom of the basin.

"Where have all the flowers gone?" she cried.

"Young girls picked them, every one," came a sudden reply from a not-so-young girl, wearing a wreath of flowers in her hair.

Slowly, other garlanded people approached. A circle formed around Panakeia.

"When will they ever learn?" they sang.

"Uh. I don't know." Panakeia was suddenly nervous. She didn't like being surrounded, particularly after the cab driver's frightened reaction to the valley.

"Where are you going?" another asked.

"I don't know. There is no place I'm going, really."

"Come along then. Follow the Tambourine Man." A tambourine was readily found, and a song was played, and all went following, sweeping Panakeia up in the midst of the parade.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The slime filled land was not in the least bit pleasant. Smilog the Dwarf ground his teeth and plodded angrily through the marshes, grumbling and cursing as he went. His travel worn clothes were riddled with holes and stains from so many different places, he felt as if he had already walked the length and breadth of Middle Earth. But his eyes were fixed on Mount Zoom, it's smoke ridden summit grinning at him like a large grinning thing. He hated it.

As the undergrowth became large and unfriendly, he drew his axe and began mercilessly hacking the giant weeds. He let out a frustrated cry as some nettles got caught in his trousers. Swearing in Dwarvish, he hoped around, ripping the offending weed from the cotton of his trousers and cursing it further.

"Ho Hoom!" came a voice from somewhere, "Can't you see I'm trying to sleep."

"Buzz off!" shouted Smilog, in no mood for more weirdness, "can't you see I'm trying to get back to Mount Zoom?"

"How would I know that?" asked the voice.

"I could ask you the same question," feeling satisfied, Smilog stomped off through he undergrowth, hacking and slashing as he went. There was the sound of some squelching and sloshing from behind and Smilog finally stopped brooded, awaiting this new madness.

"Ho hoom," boomed the voice, "turn around and let me have a look at your face. I almost feel I dislike you, but let us not be hasty. Turn around."

"No thanks," said Smilog and he walked off again. There was a tremendous booming and crashing and the sound of large footsteps squelching and making all kinds of odd noises. Suddenly, huge, twig-like fingers covered in slime, gripped Smilog about the chest and lifted him up. He found himself looking into the most unlikely face he ever did hear tell of...

***

"I say," said The Barrow Wight as he and Tollin the Minotaur dashed away from Anakron in case he turned on them, "poor old Smilog. Should we go look for the little chap?" Tollin thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. The idea of angering Anakron at that time seemed most unwise, besides which, he found Smilog rather annoying, despite the fact he had saved him from the labyrinth.

Corridor after corridor passed them by until The Barrow Wight tripped over a mop that had been left on the floor, probably by a lazy cleaner. He noticed the door they were now outside of was slightly open. Putting his head back on, The Barrow Wight pulled Tollin into the room.

It was small and cold, icicles hung down from the ceiling and there was a snow-like substance on the ground. "How can this be?" asked Tollin, "we are inside a Volcano."

"A moving Volcano," pointed out The Barrow Wight, "This whole jolly things a mess. What's not to expect, old boy?" Tollin agreed and they began searching for anything of interest. It was Tollin who found something, a set of tracks leading all around the room. The tracks were made by webbed feet, but far too large to be normal ducks.

"What do you make from that?" asked Tollin, "There are at least three separate tracks here. It must be where the Were-Ducks congregate." They stood in that cold room, gazing at the tracks. They did not look that old and there was evidence that it was frequented quite often.

Slowly, The Barrow Wight lifted his head and gripped his sword hilt, "We had better get out of here, old boy."

"Not so fast!" cried a voice from behind.

[Lhunardawen]

How, Maika wondered with an amazed sigh, all thoughts of Bobawen momentarily forgotten as she gazed at Elrogorn carefully so as not to be noticed, could anyone smell so foul, yet look so fair? She casually reached out and flicked the clump of hair standing on top of his head, at which Elrogorn the ever-alert flinched. He looked up at her questioningly.

"There was a piece of rub- wereduck on your hair," replied Maika matter-of-factly. Elrogorn thanked her with a dashing smile (Maika had to pinch herself to stop smiling back) and turned back to Hyarmenwë, who now stood beside Bobawen.

"Elrogorn," the Gondorian said, "this is my dau—"

"Wait."

All eyes swung towards Maika. "Hyarmenwë," she continued, "I don’t know, but this is all too anticlimactic."

Before he could protest, which with his disbelieving expression and open mouth it seemed he was about to do, Maika faced Aleksandur and Fíriel urgently. “Do you know anyone else who could fit the bill?”

Hyarmenwë found his voice; the look on his face, if Maika had seen it, should have been enough to make her stop. "Maika—"

"Yes," exclaimed Aleksandur triumphantly, "Maika’s nineteen!" The Mordorian ambassador was about to respond, but Fíriel shook her head.

"No, my dear, Maikacoreion’s a boy."

"Right," sighed Maika, "anyone else?"

"Maika, that’s enough!"

All talk ended abruptly.

"Meow?"

Everyone looked down at the floor to see feline Maika sitting on her hind legs, her tail neatly tucked around her feet. She was looking up at them with her head tilted to side, her large mismatched eyes (one blue and one brown) blinking curiously. The old woman materialised behind her, out of breath.

"Maika," she panted, "one more escapade and I promise I’ll forfeit your desserts for a week. Come on now, there’s a good kitty!"

With a final meow Maika turned, her tail swishing, and walked back to their own table. The old woman bowed slightly and whispered her apologies before following her cat. The tension surrounding the silenced group deflated a bit.

"Lady Maika," Hyarmenwë finally ventured, in a tone more subdued than moments before, "there can be no mistake. Her resemblance to my dear wife is uncanny. What further proof is required?"

Maika shook her head, exhaling heavily. "When I told you this task won’t be easy, I was speaking as a Mordorian. As someone who has lived here all her life, and knows very well that many things are not what they seem. Yes, she could be your daughter for all we know, but I didn’t think you would be this easily convinced."

"Maika, I asked you to aid me in my search—"

"And that’s what I’m doing!"

"—and not to interfere." He looked at her sternly. "There’s a difference, my lady. Who better to know my daughter than I?"

Bowing her head, Maika sighed, resigned. "Yes, my lord. I’m sorry. I was out of line."

She looked up and saw that Hyarmenwë was taken aback. As she expected. She had never called him that before.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go somewhere required of women when in a place like this."

Drawing to her full height, which honestly was not much, Maika walked resolutely away from the table towards the restroom.

[littlemanpoet]

Everyone had fled, except for Skittles, her cat, and Igor. Anakron turned upon them, his staff raised. Skittles' cat hissed at the staff. The staff hissed back.

"Shut up, staff," Anakron said matter of factly.

"You can't say that matter of factly," the cat on the staff said back.

"Shut up anyway," Anakron growled.

"You should konvay DoggISM on yourself, you evil man you," said the cat on the staff.

Anakron rolled his eyes and ignored the cat.

"What are you staring at?" he demanded of Skittles. He was feeling ready to konvay the aitch ee double toothpicks out of anyone who crossed him, and was hoping Skittles would. Just for the fun of it. Evil was supposed to be fun, he thought, so he had decided to make the best of it.

[Celuien]

Sounds of singing, laughter, and rejoicing resounded in the depths of the Valley of the Hippies. Somewhere among the gathered celebrants, a woman sitting crosslegged on the ground in a flowing skirt, peasant blouse and Birkenstocks tied a wreath of wildflowers into her hair like a crown. She looked strangely like Panakeia. On second thought, it might have been noted that the resemblence wasn't strange at all. She was Panakeia.

She had been happy during her stay. It was true that she heard strange noises by night, and that in the morning there were large footprints outside where a herd of large animals trampled the ground. But no harm had come to her once, so Panakeia was content.

Across from her, a trio was trying to write a song.

How many weeks can a sandbox exist
Before it is filled up by fleas?
Yes, 'n' how many years must coffee exist
Before they learn to drink tea?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head
Before he just gets dizzy?

The answer, I said, is hidden in the sand
The answer is hidden in the sand.

"Well, what do you think?"

Panakeia shook her head. "I don't know..."

"I know. We need something to protest. Can't write a good song without a protest."

A light bulb went off over Panakeia's head, or would have gone off had such a device been suspended in that position.

"I've got it! Let's go to Lûndûn. We'll have a protest against the establishment, the Blue Istari, the Grand Anakronist and everything!"

Cheers went up. There was a great movement of scurrying into battered buses and soon, a large party was Lûndûn bound.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog twisted and turned but the creature would not let go of him. It was tall, probably about nine foot in height, with long branch like growths poking out of him every couple of inches. From head to tow, he was covered in swamp slime. On each foot he had eight root-like tows that seemed to grip the ground like an old soggy sock. His legs were long trunk-like poles that seemed to have no bend or knee at all, but shot up straight into his torso. His large branch-like arms dripped with slime and frogspawn. The face was that of an old man with a long beard of leaves that hung down to the ground where small orc children had been caught and strangled and lost to the world eons ago.

"And what," said the creature, "might you be? A Dwarf? With an Axe?"

"No," grunted Smilog, "I'm an antelope with a pheasant." The creature's eyes widened and his mouth opened wide to reveal a black hole into nothingness, out of which came the most foul stench of rotten beans.

"You antelopes have changed," it said, but then shook itself, "wait a moment! You're lying to me aren't you?" he squeezed Smilog tightly until he became incredibly uncomfortable.

The Dwarf made vague nodding movements with his head until the creature seemed to be pleased with him. "So what," he asked, panting, "are you then? A troll with a skin problem?"

"Eh?" said the thing, "no. Not a troll. I'm an Ent, you see. A Swamp Ent, if you will, as you little folk seem bent on giving names to everything that is slightly different. Slimebeard is my name, Slimebeard will do. I look after this swamp. So, who are you and what are you about?"

Smilog did not reply immediately as he began to try and think about what it was he actually did. Besides making snide remarks at every advises meeting, he had done very little until the Mount Zoom adventure had begun. "I'm Smilog," he said at last, "I work for Roggie of Mordor. It's an awful job and I'm going to quit as soon as I get back to the mountain." Slimebeard seemed to shiver at the name of Roggie, all his leaves quivered and his eyes shut.

"You work for him?" he cried, "Well, maybe you can help me. You see, one of his assistants stole something from me and he keeps it in his office as a paperweight. It's an object of unimaginable power! It can destroy all of Middle Earth if it's not kept secret! Now with those blasted blue Wizards running around, who knows what will happen?"

"How do you know he's using it as a paperweight?" asked Smilog, momentarily ignoring the fate of Middle Earth.

"Well," said Slimebeard, before pausing again to think, "you see," he tried, but again he fell silent, "there's something about clouds involved. It doesnt matter! Just get that thing and throw it into the fire!"

"A little cliche isn't it?"

"Shut up!" Slime beard cast Smilog away towards the Mountain. Through he air he flew, hitting a family of ducks on their way to a holiday in Gondor. With a thump, the dwarf landed on the head of a Troll!

***

"Not so fast!" cried a voice from behind. Tollin turned around to see a tall, thin figure of a man, covered in cuts, bruises, seaweed and leeches. His clothes were rags and his face looked like it had been thrust down Roggie's own personal sewage system. And indeed, that was the case.

"Who the devil are you?" asked The Barrow Wight, drawing his ridiculously immaculate, golden hilted, jewel encrusted, rune covered sword. "Good gracious me, you look worse than Tom Bombadill after he's had a one too many light ales." The Barrow Wight had, on one occasion, invited old Bombadill to a party, there he had drunk too much and decided to roll around in the garden in the rain before jumping down a chimney he could not fit down and final smashing his head into an ironing board for five hours.

The man stepped over the threshold and tripped on an eggshell that was there for some reason and slammed into the floor with such force that three of his teeth fell out. "A cur-th on all egg-th!" he said. "I'm Andvari," he staggered to his feet, "I need-ss to find-ss that-ss Dwarf!"

"He's dead," said Tollin before receiving an elbow in the stomach from The Barrow Wight, "Or missing," he corrected himself, "I cant' remember which." The man's face became downcast and he seemed to have a tear in each eye. One fell to the ground where it met with some blood stains he had left earlier.

"We need-th to find him!" said Andvarri, "sss-so we can-ss find the gold!" The Barrow Wight laughed and placed his sword back in it's scabbard.

"By jove!" he cried, "that sounds like fun! Let's hop to it!"

[Anguirel]

Tangoing on your own, Bellatrix was discovering, was a boring, frustrating, and painful activity. As she writhed under the effects of her tearaway nephew's hex, she found her limbs coerced constantly upward, her legs ripped into position, and sometimes her entire body floating upwards.

Worse still, a growing crowd of Orcish spectators milled about, leering at her fishnet stockings and occasionally attempting a few hapless dance moves themselves. Bellatrix's only consolation was planning what curses to perform on them once her arms were free.

Then they started singing, and she decided the time for magic was passed. She would take her Beretta pistol from her handbag, she decided, and riddle the lisping, yodelling, tittering, lewd yet vaguely hermaphrotitic hordes with bullet-holes.

As for young Dracomir, he would face the horsewhip.

Her ruminations were interrupted by an extremely bored sounding voice from one of those convenient darkened corners that spring up in previously straight corridors at the behest of the author.

"Imperio, imperio, imperio, imperio," it muttered. "Merlin's beard, there are thirty-one of these ludicrous dolts. This is going to take forever."

"Release me, whoever you are!" Bellatrix shrieked. "Then I'll handle this lot."

"Really?" the voice replied, and the figure of a man, cloaked and hooded in black and of medium height, stepped from the shadows, of course. "But, my dear Bellatrix, I was so enjoying your dancing..."

"Oh, very amusing!" Ms Lestrange shouted back. "I'm in absolute hysterics!"

The Mysterious Figure yawned obnoxiously and non-verbally countered the Tarentallegra curse. Without a moment's pause, Bellatrix produced her gun and emptied its barrel in all possible directions. Those Orcs who had been wounded limped off looking resentful but perfectly resigned; their companions had preceded them, scarpering at the first shot that alerted them, if not to death, then to dismemberment.

Now unimpeded, Bellatrix leapt in front of the stranger and threw back his hood...

"Impatient, Bellatrix," he reproached her calmly. Her face told a tale of annoyance and disappointment.

"Snape."

"You expected someone else?" the other answered coolly.

"It doesn't matter. Look, Snape, you must be working for the Blue Istari right now?"

"Must I? Well, I suppose it is the only way to pass the time," Snape answered lethargically.

"Look, everything's gone wrong. The boy, Felton, my supposed nephew, has quitted."

Snape laughed. "How touching. But self-deluding. It's difficult for a werewolf, however angelic looking, to just hand in their resignation papers."

"We need to talk, Snape, the Ithryn Luin and I. Take me to them."

Snape raised his exquisitely camp stage villainesque eyebrows. "If that is what you want, Bellatrix." He took her hand with decision, but a mocking smile adorned his mouth as they Disapparated.

[Lhunardawen]

As the three companions continued to stand around in the wereduck-constructed tunnel, possibly with the two ambassadors looking in horror at the feathers Elrogorn had pointed to, which should be assumed was what they did in the absence of further instruction, a troubled, faraway expression came over Maika's horrified features, as though she had suddenly remembered that - for the first time in her life - she had failed to fill a save within forty-eight hours.

"Lady Maika, is something bothering you?" Hyarmenwë asked, without wondering why he bothered himself. It seemed that Maika did the wondering for him as she stirred.

"Oh..." she slowly turned to him, her eyes shifting into focus. "I, or a part of me perhaps, was inexplicably transported to and trapped in schoo--" Wait a minute, she thought, a girl my "age" is not supposed to be have anything to do with school. Hyarmenwë and Elrogorn, who had tuned in as Maika stirred, blinked at her expectantly. At the same time. Unpractised.

"Oh, you know, I suddenly had eerie visions of a torturous land of Chemistry and Calculus."

That did the trick for Hyarmenwë, apparently, for he hastily ignored her at the mention of the anakronistic words, and was suddenly fascinated with a tuft of wereduck down on which he had unknowingly stepped. Elrogorn, on the other hand, blinked again.

"But that sounds just like Mordor, doesn't it?"

Maika pretended that Elrogorn had also ignored her, in order to justify ignoring him. She had to admit to herself, though, that he had a point. Before she could start pondering on the repercussions of Elrogorn's unpremeditated wisdom, she hurried after Hyarmenwë, who took off upon realising that he should NOT be fascinated with wereduck down. Maika stole a quick glance at him once she had caught up; the look in his eyes was that of utter disappointment, masked by an utter determination not to let it show. Maika knew it, though, despite his best efforts, for she had been there with him after all.

"I'm really sorry, Hyarmenwë," she told him, for some reason feeling not quite as sincere as she sounded. "But you see, it's probably better this way. I had not the heart to mention this before, but--" she hesitated, and took a deep breath, "Boba means 'stupid girl' in Filipino."

She might as well had spoken the language for all the response she got.

"I hate to tell you this," she continued, rather insensitively, "but your daughter, she's probably d--"

"Don't say it," Hyarmenwë cut in. His eyes glinted dangerously. A clichéd cold shiver ran up Maika's spine at the sight of it; that was a side of Hyarmenwë she had never even guessed existed. She felt the need to make up for her rash remark.

"Or, or maybe," she said cautiously, "maybe I had been completely wrong in my assumption. Maybe the exiled Gondorians did not take her in. Or if they did, maybe she...she ran away."

Elrogorn gasped behind them. "Then maybe a were--"

"--duck once used this very tunnel, and has a mind to use it again." Hyarmenwë glared at his two companions, but its meaning seemed to have flown over Elrogorn's head with a woosh.

"Then maybe we should get out of here," Elrogorn said quietly yet urgently. "Come on!"

And away he ran, swiftly and lightly like the wind, and bade the two ambassadors to do likewise. But Maika might have known enough of the wonders of travelling in an RPG, and maintained her pace. Hyarmenwë was in no mood to run, either.

"Maybe we should head back to the Palace and come up with another plan, before we begin our search again," Maika kindly suggested.

Hyarmenwë sighed. "Maybe you're right."

[Formendacil]

"Maybe we should head back to the Palace and come up with another plan, before we begin our search again," Maika kindly suggested.

Hyarmenwë sighed. "Maybe you're right."

Elrogorn was not pleased. However anakronistic, improbable, and recklessly good looking he may have been (very, on all counts), he knew a lot about Wereducks.

However, before the handsome half-Elf could berate the two more serious companions with the need to depart post-haste, the sound of webbed feet padding down the tunnel behind them.

"What's that?" said Hyarmenwë, his agéd face aghast with fear. Not fear of Wereducks, so much as fear of the idea of Wereducks. Beside him, Maika stepped slightly closer to the old Gondorian.

"Flee!" hissed Elrogorn, drawing his shining blade. "Leave them to me."

Rather than bravely protesting, or fleeing immediately, Hyarmenwë edged further down the tunnel.

"Faster!" insisted Elrogorn.

Hyarmenwë, terrified and yet fascinated, glanced down the tunnel behind them, and then shuddered in horror. He grabbed Maika's arm to steady himself.

"Come, my dear," he said. "For once I completely agree with him."

Maika looked past Elrogorn, and could only agree. The sight that met her eyes was not pleasant. There were ducks. Hundreds of ducks. But they were more than just mere ducks; they were were-ducks. Their feathers were ruffled and a deep black, their eyes were a blazing red, and their bills a bright orange. And poking out of their bills were long, sharp fangs.

Maika and Hyarmenwë tore down the tunnel as fast as they could. Hyarmenwë had not moved so fast in years. He could feel his heart pounding, and wondered if he might not be wiser to face the mercy of the Wereducks than to keel over with exhaustion, but prudence said otherwise.

"Up there!" Maika shouted at him. Hyarmenwë suspected the young woman was not running as fast as possible, since she stayed close by him, and not far ahead, as she ought to have been capable. Behind them, he could heard the raucous sounds of Elrogorn and the Wereducks battling it out.

Looking up, Hyarmenwë saw that Maika was pointing at a trapdoor closed over a hole in the tunnel. Maika had already started to climb a ladder of metal rungs set in the wall, shoving open the trapdoor. Behind them, Hyarmenwë heard Elrogorn shouting at them.

"Faster! I can't hold them off!"

"It's stuck!" Maika shoved at the trapdoor unsuccessfully.

"Watch out!" shouted Elrogorn. "I'm coming too!"

Maika struggled desperately, and the trapdoor opened upwards. Shoving it out of the way, she climbed out of sight. Behind them, Elrogorn tore into sight. Hyarmenwë started to climb, feeling painfully slow.

Hyarmenwë had just climbed out of sight when Elrogorn grabbed the rungs and started climbing, the Wereducks right behind him. Hyarmenwë gave him and hand, and as soon as he was clear, Maika slammed the trapdoor shut right above the Wereducks, standing solidly on the thick wood.

"Where are we?" asked Hyarmenwë, looking around. They seemed to be outdoors, from the feel of the chill, fresh breeze, but night had fallen and there was nary a star to be seen, nor was the moon visible.

"A graveyard," said Maika, looking around at all the headstones and forboding insciptions of R.I.P (Rots In Pieces). Hyarmenwë, whose idea of a graveyard of Rath Dínen looked around queasily, wondering if this was an anakronistic place to be, but since Tolkien had not gone into detail about graveyards or tombs in The Lord of the Rings, no one offered him an answer to his unspoken question.

"Not just any graveyard," said Elrogorn darkly. "This graveyard has a long history of association with forces of evil."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Driver glared at the two Dwarves through small and shining eyes, the pupils of which were wide and completely black. Smilog cocked his head on one side and said, "So, what's supposed to be going on then?"

The Driver grinned and pointed to a large palantir on the top of the control panel, "The end is near," it said, "I have seen it. A great battle is coming; you know the sort, the kind that, if this ever gets made into a film, will involve hundreds of pounds worth of computer graphics. The kind that will shake all of Mordor. The kind of battle-"

"Yes," interrupted Khuz, "a big battle. What's that got to do with you or us?" The Driver's face turned to a frown and it sat in the chair with a sigh. Smilog peered at the Palantir, yet all that could be seen within it were swirling clouds and mists. The Driver lifted the Palantir up and presented it to the Dwarves

"See for yourselves," it said. So they lent forward with their eyes on the perfectly rounded seeing stone. The clouds dispersed and the mist cleared. There was a grave yard full of tombstones and a few tombs. The Palantir focused on one in particular; there was a group inside it looking at a body lying on a table.

There was one figure wearing a hood who seemed to have the attention of the rest of the party. A voice, faint and seeming far away, came from beneath the hood, "But of course, it all depends on what he has to live for." the hood was thrown back, this seemed very important for some of the other people there, but meant nothing to Smilog.

A wolf howled. The Area of vision shifted and looked upon a group of figures, standing above a trapdoor that was being forced from beneath; there was a look of dark foreboding upon the face of one in particular. Again, they heard a voice, on the edge of hearing, "This graveyard has a long history of association with forces of evil." Khuz's eyes widened as the Palantir shifted its gaze once again and they stared at an enormous army gathering on the plains to the south of the graveyard. The army went on and on, rank upon rank, battalion upon battalion, stretching off into the horizon like a sea of foes. The sound of a war horn filled the air before the face of Pallando flashed before the Palantir went dark.

The Driver gasped and let the seeing stone fall from her hands. Smilog placed his foot on the stone, his eyes set on The Driver, "Why did you show us this?" he asked.

"Because," The Driver rose from her chair, "what forces are gathered in the graveyard cannot defeat this army. They shall need all the help they can get. The Blue Wizards must be stopped. Why do you think I had to move the mountain? Anakron is dead, and we were so close to bringing him to the side of light. Curse those istari."

A silence fell between them, broken only by the rumblings of the Mountain. Before long, Smilog ventured, "You still havn't answered our question. Why do you need us?"

"You are Dwarves."

"Well spotted."

"Do you know of the clan of Gadol?" The Driver lent forward, casting a shadow over the Dwarves. She peered into their eyes, one by one, perhaps this was some kind of Mordorian tradition that they were both unaware of. The Dwarves shook their respective heads. "The Clan of Gadol dwell in the Ash Mountains. Long they have been there since the fall of Sauron. Secret and safe. A mighty force they are. Perhaps the edge we shall need in this war. That is why we need you two."

"So, you want us to take a message?" asked Smilog hopefully.

"Nay." Laughed The Driver solemnly, "Nay. They will not let you in. They have a Palantir and have seen this army, but they are proud and think it of no consequence to Dwarven kind. If they see one, or even two, Dwarves in the battle, then they shall open their gates and pour into that grave yard like a flood!"

***

Mount Zoom sunk into the distance, though it's stench followed Tollin and The Barrow Wight for many miles. One thing could be said for Roggie's rule of Mordor, there definitely were more road signs. A tall pillar stood in the centre of the cross roads with signs pointing in each direction, including one that simply said, 'Graveyard'. Feeling satisfied, the odd duo followed the path with long steps to save on time.

Tollin suddenly stopped and turned his head to the south. He pointed away with his morning star. "Do you see that?" he asked, pointing at an enormous black shade among the lighter black shades.

"That mass of black things stretching into the horizon?"

"Yes."

"Yes, I do see it. Looks jolly foreboding, doesnt it old boy?"

"Indeed." They marched on, the stench of death becoming more poignant as they neared the graveyard. There was a sound of shouting and banging, like that of an group of angry drunks trying to break down a door. The iron gate of the Graveyard hung open, but not inviting, if anything it told you, 'this is exactly the kind of place your mother told you that you would end up if you didn't stop misbehaving'.

Slowly, they walked into the cemetery with absolutely no feelings of joy about the fact other than, at least they weren't in Mount Zoom. A trio stood above a trap door, the sound of fierce quacking coming from underneath; the thumping continued ominously similar to a heart beat.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight, drawing his unnecesarily over decorative Sword.

[Diamond18]

Skittles wandered up to the foreboding gates of the gothic cemetary, sipping on a banana grape slurpie. She had grown bored back at Mount Doom, as everyone seemed to be leaving for more adventures, and explaining the intricacies of Tolkienism to Hissyfit had soon grown boring. It seemed that the mojo Anakron had slapped on her wore off with her multiple shifts in personality, and she had suddenly forgotten exactly what it was she had been going on about.

"Hissyfit," she had said, "where did everyone go?"

"I dunno," Hissyfit had replied. "I fell asleep two hours ago." Here she paused to yawn and scratch herself.

Just then, Skittles' cellphone beeped, alerting her to the fact that a text message was arriving. The message was from Ali, and the important bits were highlighted in red letters, which caught even Skittles' ADD addled attention.

"Let's go to an unnamed graveyard and have some fun, eh wot?" she said to Hissyfit, and Hissyfit, knowing that rats and rabbits and other assorted vermin liked to burrow under crypts, agreed.

Here endeth the flashback.

Skittles looked up at the massive gateway leading into the graveyard. A raven sat perched on one wrought iron finial, croaking out a warning before taking off in a flutter of black wings. Hissyfit, who had been contemplating climbing the fence and eating the bird, sighed.

"So this is the graveyard," said Skittles. "Eh."

She tossed her now empty slurpie cup in the trash bin (ominously marked: please do not litter or you will be chopped up into little bits and used to fertilize the flowers) and pushed the gate open. A chill wind whistled down between the headstones and blew Skittle's jet black hair away from her pale white face. "Thank you, chill wind, for reminding everyone of my basic coloring," she said, cheerfully. "Come along, Hissyfit, let's see what's shaking."

[Celuien]

Mordor had a strange way of bringing about unexpected events in the least expected (and usually least convenient) ways. Phizzick's sudden reappearance out of Panakeia's nearly forgotten days in Harad was the proof to that rule. Phizzick. Panakeia had not even thought of him since she was a lass of seventeen sitting on the veranda at her lost childhood home.

Nearly wed? Surely he exaggerated the entire situation. Panakeia recalled a slightly different scenario in which Phizzick, only a few months older than she, had joking asked for her hand, and she had just as jokingly (and with dazzling teenage coquettish charm) accepted him on the condition that he bring her an ice cream cone. There had been no ice cream, but a silly romance had followed. Just as she had once had so many other flirtations in her earlier days. But it seemed that Phizzick had taken things more seriously, building it into a drama worthy of any soap opera instead of the light-hearted society fluff their former association had been.

Still, Phizzick's story was what it was and now was not the time to have a full argument. Not with Anakron's life hanging in the balance.

Panakeia replied hesitantly. "It's been a long time, Phizzick."

"It has. But you still haven't answered my question. What does your mostly dead friend have to live for?"

From the tomb's center, there came a sound. Low and muffled, but distinct, and in Anakron's voice.

"Trruuueeeeee loooovvvvvveeeeeeeee."

Panakeia gasped. "He spoke! He's alive!" Her spirits soared. "And he wants to live for..."

"Blue gloves." Phizzick broke in to complete the sentence. "Not much to live for, if you ask me. He's obviously talking about those Blue Wizards, and if there's anything I hate, it's the Blue Wizards. Especially since they fired me."

"That's not what he said! He said true love. You all heard him." In nodded. "The wizards fired you?" Panakeia asked.

"They did. Said my magic wasn't quite up to snuff. My cures kept going wrong. Pack of lies. All I needed was a good MLT - mutton, lettuce and tomato. It's great. You ought to have one sometime."

"Maybe. But, Phizzick, please. Help Anakron. You heard him. True love. It's a wonderful thing to have. And he doesn't like the Istari either. That's how he got into this mess to begin with."

Phizzick squinted at her. "You're right. True love is a great thing. I know." He squinted harder, and Panakeia held her breath, terrified that he would accuse her of breaking his heart. "And as much as we're alike with our cures and all, that's why I'm glad we split up. I'd never have found my wife otherwise."

Waves of relief rushed over Panakeia. It was alright between them after all.

Phizzick kept talking. "Yes. What's it been? Almost thirty years now? Must be. But you say it's true love?"

"Yes. It is."

"Well, well. Can't let anything get in the way of that." He began to rummage through his pockets. "Let's see. MLT wrapper. Not that. And another MLT wrapper. Hmm. Where is it? Ah! Here it is!" He held out a shiny golden package in his palm.

"A chocolate?" Panakeia raised an eyebrow, recalling her own dubious cures.

"Not just any chocolate. This has something special. Practically guaranteed to revive the slightly alive part of anyone."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Then he's no worse off than he was before. What have you got to lose?"

That was true. Panakeia unwrapped the candy and put it in Anakron's mouth. Then, unable to bear the suspense, she turned and leant with her forehead against the wall of the crypt.

Startled gasps came from the three watchers. Then footsteps. Footsteps in Panakeia's direction. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a balding, bespectacled man with a huge grin under his beard.

"Hi. Good to see you again. Well, as me. I've been here all long, you know." He winked.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Much as he had always disliked Mordorian architecture, the sight of the crumbled ruins of the inner halls of Mount Doom palace and casino was something Smilog could not quite stomach. His father hobbled along beside him with an over sized walking stick in his hand. "So, this is what became of Project Zoom?" wheezed the old Dwarf, "a casino indeed! What on earth was Roggie thinking?"

"That it would be a good idea?" Smilog ventured,

"You do know why it was built, don't you?" The old dwarf, stopped and lit a pipe. The hall was wide and high, archways were placed every twenty yards. Though it was dimly lit with small torches, the ceiling could not be seen. Gargoyles were carved into the archways, Orc faces and Orc writing was scrawled all over them. The echo of Smilog's feet continued long after he stopped walking.

"Sauron built it," he at last answered, "For the war. He didn't have the technology to make it move."

"So, why do you think it moves now?" The old dwarf blew a large smoke ring above his son's head.

Smilog scratched his beard while peering upwards. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "The same reason that all this other weird stuff is happening, I would guess." Smilog's father, who, I should point out, was named Khuzdnargûn, 'Khuz' to his friends, took a few paces forwards and turned around so that he faced his son.

"But why now?" he pressed, "Why not the last time the Anakronism was at large? Think!"

"Can't I go and have a lie down first?

"No!"

"Well," Smilog sat on the floor, his head in his hands and his eyes closed. "The Blue Wizards must be using it." Khuz shook his head, "Then whom?"

"It is not for the Blue wizards that the mountain had to move," said Khuz, "if anything, it has them annoyed. Anakron is up to something and the depths of Doom are the key! Beneath Mount Doom, there lies a secret. Ever since the One Ring went into the fire, the magma has been unpredictable and wild. When I was working on project zoom, a great earthquake stopped us and all we found in the depths was a small paperweight. We buried it as far down as we could. I doubt if the Blue wizards are aware of it... but the further away from the depths of doom we are. The better."

"Ah." said Smilog, "there may be a problem."

"What?"

"Roggie has the paperweight."

***

The tentacles gripped Tollin's led and the Barrow Wight's neck. Frantically, Tollin grabbed his morning star and swung it at the snakes. There was a cry, but the grip just grew stronger. The Barrow Wight drew his sword and began hacking away; he managed to cut off three tentacles, but more leaped out of the clothing and knocked him to the ground. The Watcher in the Washer laughed and waved two great tentacles in the air triumphantly.

"You see!" it cried, "no one leaves!" Tollin, grabbed The Barrow Wight's tinderbox, which had fallen to the ground, and threw it in the general direction of the voice. There was a screech and the sound of scratching before, finally, the tentacles recoiled and a massive pile of clothes burst into flame.

The great bulk of the Watcher lifted up from behind a pile of clothes. It seemed to be a squid made almost entirely of shoes. It picked up a wardrobe with its tentacles and cast it towards the stunned pair. Diving out of the way, Tollin and The Barrow Wight narrowly avoided some fatal splinters. It made a strange gurgling in it's throat and then whipped some snake-like fingers around their weapons, dragging them away.

Tollin stared blankly at The Barrow Wight as the Watcher drew nearer, laughing. The Barrow Wight fumbled in his pockets, finding nothing but empty wine bottles and corks full of maggots. All of a sudden, his hand landed upon something the shape of a Rhino's head. He took out the paperweight and looked at it in his hand.

"What are you doing?" screamed Tollin. But before anyone could say, 'Orcs in a barrel', The Barrow Wight threw the paperweight at the Watcher. The creature exploded. Literally. A great chasm opened up where the thing once was, and green slime now covered the walls. The Barrow Wight tip towed up to the chasm and peered in. On a ledge, just at arm's length, the Rhino's head stared at him, grinning.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight.

[Celuien]

What a self-absorbed jerk, Panakeia thought as she pushed into the crowd of protestors, hurrying to regain her position at the mob's head. I have bigger fish to fry. Blue fish. She grinned.

It was a long march to White-all. Panakeia began to think that they group would never reach it in time to have a proper protest. She was right in thinking that the destination would never be attained, but the reason turned out to be most unexpected. As the WereHippies rounded a bend, the objects of their protest appeared directly ahead of them.

"Look! Look!" Panakeia shrieked. "It's the Istari themselves." Boos and a few shouts of "Istari, go home!" answered her announcement.

Pallando stepped forward. "Hello, Panakeia," he said.

Alatar was just behind, smirking evilly. "You haven't been doing your job, have you?" he added.

"Job? Of course I'm doing my job. Getting rid of you!" She shouted gleefully, and the WereHippies cheered.

"You fool," Pallando jeered. "Do you really think this protest matters to us? It exists only through our power, mishandled as it was by our late employee. We can be rid of it as easily as we were rid of him." He pointed a staff - the Grand Anakronist's staff, Panakeia noted in sudden alarm, but why? - at the crowd. In that moment the various ISMs that had afflicted the group were taken away.

Realizing that their lyco-hippo-thropISM was gone, the no-longer-were Hippies shouted for joy. "Hurray for Panakeia! We're cured. She led us to our cure."

But Panakeia, no longer filled with ISMs, found no happiness. The meaning of a few of the Istari's words began to frighten her. Late employee, they had said. And Pallando now wielded Anakron's staff.

"What did you mean by late employee?" she asked. "Late as in fired? Quit?"

"Dead."

"Dead? You...you...monster!" She flew at Pallando, only held back from clawing the wizard by a nearby hippie.

"Do not dare show your temper to me, unless you wish to meet the same fate," he hissed. "For now, I will let it pass." He smirked while Panakeia tearfully glowered at him. "If it gives you comfort, know that his last thought was to leave Mordor. He gave up the staff. Perhaps you can make his last wish come true and take him away from here, if only after death."

The wizards strode away. Panakeia gazed after them blankly, then turned and ran back toward the site of her last meeting with Anakron, followed at a short distance by two of the more sympathetic hippies.

[Celuien]

The protest march had only gone a little way Speakeasy Corner when they were intercepted by the Blue Istari. A few turns past the Mottled Arch (or whatever it was called - Panakeia was far too distracted by the dreadful news she had just heard to remember properly) had been the total of their journey. But even that brief distance seemed to be greater than the ends of the world to our heroine in her rush to return. She hoped - dimly, it is true, but with all the hope she could find in her heart - that the Istari had only been having a cruel joke and that she would find Anakron alive. They might have been joking. It was certain that Anakron had finally given up his role as Grand Anakronist. The wizards might have found it amusing to torment her with false news of Anakron's death out of some twisted idea of revenge on her for leading him to that decision. Panakeia told herself that must have been the case. She had not parted with Anakron on good terms, and the thought of never being able to tell her one true love the right of things (if he were actually dead) was unbearable.

Out of breath and filled with anxiety for Anakron, Panakeia rushed into Speakeasy Corner. Anakron wasn't there. A deep sigh escaped her and she whispered, "Not here. They must have been joking. He's not here."

But then loud sniffles and wailing came from behind a tree. Panakeia looked up and spotted Lûgnût noisily blowing his/her/its nose into a pink and yellow checked handkerchief. In that same moment, Lûgnût spotted Panakeia and ran over blubbering.

"He's dead. The Gee-Ay is dead. What will I do?" Finding the handkerchief soaked through, s/he grabbed a flowing flap of Panakeia's sleeve and rubbed its eyes.

Feeling as though she had been crushed under all the weight of the Spam walls of Potted Ham Court Station, Panakeia stood speechless and numb. All was lost, then. Lûgnût sniffled.

"Where is he?" she finally managed to ask.

"I made all the arrangements," Lûgnût hiccoughed. "They came and took him off to...to...bury him." S/he sobbed again.

His last thought was to leave Mordor. Panakeia recalled those words. And now Anakron would be here forever. She couldn't allow it

"No!" she cried. "Not here. Not here. He wanted to leave. He should go back to Umbar." Then, grief catching up with her once more, she joined Lûgnût in tears.

"But it's too late," Lûgnût whimpered.

Then a tap on the shoulder caused Panakeia to whirl around. The two hippies - or former hippies, for when the ISMs were dispelled, these two seemed to have abandoned their counter-cultural appearance as well - had caught up with her. Panakeia glared at the shorter of the two, who had tapped her while the other looked down from his great height.

"Excuse me," the first said with a bow. He spoke with a slight accent.

"Yes?" she stared coldly through her tears.

"I could not help but overhear. You are in need of help?" Panakeia nodded, and he bowed again. "We will help you. My friend and I. Maybe your Anakron is not dead."

Lûgnût broke in. "He is."

"We do not know this. He had much to live for." Another slight bow was offered to Panakeia. "Even if he is, we will help you to bring his remains from this place."

Panakeia looked suspiciously at the pair through tear-stained lashes. "Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is In Ego Toyota and I will aid you. Come, we have many plans to make."

The four huddled together in a corner to think, until, with their plans settled at last, they set off in search of Anakron.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The dimly lit halls, ruined and lamentable to look upon, loomed over the two Dwarves as they paced with hastening steps. Khuz held up a hand and they both stopped, the old Dwarf lent heavily on his staff and breathed like a marathon runner who, after letting himself go a bit, tries his hand at the old sport. Smilog looked upwards at the ceiling; it was full of holes and covered in filth, yet still seemed strong enough to hold for a while at least.

Khuz began walking again, his trembling hands gripping his staff as if it were his only way of keeping alive. A shiver ran through the mountain, the walls began to shake, the ceiling let fall many tiles and chandeliers plummeted to the floor. Gripping his father's arm, Smilog dashed towards the nearest small room. Yet as he approached, a beam of wood fell across the entrance and splinters flew towards the duo.

The Dwarves threw themselves to the floor and covered their heads, awaiting only death. However, soon enough, the shaking stopped and all was calm once again. Covered in dust, Smilog raised his head and opened his eyes slowly. Two tall cloaked figures stood before him, one had a long wooden staff pointed towards Smilog's head. The other just stood there grinning.

"Good evening," said the one with the staff,

"Actually," said Khuz, standing up and dragging Smilog to his feet, "it's three in the morning." The Blue Istari cocked their heads simultaneously in a manner that made the dwarves take a step back.

"We are well aware of the time," Pallando grinned and lifted his staff to plant it on the ground as he would when walking. He nodded to his companion and they grinned grins that made professional grinners grin less. Alatar, the shorter of the two, drew a long sword from beneath his robe. "You are not needed, Dwarf," Pallando continued, "and so, we will..." he looked up and raised an eyebrow, "... kill you."

"Is that it?" said Khuz,

"Isn't that enough?" asked a rather startled Alatar

"Well, 'kill' has never been your style has it? Its always been, 'disemboweling' and 'inhumeing' and goodness knows what else. but 'Kill' oh no. Surely you can think of something better than 'kill'."

"Erm..." said Pallando, "give us a minuet..." the two wizards turned their backs on the dwarves and began a heated, yet whispered argument. Occasionally they glanced back at the dwarves. Eventually, Pallando turned back to face them and said, "We've decided to 'un-life' you." there was a pause before the wizards angrily turned back to their debate.

Smilog slowly lifted his axe from his belt, glancing between his father and the wizards, being careful not to make any sudden movements. Unfortunately, his hands slipped and his axe dropped to the floor with a clatter. The two wizards turned around dramatically, their robes flowing in the temporary gust they made for themselves.

"You'll be pleased to know," began Alatar, "that we are going to... Exterminate you!" Then they picked up their staffs and held them towards the Dwarves shouting, "Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!"

***

"Well, I think that door is a 'no'", said Tollin as he and his undead companion left Sauron's wardrobe and began walking through the many corridors of Mount Zoom. To their utter and lasting astonishment, there were still some Orcs gambling in the casinos, some were streaked with blood and sweat, but that was normal for this place, even when the Mountain wasn't moving.

While the matters of gambling Orcs covered their minds, the Mountain began to shake once again. With swift movements, Tollin made his way to the nearest window and looked out. "I say! What can you see Old Bean?" shouted The Barrow Wight, "is it good news?" Tollin scowled at him.

"Of course not!" shouted the minotaur, "The Mountain is erupting! Either that or it's going to set off again."

"Gosh," mumbled the Wight, trying to stand up straight. Yet it was in vain for, all of a sudden, the floor crumbled beneath their feet. With shouts, they fell through three levels until landing curiously on a soft feather mattress covered in burns marks and ashes. The shaking finished and the duo found themselves surrounded by dust and settling ceiling fragments.

Tollin coughed heavily in his throat, the Barrow Wight merely coughed a smoker's cough before pulling out his pipe and lighting it. "What are the chances of that, old chap?" he asked, "Question is, what Blighter has a bed in this Mountain?"

"Well," began Tollin, "judging by all burns and evidence of fire, either a pyromaniac or Roggie." The Barrow Wight nodded and looked at all of the cupboards that now became visible. He wandered over to one and pulled on the handle, but it would not open. Cursing he took out his sword and sliced through the wood, leaving a pile of filthy ties on the floor.

"Blast, no wine," he mopped.

"Come on," said Tollin, "wine is the least of our worries. We'd better find a way out of this Mountain and then see if we can get to somewhere civilised."

"Yes, I should like to get back to my Barrow." mused the Wight, failing to notice how Tollin hand vanished with a crash and how there was now a hole in the floor. "You see, there is something quintessentially jolly about a-" and he fell down the hole.

***

"Exterminate!" Cried Pallando as a large, hairy Minotaur fell on him, ploughing him into the rock flooring. Alatar leappad back and watched a corpse that seemed to glow green follow the Minotaur onto Pallando's head. Before anyone could say, "what's going on?" the two Dwarves were scampering off through the far end of the corridor.

Pallando threw Tollin and The Barrow Wight off him and looked around the room, "Where have they gone?" he demanded, Alatar shrugged, "oh, who cares, let's go to a grave yard, I need cheering up." The Wizards vanished in a flash.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli had absolutely no inclination to be here. She never asked for this. She didn't want the dreams, the drama, or even, any more, the job. She'd had a nice, if toasty, job winging balrogs and yeah, it wasn't perfect, and yeah, she had to deal with admins all the time, and not all of the balrogs were as friendly as Roggie, but seriously, she was always warm, she could pay her phone bill when it came, not just in terms of 'please, please pay it for me and I'll owe you, I don't get paid for another two weeks and Eru, I only have sixty minutes left this billing cycle and that doesn't end for another month and seriously, this poor stude-- I mean spymaster thing really isn't working for me,' but in terms of "Oh, a bill, okay, I'll write a check." She was warm, had steady pay, had a few good friends, could wear leather every single day without it being a fashion statement, AND she could say anything without compromising national security.

But noooooo, she had to get chosen for that confounded Escape from Mordor plot, and nooooo, she just had to end up falling in lov-- I mean getting a bit of a crush on some stupid guy that ended up being a King somewhere, and she just had to end up taking a job for a friend that got her in all kinds of trouble, angered wizards, t'd off werewolves, and had her curled up in a cemetery with bills to pay, no tea, people chasing her, and a lot of politicians in her every day life.

Last time she did a favor for a friend, she thought, looking around, listening to strategically ominous howling, and looked up at the moon.

Full.

"Eru!" she shouted to the moon. Aimè hurried to hush her, looking toward the are-you-sure-they-aren't-hyenas? howls, pulling her into a tomb so at least they'd have solid stone at their backs when the battle came. Because she was a Seer and he was a Hunter, or was he a Ranger? But either way werewolves didn't like them, and were guaranteed to seek for them at night, and it was night, and thunder boomed across the cloudless sky.

"Illamatar!" she cried. "Speak to me, you miserable creature!"

"Alli," he panicked, "Blasphemy..."

She turned on him. "Aimè, I DO NOT HIDE. I don't hide. And I can't see a thing in here."

He couldn't tell if she was being literal. It was pitch black spotted with darker shadows of even pitch blacker in the tomb, and he had a disconcerting idea that he was sitting on something dead.

"Illamatar, now would be a good time for guidance, what with the Fate of Mordor resting on my shoulders." She could only hope the war she simply Knew was brewing could be forestalled, just like in a story. Except, she reflected, this isn't a story. "Illamatar, you know THERE HAS TO BE A WAR because OTHERWISE LIFE IS TOO PREDICTABLE. You know that the ADVISORS have to somehow end up in this cemetery WITH ADVERSARIES ON ALL SIDES because this is real life and the climactic moments require a lot of UNHAPPY PEOPLE with grudges and you know that you're going to have to, ILLAMATAR, STEP IN AND SAVE THE DAY."

There was no response.

Alli sat moodily in the tomb, thinking of her phone bill, thinking of a lot of people on their way to CERTAIN DOOM in the cemetery, thinking of how Mordor was falling to ruin, thinking of how annoying it was that Roggie and Mardil couldn't just get along, and thinking how now wouldn't quite be the right timing for Eru to respond, given that it was just in the point of the story where she was supposed to say, and did:

"Well, it's not like it can get any worse."

[Anguirel]

Dracomir was becoming rapidly bored by wasting his time in the presence of the boorish Frej and the disdainful Lola. When Frej began playing with his hair and singing, however, he stopped being bored and became bloodwhimperingly furious.

He endured, cold and silent, Frej's cacophonous ballad and pompous expostulations, and then turned away. Lola glanced after him, quizzical but mocking, yet her young swain did not rise to the bait and left without another pause.

Even had he felt like talking as he left the office, he would not have been able to. His passionate rage locked his tongue behind his teeth. His tread was becoming heavier, the determined grimness of his gaze ever more implacable...

Tom Felton was off to fulfil his appointment with Alli, long ago made, and other business called him too. As he loped into the cold air of the castle's parapet, his keen ears heard the far-off, echoing sound of the howl of a wolf...and, running his hand through his extending, darkening hair, he re-echoed it.

The wolf dashed along the rampart to one of the western side-gates, slipped through an ill-maintained portcullis and left the Castle of Roggie, and Mount Doom itself, behind it.