ATM II RPG

[the guy who be short]

Alli dismounted her vehicle, leaving it parked inconveniently in the middle of nowhere, and led the trio away. They walked in silence, Alli slightly ahead and the others trailing behind, for perhaps five minutes.

"How much further is it, pray?" Bearugard voiced. "We are not accustomed to lengthy walks."

"This is hardly lengthy," Alli replied without looking back. "Still... we should have been there by now."

Her voice belied no insecurity, but a small wave of panic rushed over the three Gondorians. What if even their guide were lost in these lands?

"Ah, there it is after all," she said, pointing to a small tavern. The three gazed at it. It seemed like an oasis of rationality in this nation of nonsense. The pub sign showed a small hammer. The roof was low and thatched, the walls wattled, the door solidly wooden of Gondorian stock. This could be a home away from home. Never mind the casino to the left and the school to the right (Gondorian children these days were denied education as a matter of course).

They entered the building. Angawen at least could not help but expect the interior to be horribly perverted in some Mordorian way - such was the nature of Mordor. It could not possibly possess something so Gondorian. But the innards of the building reflected its outer appearance.

Alli smiled at the Gondorians before choosing a seat. Bearugard and Hyarmenwë smiled back, clearly relaxing.

Angawen pursed her lips. Nothing in Mordor could be this normal. She looked around suspiciously. She awaited something - she didn't know what; perhaps an event, or a person, or an object - that would thwart the normalcy around her. But nothing seemed forthcoming.

Reluctantly, she settled into her chair and tuned in to the conversation.

"-want to order?" Alli finished.

[JennyHallu]

"Aren't you a bit domineering for a chorus-girl? It doesn't suit you, m'dear. What you need is some old-fashioned patriarchal treatment-someone should, oh, I don't know, carry you off on horseback and imprison you on some desolate farm, guarded by a wise-cracking cynic and a gentle giant. That ought to drill some winsome submission into you..."

Lola lifted an eyebrow delicately in Dracomir's direction as she walked down the dim passage way, heels clicking against the stone floor.

"Aww...," she said, reaching over and pinching his cheek, as one might a child's. "You're such a cutie, baby..."

She let him go, ignoring the look of outraged pride on his thin face, her gaze returning to their path. "And you've been living in Gondor far too long. You're home now! Back in Mordor! Don't you remember rampant feminism?" Or are you too caught up in old-fashioned male chauvinism? she thought.

"Besides," she continued, accompanying this statement with a toss of her honey-blond mane. "I'm not a chorus-girl. I'm a Diva."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"There it is!" cried Smilog, as the helicopter got closer, sending dust and ash flying all around, "Lets get there quick!" they all dashed over the rocks and boulders towards the Road Sauron had made to the Crack of DOOM! Smilog slipped down a small pseudo cliff and scrapped his knee, but Tollin and Roggie leaped over him and almost didn't notice him. Eventually, Tollin picked up the Dwarf and ran towards the road.

The helicopter swooped down and officer Jim hung out of the side holding a large machine gun and proceeded to fire randomly towards the three. Fortunately, the dust cloud had made it almost impossible to be able to aim properly, but he still managed to hit Smilog in the shoulder. Roggie turned to look towards the helicopter, he then stretched forth his shadow in order to further hide them from sight.

At that moment, a large black creature screeched through the air, breaking the glass of the helicopter. It was a great shadow, and it descended like a falling cloud. It was a winged creature: if bird, then greater than all other birds, and it was naked, and neither quill nor feather did it bear, and its vast pinions were as webs of hide between horned fingers; and it stank. A creature of an older world maybe it was, whose kind, lingering in forgotten mountains cold beneath the Moon, outstayed their day, and in hideous eyrie bred this last untimely brood, apt to evil.

It swooped down and picked up Roggie and Tollin (who was holding Smilog) and lifted them up into the sky, just past the police copter. Further and further they went up into the sky, Mount Zoom becoming smaller below them and the Police slowly following. They broke through the clouds and there beheld a sight they thought they would never see.

High and jagged marble walls and a large terrible tower, all seemed illuminated by a strange pale moonlight. Paler indeed than the moon ailing in some slow eclipse, was the light of it, wavering and blowing like a noisesom exhilaration of decay, a corpse-light, a light illuminated by nothing. In the walls and tower windows showed, like countless black holes looking inwards into emptiness; but the topmost course of the tower revolved slowly, first one way, then another, a huge ghostly head, leering into the night. In its four corners were great wires leading up and up towards the nine (or eight at the moment) fell beasts of the Nazgûl

This was Minas Mor-go, in flight and as terrible as ever. Smilog gulped and hid his face from the sight as the ninth beast flew right into the city and set them down. They were in a darkened street, empty and stinking of death and doom. Slowly, Roggie rose and peered around, not looking too pleased with the situation. All of a sudden, "Here," said a voice, deep and cold, which seemed to come out of the ground, "I am waiting for you!"

"Who are you?" asked Tollin, taking his Morning Star in hand, "Where are you? What are you? So on and so forth!" There was no reply at first, only a dead, sleepless silence, like the uncomfortable silence after mistaking your spouse’s grandfather for your grandmother. Then a large, green skinned, rotten figure rose from a hole in the ground. Or, rather, half rose and got stuck in the middle.

"Ah, not again!" it said, "You couldn't give me a hand, could you?" They did and saw that it was a man, but dead and rotten, with armour of the numenorians. "Thank you," he continued when he had dusted himself off, "I am a Barrow Wight!" Smilog walked up to him and examined his golden apparel.

"Smilog the Dwarf," he said, "at your service." The Barrow Wight slapped the dwarf across the face and then drew back.

"Sorry, old chap," said the confused Wight, "I don't know why I did that." Just then, the Police helicopter flew over the city and the Barrow Wight lead them into the tower. They went to the top where there were a series of controls. The Wight took the helm and began to drive the city through the air. The control room had windows looking in every direction. The city zoomed over the clouds while being chased by the Police. Gunshots could be heard and bits of marble chipped off and the Barrow Wight cursed. They flew down towards the beach and the LA Sea. Over the water they flew at inconsolable speed while the police copter still remained hot on their tail.

The Barrow Wight made a violent turn on the controls and the city turned smoothly around and then began to fly back up again. The police were left behind for a moment before they too flew upwards. The city climbed almost vertically and Tollin nearly fell out of a window. The City glided up and down across the LA skyline, twisting and turning between buildings while the Police copter remained on their tale. Swiftly, the Wight moved the controls back, moving the city up and up, getting steeper, they sent so steep that the city went upside down and ended up behind the police copter.

With a wide smirk, the Barrow Wight flipped open a small box to his side and pressed the button it revealed. Small goblins were fired out of catapults toward the copter, smashing through its metal work and sending the blue flying machine into the sea. Moving faster than lighting, the Wight moved the city back above the clouds and turned it around and began to descend back towards Mount Zoom.

"Sorry about that, chaps," said the Wight, "jolly good show, though, don't you think?"

"I think I'm going to be sick," said Smilog.

“Why help us?” asked Roggie, “and what are you doing in Minas Mor-go? Isn’t it the Witch King’s vehicle?”

“Well, my dear old thing,” coughed the Wight, “the Witch King was destroyed at Pelenor. After the war of the Ring, Morgul was left mostly ignored by the Gondorians. Yes, they occasionally came for visits, but in the end they forgot about its full power! But we Barrow Wights, while on a holiday, came across it and tried to see if the legends were true, that this marvellous thing could be used as a racing machine. We got together some fell beasts, some wire and tally ho! We were off! But we wanted to use the Mor-go machine for good.”

“Do you know of project zoom?” asked Smilog,

“Of course, old bean! That’s why we were following it. We wanted to destroy all the Zoom projects around Middle Earth (ending with this thing, obviously) in case they fell into the wrong hands. Already we have gotten rid of Minas Tax, Medel Zoom, Orth Tank and last week we did Barad dash! Mount Zoom was the prise, my dear fellow! We were just getting ready to work on it, when it up and rolled away! We did the only thing we could, we got our Mor go out and chased it all the way here.”

“But why did you rescue us?” asked Roggie, “thank you for that, by the way.”

“Oh, not at all, my dear fellow,” the Wight pored himself some tea, “I knew it was you, Roggie, who was running the casino and that in the Mountain. And you, Smilog, I knew about your father, of course. Poor thing. Anyway, we got here just in time it seems. Who is driving the Zoom project?”

“We do not know,” answered Tollin, “we are trying to find out. We need to get ot the crack of doom before it’s too late!”

“Then you had better take these,” said the Wight, signalling to another who had just entered. He gave them strange packs. “Just pull the little string there and you’ll glide down to the Mountain. Have a jolly, trip! Tally ho!”

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Door opened with a creak and Smilog fell forwards into the Audience chamber, his helm fell off and rolled off under a table. He crawled after it and bumped his head on the table; he cursed the table and its entire family. Funnily enough, at that moment, the two trees closes to the tree this table had come from that were becoming entish, won the Fangorn Lottery. They later became great landowners in the west fold and lived in a giant house made of meat.

"Who are you?" said Roggie, looking at the dwarf as he rubbed his head and mumbled curses at the table, to no avail. Skittles stood nearby, ignoring all of this madness, which was odd, one would expect Skittles to revel in the Madness. Smilog put it down to Tollin's lack of showers in the last four hundred years.

"What do you mean?" grumbled Smilog, sitting on the floor, "We were just on a little mis adventure together. To the Crack of DOOM!" Roggie looked blankly at him, "I'm Smilog!" No reaction, "I passed you the salt that one time." he conceded and Roggie smiled.

"Oh, I remember you," he said, "Well, you'd better be leaving now. I don't need any salt. Tollin, take him away would you?"

"You miserable little-" shouted Smilog before a strange fellow on a broomstick flew in and whacked Smilog on the head, smashing him against the wall and knocking him unconscious.

"Melifluous greetings to Your Most Admirable, Balrogic, Courageous, Dashing, Energetic, Famous, Gracious, Honourable, Intelligent, Jocular, Kingly, Liberal, Magnificent, Notable, Omniscient, Powerful, Questioning, Righteous, Serene, Terrific, Universal, Valiant, Wise, Xenial, Ying-Yang-balanced and Zygological Majesty," said the mysterious person who had opened the door. Roggie stood a little bemused, then a little amused, and then bemused again.

The Barrow Wight lent against the wall, puffing on his pipe and humming a little tune, to company himself. To many of you, it may have sounded like 'Rule Britania' but it was in actual fact the theme tune to a popular Barrow Downs Palantirvision talk show hosted by Wormtong. The Wight walked over to Roggie and lit his pipe again, using a flame from the Balrog's back. "Tally ho," he said, "I say I think that dwarf fellow is out cold, poor blighter."

"I'd sssay itss hard too getss cold in a volcanosss," said Tollin, "wakesss up missster Sssssmilog! Itsss breakfassst timess!" The Dwarf rose and wobbled around for a minuet.

"What about these negotiations, then?" stuttered the Dwarf.

[Kath]

Igör was by now completely confused. Parts of his body were still unattached and his body itself seemed to have developed the ability to be in three places at once, something he hadn't known it could do. Skittles, Maika and even that strange Lola lady had all seemed to be talking to him at the same time, although they were in completely different parts of the mountain. Fortunately it appeared that there was something called an edit, but unfortunately Igör had an eidetic brain, and couldn't forget the strange turns of time. Still, they seemed to be mostly ironed out now, and Igör had finally been left alone while everyone else ran off on some bizarre adventure.

Feeling tired of all the ways to get out of going to see Roggie, Igör limped back to the negotiation room and rummaged around in the coat he'd left there. Pulling his hand back out triumphantly he reached back to get the fingers he'd left behind, and then unfolded the map that came out with them. This place changed quite frequently, with new tunnels being built and, apparently, an engine room, but Roggie's chamber was still where it had always been.

Quickly ensuring that he wouldn't fall down any holes that might lead to more strange and mysterious lands than the one he was already in, Igör set off, purposefully ignoring any other negotiators and/or their new-found friends, and actually managed to make it to Roggie's audience room without anything distracting or potentially life-threatening befalling him, though that was probably because Skittles was still at the other end of the place. Or so he thought. Just as he went to push open the door a stomping blur appeared before him and marched right into Roggie's chambers. The knives, switchblades and other sharp objects hanging obtrusively from the blur identified it as Skittles.

As watched the door open and shut he heard a crash from within, followed by some very frantic babbling. Quietly opening the disappointing uncreaky door, Igör slipped inside, and saw Dracomir prostrate on the floor in front of the Balrog, flattering him for all he was worth, with Skittles watching from the doorway. Deciding to wait until he knew what mood Roggie was in before making his presence known Igör sank back into the shadows to watch.

Before Dracomir had had a chance to say anything however, Smilog appeared, along with another of those nasty cross-posts that gave Igör a headache. Still, he mused quietly, holding his head to stop the throbbing, at least there are three of us here now, and Skittles is never far from something interesting. As soon as Alli gets back with the Gondorians we should be good to go. Well, so long as Roggie hasn't roasted us all by then. Sighing he moved further back into the shadows to avoid the night-eyes of the Dwarf, and again settled down to observe the proceedings.

[Lhunardawen]

"Let go," snapped Maika, simultaneously snapping her sleeve off Lola's perfectly manicured fingers. It took her some effort not to continue with "you've got some cheek, after giggling at me like a maniac!" Instead she chose to run ahead; her smaller, lighter frame made it possible for her to pass Lola in a matter of milliseconds.

"Hey! Slow down! Is this your idea of a grand entrance?" Lola called behind her, slightly out of breath, but Maika ignored her and kept on running as if she was not wearing stilettos.

Roggie's audience chamber soon loomed in view, and Maika reduced her pace to a stride, straightening her clothes as she went. She heard Lola's footsteps slow down quite a long way behind her as well, doubtless mimicking her preparations. Maika sighed in relief as she reached up and felt her hair, which she thought was probably in an unfamiliar state of disarray after her antics with the chopstick, still smooth and in place.

Maika did not even have time for her usual pre-meeting with Roggie dramatics: the door leading to the audience chamber suddenly popped out to her right like a mischievous kid out to give her a heart attack. She stepped right in and found Dracomir kneeling, his head bowed, before the Balrog King. She felt like placing a well-deserved, well-aimed kick on his behind, but settled with clearing her throat as loudly as she could. Dracomir did not move, nor did he even seem to hear.

She walked slowly towards Roggie, looking contemptuously at Dracomir for just one more moment. As she came near enough to feel the heat emanating from the King's massive body, she gently tugged back a sleeve of her black cardigan. Her eyes momentarily widened at what she saw beneath it, but she shrugged it off and replaced the sleeve.

"Looking hot as ever, are you, your Highness?" she said flatly, looking back at Roggie, and took her place beside a conveniently placed window. She looked around for the first time. Everyone Alli had called to stay earlier that day was there, plus a few extras.

"Greetings, your Hotness!" chirped Lola's voice suddenly as she glided into the chamber, her glittering eyes fixed on Roggie. Maika rolled hers. That's your idea of a grand entrance?

[Roggie of Morgoth]

It was now, glaring improbably at every person in the chamber at once, that Roggie sat up straight, bared a frightening grimace of displeasure, and started laughing.

"Tom, get off of my floor." he chuckled, using the name with which he had, so long ago, been introduced to Malfoidacil. "And stop calling me all of those lovely names. I haven't forgotten our old friendship. You have need neither to gesticulate nor genuflect in my presence. A good old fashioned "Hey Roggie, how's it goin'?" would be fine with me."

Malfoidacil stood and bowed casually, basking in his special treatment. Smilog stepped forward slightly and said, tentatively, "Hello Roggie. How is it going?"

"Hush, midget. Your voice makes my eardrums feel as though I ought to kill you for speaking." Smilog hushed without pause. "Everybody line up so that I can glare without having to turn my head to accomodate for the fact that the lot of you are spread out. I want easy glaring!"

They shifted, hiding grins, to accomodate the king. He glared at them happily.

"Now," he began, looking imposing. It was a stature and tone that he had slaved long hours to master when he first entered the acting world. "Why do I have my Chief War Advisor, my dear Lola, my old friend Tom, a Shelley-esque creation that I vaguely remember Alli telling me she liked, Maika, my favorite minotaur, and some dwarf that claims that he once passed me the salt standing in front of me looking as though they want to talk to me about something as important as the fate of my country?"

[the guy who be short]

Angawen rounded the corner of the tavern, and halted in her tracks. Speech with the locals here would not be difficult - to preserve their Gondorian mannerisms, the people spoke Westron rather than the official English. But while she could theoretically converse with any of them, she did not much desire conversation with a lot of the crowd. Many of them looked like what would be simpleton peasants in Gondor. She saw only one table in this section of the inn where a presentable-looking man, clothed in respectable Gondorian clothes, though pink, sat by himself.

She walked towards the table, and slid in opposite him, smiling all the time. "Hello," she said, deciding to adopt Sindarin rather than Westron simply to exclude the rest of the inn from the conversation.

"Hail, Lady," said the man, looking up into her eyes. She noticed suddenly that he appeared to be one of the Haradrim. This should not have been shocking; one sporadically saw the shawled Haradwaith wandering the streets of Gondor, but she did not remember seeing any in Mordor.

"You much resemble the noblemen of Gondor in costume," she said to him, conscious of her limited time. "Tell me what brings you to this accursed land."

"Ah, 'tis a great muddle, I assure you, Lady. But allow me to introduce myself. I am Tugwubs."

Angawen was sure she had misheard. Not even the Haradrim had such odd names. "Sorry?" she inquired.

"Tugwubs."

"How does one spell that?"

"Tee, jee, dubbleyoo, bee, ess. Tugwubs, my Lady."

[littlemanpoet]

He hated his name. Anakron. "Against time." What kind of name was that? In a language that didn't even exist yet! His old name was little better. Elempi. It meant nothing! He wanted a new name. No, that wasn't enough. He wanted a new life. But ehre was this gods forsaken staff. And fool hat. And mawkish cloak. He threw the hat across the room, frisbee style. It hit the wall and fell to the floor. How appropriate, he thought. He rose and unclasped the cloak and let it fall to the floor behind him. He grabbed the staff, leaning against the wall by the door, on his way out.

Some time later he stepped out on the Sammath Naur. He walked to the edge and saw the fire below. He held out the staff and let it fall. It was still in his grasp. He willed his fingers to loosen their grip on the staff. They did not obey. His arm shook with the effort to let go the staff. His hand would not open. Finally he drew the staff back and leaned on it in exhaustion. It could not be destroyed in this direct manner.

He walked back to his rooms, disgusted. Panakeia, how am I going to get free of this? Can you tell me? But she was not there. Of course. She and this life he led did not go together. He had to leave one or the other. He did not want to lose her. How, then? He did not know.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

That knock on the head had scrambled Smilog's brain a little and he staggered around the room as it slowly got more crowded. "Now," he stuttered, "listen here Reginald,"

"Roggie," said the King,

"That’s it!" Smilog fell over, "we're getting nowhere fast. This mountain here wont be moving until whoever is driving it has some snacks. I say that we re-start those negotiations, seeing as we have little better to do." Tollin sat on a table, but it collapsed under his weight and everyone stared at him, he smiled meekly and slunk into the corner and curled up into a ball.

The Barrow Wight blew a smoke ring over Roggie's head; Skittles stole the pipe and blew a cloud in the shape of a great monster that devoured the Wight's ring. Scowling, The Barrow Wight took the pipe back and blew a cloud that looked like sword that chopped the monster in two. Just as Skittles was about to retaliate, Roggie took the pipe off them and said, "You'll get it back at the end."

"I say," said the Wight, "bad form old chap. can’t a fellow have a lark now and again?" Roggie shook his head; he was too busy to be dealing with the antics of the un-dead, no matter how well spoken they were. "Dash and blast it," moaned The Barrow Wight, "that pipe belonged to my father until I stole it from him."

Smilog sat on a chair and rubbed his head, Tollin was rocking back and forth in the corner of the room singing a little tune. "Look, whoever you are," said Roggie to Smilog, "you're not the only one here, what do the others have to say about this?"

"Not a lot," observed the Barrow Wight, producing another pipe from a pocket in his cloak, "I can't say I know allot about what young Smilog is talking about-"

"Who?" said Roggie,

"Smilog, the Dwarf." The Wight blew another smoke ring, "but it seems to me, that the best thing to do would be to-" The Barrow Wight was stopped as Skittles knocked his head off. "Oh confounded children’s games! You won't be laughing much longer! Not when I bite you're jolly legs off!"

[Kath]

Originally amazed and annoyed that Roggie had noticed him hiding in the shadows, Igör couldn't help but smile at the description the Balrog used for him: 'a Shelley-esque creation that I vaguely remember Alli telling me she liked'. After watching the distate with which Roggie dealt with the Dwarf, he hoped that the positive recommendation from Alli would stand him in good stead as he attempted to talk to the Balrog.

Stepping forward, he put himself right in Roggie's line of sight and, he thought with a shiver of fear, in his line of fire. The Balrogs eyes swivelled from the scene going on between Smilog and Skittles to fix hs gaze on Igör.

"What?" He barked, perhaps annoyed at the distraction from the entertainment before him.

"My name ith Igör, thir -"

He stopped as the Balrog increased the strength of his glare and readjusted his mouth to stop the lisp before speaking again.

"Roggie, sir, we need to stop the war and re-start the negotiations. The mountains sudden ability to move shocked us all and so we haven't been doing our jobs very well, not least because the Gondorian diplomats aren't even here at the moment."

The Balrog snorted, causing Igör to duck to avoid the flame that erupted as he did.

"Why should I stop the war? Mardil is stealing my subjects, and my chief war advisor tells me this is the way to get them back."

Igör followed the finger Roggie was pointing, and found Skittles at the end of it. He had to admit putting her in charge of a war was good thinking, the enemy would never know what was coming! But then, neither would anyone else.

"Well Roggie, it isn't the only way, it might even make it worse. A war leads to refugees, which means that people will be getting out of Mordor any way they can, and all that is doing is helping Mardil. If, though, you allow us to try and negotiate, we might be able to sort things so that fewer people leave than they will if you continue with this war."

Stepping back again in case Roggie decided to take offence at this, Igör waited for either an answer, or someone else to try their hand at convincing Roggie.

[Celuien]

After her third frozen treat, Panakeia learned one thing, and only one thing. Orange smoothies were not the way to enlightenment. Make that two things. She also learned that excessive quantities of sweet drinks made her feel ill. Panakeia rose from her seat a bit unsteadily and moved on through the mall.

She found very little there of interest. The entire complex seemed filled with giggling valley girls. That was only to be expected, of course, since Panakeia had chosen to enter the heart of the valley itself when she went to the Fallen Arch mall in Fallen Foot. But she'd hoped to at least find some decent shopping. There was nothing.

Tanning Salon. That looked interesting. Panakeia went in and paid for a half-hour session. As she settled into her booth, a mask over her eyes, she fell asleep. And had a dream about (who else?) Anakron.

~*~

Anakron stood on the Sammath Naur dangling his staff over the fires below. He released his grip on the staff, but it put out tentacles and grew into his arm. He cried out in pain as the tendrils merged with his flesh. Sylvester, now a ghastly cartoon appendage to his hand, came to life and gave Anakron a raspberry. "Help me," he cried pitifully. "Show me the way to be free of the Dweomer."

~*~

Panakeia awoke with a tear-drenched mask and a terrific sunburn. If only Anakron truly did want her help. She wondered. Her dreams in Mordor had frequently been more than dreams. And where Anakron was concerned, they often held real meaning, though whether by some trick of the Dweomer or by some other connection between them, she did not know. Perhaps both. If her dreams did hold truth, she needed to return to help Anakron stand by his resolve.

Should she return to Mount Doom and search for him? Panakeia was uncertain. The memory of their last encounter was fresh in her mind. In the morning, after another evening of dreams (if the dreams returned to her), after some rest from her troubles, she would decide.

[Diamond18]

Skittles picked the Barrow-Wight's head up off the floor and re-affixed it onto his neck. "Er, sorry," she said, "I didn't realize it would come off like that. Freak."

"Oh confounded children’s games! You won't be laughing much longer! Not when I bite you're jolly legs off!" hissed the Barrow-Wight, disregarding her apology.

"Cranky a bit?" Skittles said, and turned away from him. She approached Roggie:

"I've been rethinking the whole war thing," she preambled. "I mean, it would be a fun time, knocking down the Gondorians like toy soldiers in a row, but we've got a bigger problem on our hands right now. Namely, Anakron Ist Konveyor. He needs a good slapping around to get the staff out of his hindquarters, if you know what I mean. I'd like to move that we get the thing with the Gondorians out of the way and then join forces to march against him and whoever's unhinging his door (and not in the fun, itching powder way, in the "I am so evil and the world is ending" sort of way). I mean, really, I don't want to wake up tomorrow and realize I've been worshipping toenail fungus compliements of Anakron and the Dweomer. What do you think?"

[littlemanpoet]

"Anakron! Anakron!" A sniveling voice called him from behind. It was Lûgnût, sporting a Bee Gees hairdo, complete with part down the middle, but his hair was too sparse and coarse for the look.

"Lûgnût, if I were to put an apple in your mouth and hold you face down on a banqueting table, you'd look the part."

The orc pouted. "Anakwon ith being mean. He in a vewy bad mood."

"What do you want, Lûgnût?" He wrinkled his nose. "And what is that smell?" He pulled a face. "Is that coming from you?" The orc's lime green pants-suit with "matching" lavender dress shirt complete with discoteque wide collar, seemed to indicate his favorite color, not to mention is hopes and dreams.

"It's cologne, you silly Jee Ay!" Lûgnût grinned, his haletosis momentarily overpowering the cologne, which explained the nose-wrinkling combination.

Anakron waited tight lipped, nostrils flaring (in virtual pain). "You called me to tell me about cologne? Or that you're John Travolta turned inside out?"

The orc pouted again. "Anakwon ith being vewy, vewy mean."

"Orc, if you do not tell me why you stopped me right now, I will konvey-"

"The ambassadors! They're all with Roggie! You told me to tell you!" Lûgnût finished in a wounded tone.

Anakron sagged. He wanted little if anything to do with the negotiations, but Roggie had permitted his observations, and expected him. "Thank you. Now find some mouthwash and use it. And get rid of that outfit before you start a new religion."

Anakron made his way to Roggie's Audience Chamber and let himself in quietly, just in time to hear Skittles saying, "-needs a good slapping around to get the staff out of his hindquarters, if you know what I mean. I'd like to move that we get the thing with the Gondorians out of the way and then join forces to march against him and whoever's unhinging his door (and not in the fun, itching powder way, in the "I am so evil and the world is ending" sort of way). I mean, really, I don't want to wake up tomorrow and realize I've been worshipping toenail fungus compliments of Anakron and the Dweomer. What do you think?"

Anakron walked forward. "I think, Skittles, that you can have this staff yourself and become the new Grand Anakronist for all I care. Want it?"

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë eased his old bones onto a bench, soaking in the Gondorian feel of the building... The owners may have been Assigned to Mordor, but their establishment felt thoroughly Gondorian. It could easily have passed for an inn in Minas Tirith, or Emyn Arnen, or somewhere in rural Anórien. Even the clientele seemed mostly Gondorian in nature. It seemed that the eatery was a bit of a haven for those Mordorians who attempted to retain their pre-Assignment identities.

While Bearugard sniffed at the peasant-like quality of the food offerings (no pheasant or spit-roasted wild boar, such as he was accustomed to), and Angawen loudly requested drinks, Hyarmenwë's mind was not on food at all- it was on the patrons around him.

So thoroughly Gondorian in nature!

The thought was starting to haunt Hyarmenwë. These people were, or had been, ordinary, common people of Gondor. What unwitting or slight anakronisms had they been involved with to Assign them to Mordor? On the surface, at least, they LOOKED quite normal.

Not that Hyarmenwë had any plan of dwelling too long on thoughts of why people had been Assigned. That came too close to Assigning oneself. But the thought did occur to him that these people were mostly victims on the anakronisms- people who ought to have been good and loyal citizens of Gondor, and it occurred to him that as Keeper of the Keys of Minas Tirith, Ambassador of Gondor, and representative of the King, it was a part of his duty to ascertain that none of these Gondorians had been falsely Assigned. After all, they looked so normal...

But Hyarmenwë had no intention of being Assigned to Mordor himself, so he turned to the expert on all things Mordor.

"Milady Umfuil," he addressed Alli, "if I may ask, does speaking with those Assigned to Mordor- even those who are themselves anakronisms itself constitute grounds for Assignment?"

Angawen looked up from her just-received drink, a look of calculating curiosity on her face. Bearugard seemed not to have noticed.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli basked in being surrounded by people much like those she had known in her former days. Though she'd been hidden away by her parents for most of her life, she'd made friends easily with those few she met. It was a wonder that she was not more antisocial than she was, given her warped childhood. She ordered hot spiced cider and was well pleased with the sweet zing of it as she pondered Hyarmenwë's question.

"I should think that it would not..." she began, looking around. "My lord, I cannot be certain, but..."

A voice spoke in her ear and she smiled, feeling a peace fall over her in its presence. She continued, now sure.

"My lord, it will not harm you in any way, excepting that occasionally too much knowledge acts as a catalyst for self-harm. But I do not forsee that happening... You should not fear conversing with the locals... at least not those in this establishment. Others... well... they will not get you Assigned, but they might actually harm you. There are many people in Mordor of an unsavory nature, if you catch my meaning."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Wait a moment," said Smilog as he placed the so called 'paros shoot' on his back. "whe you say you 'got rid of' the other zoom projects, what do you mean? Did you detroy Minas Tirith?" They had been walking from the tower to the wall while they spoke.

"Of course not!" laughed the Barrow Wight, "that would be completely unnecessary! We merely removed its engine and axel, filled in the holes it left with concrete, all under cover of darkness, obviously. But Mount Zoom... Well, that’s another story."

Roggie was about to leap towards his casino, when he suddenly got interested and turned to the large, rotting corpse and said, "What do you mean?" his suspicions had grown concerning the ulterior motives of this creature.

"Well," said the Wight with a little cough, "you see, old spice, Mount Zoom was the original! It works differently to the others. Besides, the knowledge and roumer of it go far back and deep into the memories of all evil things. If just one had the will, they could turn it to evil once again."

Tollin and Smilog stood on the high wall, looking down at the ominous mountain on wheels that had left a lot of LA in ruins as it had driven in. The crowd was getting a little too curious and some began to climb the mountain, but they soon stopped, as the engine would 'rev' every time one tried. Roggie looked worried and began to sweat, not a good thing for a creature of fire to do, you might think, and you'd be right. "Project Zoom," said the Wight, "must be destroyed! Mountain and all!"

"I cannot allow that," said Roggie, almost with tears, "I built that casino from nothing! It's my pride and joy! I won't let you destroy it! I'm going to find out who is driving it and stop them! Then," he paused for effect, "then I am going to take the mountain back to where it belongs and deal with Mardil!"

"You are a fool, Rogggie," said another Wight, "a reckless fool!" Several Wights took Roggie by the arms and tried to take him away, "We can't allow Project Zoom to continue, and you are a threat to our mission!" Then, slowly and solemnly, the Wights began to sing...

Cold be hand and heart and bone,
And cold be sleep under stone:
Never more to wake on stony bed,
Never, till the sun fails and the moon is dead.
In the black wind the stairs shall die
And still on gold here let him lie,
Till the Wight Lord lifts his hand
Over peaceful sea and zoom-less land

WHAK! Went Smilog's axe as it took off the head of a Wight. Tollin followed suet and swung his morning star with all his might. They released Roggie and dashed to the wall. Then Roggie had and idea, he took Smilog's axe and ran to the nearest fell beast wire and began to hack away. More and more Wights began to come, crying, "Don't do it! Are you insane?" yet he hacked still more. Eventually, the beast was freed and it flew away. The others got scared and dragged the city, lopsidedly over the sea. Before it got too far, Smilog, Tollin and Roggie all leaped off, releasing their paros shoots and gliding towards the Mountain of Zoom.

The dwarf turned around to see the terrible city sinking into the horizon, yet the calls of the Wights could still be heard. Roggie landed first and removed the 'paros shoot' gladly and threw it away. They were quite near the top of the mountain, and could see the crack of doom below them, no more than a hundred yards away. Tollin landed last and cast off his 'paros shoot', he looked into the horizon and could not see the city of the Wights.

Slowly, they began to climb down once again, trying to get to the fabled crack of DOOM and so put an end to this moving mountain. Yet, none of them saw the skeletal figure that rose out of one of the paros shoots and began following them in a Gollum-like manner. If dramatic music could be included, such a time as now would be appropriate.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron was stalking the streets looking for a likely fanatic when out of an alley came two diminutive blue-robed men. Anakron stopped in his tracks.

"Good day, Anakron," intoned the shorter of the two.

"Good day," Anakron responded brusquely. "How may I serve you?" Anakron's tone was not that of one who wished to serve, but to tear limb from limb.

"Come into this alley where we can talk in private."

Anakron exhaled. He followed them, his shoulders suddenly stooped. Just before they reached the end of the alley, the two men parted ways and stood to either side of the alley, their backs to the walls.

"After you," the taller one gestured toward a blank brick wall.

Anakron wordlessly passed between them and turned, his back to the wall. He waited, glowering. The two men closed in side by side and faced him, their faces impassive.

"You have been conveying religions from the future." It was stated as fact rather than query.

"Yes," Anakron said on a wearisome breath. Just then he saw Panakeia in the road; she had stopped short at the end of the alley and seen him. He looked away from her and back at the Blue Istari before they could notice - - he hoped.

"These will conveyances have nothing to do with our purpose for Mordor and the Gondorian Empire. They must stop."

"And if they don't?"

"Then it will go ill with you. We have undone your damage. That is the end of it, or else. Understood?"

Anakron opened his mouth in a grimace. "And if the evil of your dweomer overcomes me? What then?"

"See that it does not."

They turned away from him and saw Panakeia before she could hide.

"This girl," said the taller one, "she is cured. Make use of her to maintain control of your conveyances."

The two men walked by her, the smaller one stopping a moment to say before he passed, "He is upon a knife edge. Do not fail."

Then they turned into the street.

Anakron felt red hot rage within him. It would be easy to konvey something blisteringly damaging to those two, but they would merely flick it away as an afterthought. Anakron took a deep, unsmiling breath, and willed himself to stay standing where he was, to not lash out, to stand and wait before doing anything at all; for if he did anything, there was no telling what uncontrolled impulse might burst from him. He waited, watching Panakeia to see what she would do, hoping that she would flee from him in a sudden unlikely moment of better judgement, knowing that she would come to him and do all that she could, the little that was in her power, to try to talk him into some semblance, some modicum of self-control. If only words could do anything other than chafe against his nerves.

[Celuien]

Panakeia continued to follow the din of the street fight, her heart sinking with every step. She had only just been separated from Anakron, and already (she assumed), he was responsible for more mischief. She should never have left him alone.

But what could she have done? Her duty to the Captain was clear. She needed to teach Skittles a thing or two about that robot of hers. A slow grin reappeared. Panakeia was rather pleased with herself for her solution to RoboSkitt. It was illogical for an illogical being to care about logic. Therefore, for the illogical robot to remain illogical, she would need to be logical. Perfect, brilliant, nonsense. But highly...logical.

Suddenly, Panakeia found herself dizzy. As the world spun and grew dim, she stumbled, clutching a silk palm tree rooted in Astroturf. She thought she heard muffled, fell voices mumbling in a strange tongue. The feeling passed, and Panakeia recovered. What had happened?

She straightened herself and listened for the fight. That too seemed to have ceased. Puzzled, she headed to the spot where she formerly heard the fight, and saw a group of equally puzzled people, seemingly unable to remember why they were ready to tear each other to shreds a moment before. For a fraction of a moment, Panakeia wondered if the Captain's intervention was responsible. Almost in the same moment, she chided herself for the stupidity of thinking that an actor in a TeeVee show could possibly have such an impact.

Then it dawned on her. The obsession with the Captainfor which Panakeia had been willing to risk life and limb less than an hour before was gone. A confused jumble of emotions ran through her.

It must have been the Dweomer.

Of course it was. What else would make you -- and everyone else -- so silly?

Anakron owes me an apology. He owes everyone an apology. Doesn't he realize the trouble he could have - that he did create?

Think of it this way. You're back to normal. He must have un-conveyed the anakronism. He must be sorry. Even if he doesn't say so. Is that apology enough?

Panakeia continued to mull it over. No. The mere undoing wasn't enough. He needed to apologize, if only to prove that he knew he was wrong. The reversal of his conveyance was a good start, but she needed to hear him acknowledge his error.

Panakeia continued her search. At last she spotted Anakron in an alley, flanked by the Blue Istari. Her heart skipped. What were they doing here? Up to no good, she was certain. Panakeia tried to duck into a doorway where she could eavesdrop without being seen, but to no avail.

"This girl, she is cured. Make use of her to maintain control of your conveyances."

Panakeia groaned. They had seen her. No use hiding. And what did they mean? Were the Wizards on her side? That was rather puzzling.

Anakron did not reply, and the Wizards headed back to the main street. As they passed Panakeia at the entrance to the alley, one spoke to her.

"He is upon a knife edge. Do not fail."

And with that, the Istari melted into the crowd.

What did it mean? Had Anakron withdrawn the anakronistic religions of his own accord, or had the Wizards forced him to do so? She had to know. Panakeia was still willing to help him if he had not come to his senses yet, despite irritation with him for involving her in the fruits of his foolish temper tantrum.

"Hello, Anakron. What was that about? The Wizards, I mean." Her voice was somewhat terse.

[Anguirel]

Tom briefly thought that perhaps being a cutie or a baby sounded rather up his street, but the Malfoy nature soon asserted itself. He marched ahead of Lola without a single backward glance, then, quite suddenly, whipped around, drawing his wand.

"Impedimenta," he intoned swiftly. Both Lola and the unfortunate Maika would feel the air congeal and pulsate in front of them, becoming a stodgy, heavy mess and bringing their progress to a stop. With a mental effort they could advance slowly, but it was an exhausting process. Yet there was no apparent barrier, and the two Mordorians could still see the obnoxious blond boy ahead giving them a cheerful wave.

"See you later," the Gondorian ambassador remarked. "I've had enough of this. I'm going on alone. I suppose you'll have to find a way to catch up, Mudbloods..." This gloatery accomplished, Dracomir mounted the Nimbus Two Thousand And One Racing Broom he carried on his person, zipping down the corridor, occasionally running down hapless Guard-Orcs and knocking them over when he was feeling vindictive. The last his two former companions glimpsed was a splodge of rapidly receding green and silver.

"Now that," he thought maturely, swirling around, up to the ceiling and down again purely in order to show off, "will teach that chorus-girl to call me a cutie."

He paused and took brief stock of his surroundings. He had not the faintest clue where, in his exuberant flight, he had managed to bring himself to. Best, he supposed, to consult the Mordorers' Map.

"I solemnly swear to fill in my SAVE within 48 hours," he reeled off boredly.

Words spiralled rapidly across the parchment.

Now, now, that's not good enough. Put some feeling into it, some passion, come on!

Tom grit his teeth. "I solemnly swear to fill in my SAVE within 48 hours."

Actually, is this scene necessary, vamos, venga, chico, es necessario? Perhaps we cut and replace with arty vision of shrunken heads, no?

"Noooo!" Tom exclaimed. The Map had evidently been possessed recently by none other than Alfonso Cuaron, the Director-Fiend of Mexico! What was he to do now...?