ATM II RPG

[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?"

[Celuien]

Somewhere in Lost Angles, a taxi pulled up to a large, elegant house on a tall hill. The passenger stepped out and was greeted cheerfully by a couple in oh-so-fashionable dress. Laughing, the three walked into the house.

Panakeia was not that visitor. Her cab pulled up to a Beaverly Hills address - the home of Panakeia's business associates. Or so she thought. She gaped.

"Driver, you must have made a mistake," she said. Where her friends' house once stood, Panakeia saw only a rubble strewn gouge.

The driver growled back, "No mistake. It's that mountain. It blew through here worse than an action movie about natural disasters destroying LA and knocked down the whole block."

Panakeia sighed. There just had to be something to make her day worse than it already was.

"Any idea where the people went?" she queried hopefully.

"What do I look like? A psychic?"

"Never mind, then. I'll get out here." Panakeia paid her fare. The cab sped away, and Panakeia pondered the senseless destruction of the neighborhood before walking in the direction of Rode-o Drive.

[JennyHallu]

Lola laughed easily at the king, sauntering cheerfully to his side. "Roggie, darling, please don't class me with this set. I love Mordor, you know. I think you're doing such a terribly good job. And as ever, my love, you just look fabulous. I don't know how you do it. With your stress level I could never keep such a figure." She stood on the step to his dais and looked up at him, actually batting her eyelashes at him, every bit the flirt, a long expanse of pale leg visible through the high cut slit in her skirt.

"And..." she continued, with a suggestive giggle, "I haven't had the chance to tell you how hot you are in simply the longest time."

It was almost disgusting, how obvious she was. But Roggie beamed at her. It was clear to the others that this was not a new topic of conversation for the unlikely duo.

[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?"

[Diamond18]

Most people would be embarressed to be caught talking about someone behind his back (though, actually, Anakron caught her talking behind her back rather than his back since her back was to the door when he came in, but that is neither here nor there). To repeat, most people would be embarressed in such a situation, but Skittles was shameless ergo felt no shame (to continue the habit of gross redundancy).

"Seriously?" she asked, skeptical.

"Of course," Anakron replied, and extended the staff with an odd twinkle in his eyes. Skittles did not notice the odd twinkle since she herself was perpetually odd and twinkly.

Still, she hesitated. If it were her holding out a staff to someone, she would no doubt be planning to smack them with said staff or beat them about the head till they lay unconscious upon the ground. And she certainly didn't trust Anakron. But, the idea of being able to herself weild the staff and Konvey whatever madness she pleased was a tempting proposition.

She reached for the staff.

As soon as her fingertips touched the wood, Sylvestor spluttered to life and reached out to slash at her wrist. He hissed and yoewled and spat, "Sufferin' Succotash!"

Skittles recoiled, the artery in her wrist spurting blood in a most nauseating fashion. Hard to believe, but she actually went a shade paler than her usual snowy white. "Stupid cat!" she cried, and slumped to the floor.

[Anguirel]

Dracomir had barely recovered from the Balrog King's courtesy (especially surprising after his last reception) when Anakron's entrance and offer to Skittles further contorted the situation, culminating in Skittle's collapse, apparently felled by Sylvester, the Feline of Anakronism.

"It is highly irregular," he ventured, "for the Grand Anakronist to attempt to pass on his duties, as far as I know. Shatters all diplomatic protocol. I say we take this as a sigh that the job is yours and yours alone, Lord Anakron, and move on to the original question, that is, the threatened breakdown in Gondor-Mordor relations."

Tom paused and looked curiously at Skittles. "Incidentally, I wonder if she's dead?" he asked with mild concern. "Corpses can be very unhygienic."

Determined upon a simple way to test, he took out his wand and pointed at Skittles' longest, shiniest, sharpest flick-knife. "Accio Flick-Knife," he remarked coldly. The weapon's hilt flew into his outstretched hand.

At once the Mordorian War Advisor's eyes opened with a jerk and she attempted to pull herself upwards. "Knife...missing...stolen...will...kill..."

"Well, apparently there's life in the Prevailing Spirit of Chaos yet," the Lord Malfoidacil concluded. "Can somebody ring Accident and Emergency?"