ATM II RPG

[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?"

[Lhunardawen]

Maika felt grateful that her obsessive-compulsiveness had not flared up too powerfully; she was on the verge of correcting Skittles that it was Anakron Istkon Vayor, not Anakron Ist Konveyor. She gazed at the poor woman lying on the floor, with her blood spurting all over from her wrist, narrowly missing her own pale feet.

"If only Panakeia were here..." she began quietly. "She might know where Nichole is, and surely that lovely med student can do something about this."

They all swung towards her, looking at her as if she had just spoken Wookie. All, that is, except Anakron, who seemed lost in thought.

"Oh, ring Accident and Emergency," Maika said suddenly. "I'll do it."

She whipped out her cellphone from some unseen, convenient pocket in her black slacks and speed-dialed a number. After a moment of silence she broke out in a slow and clear chant:

Doctor, doctor, she is sick;
Call your mummy very quick.

"There you go," she said as she placed the phone back in her pocket. And before anyone can say anything else, Maika rounded on Roggie.

"This might mean suspending your talk with us, but you will not play hide-and-seek with us again! You will stay here, wait along with the rest of us for Skittles to get well, and welcome us again when we return! Then you will listen carefully to all we say and agree to restart the negotiations! Is that underst-- OW!"

She took three steps back towards the window she did not notice she had stepped away from, rubbing her now-reddened forearms.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"I say," whispered the Barrow Wight to Smilog, "what do you say to us popping out for a swift drink?" He opened his cloak to reveal that several bottles of Roggie's finest wine and champagne were in concealed pockets sown into the under of his cloak. Smilog grinned and tip towed out with The Barrow Wight, grabbing Tollin by the ear and dragging him out swiftly.

"Bloody people," grunted the Dwarf,

"Watch you're language, old bean," the Barrow Wight slapped him.

"I mean it literally," Smilog explained, "that Skittles is bleeding. Good riddance, I say. Roggie won't re-start those negotiations as far as I can see. Pass me a bottle, would you?" They all sat in the corridor drinking Roggie's champagne and singing quiet songs about sleeping in a river.

Two doctors ran past the audience chamber, one of them was covered in blood; the other was covered in mud. "It's still alive!" cried one, "what are we going to do?" Smilog stumbled to his feet and bowed, but he was sick on the floor as he did so. Tollin laughed and hiccupped as Smilog tried to clean it up with the Barrow Wight's cloak. One of the doctors had a call on his cell phone; they could all hear the words;

Doctor, doctor, she is sick;
Call your mummy very quick

Yet the Doctor shut the phone and drew a large spear from the wall where it was used as decoration. "We've got bigger fish to fry!" he said, "Or, to put it more precisely, bigger worms!" At that moment a huge brown writhing creature burst through the wall behind Smilog and spread disgusting purple slime everywhere. It rose itself up and let forth a great bellow that sounded like 'Blllarrrgeeerrraaaatt!'

"What the Angband is that?" cried Smilog, being frightened sober, "and what is a Blargeat?" The Doctors hurled spears at it, but the creature seemed to absorb them into its flesh and then it belched. The Doctors ran and Smilog turned to look at the creature as it slithered towards them with a menacing stench. Tollin rose and lifted his great morning star and swung it around his head, but the creature wouldn’t stop coming, belching and roaring.

Smilog and the others ran away down the corridor, turned a corner and then found the Doctors hiding in a small wicker basket. "What on Arda is going on?" asked Smilog, the worm passed them down the corridor, seeming not to notice them.

"We were performing an operation," explained the one, "a standard Euphoniumectuary, as specified by the legendary Dr Hookbill of Mordor, but we found this thing embedded in the Orc's stomach. It started eating and eating until it was... huge!" The Doctors shivered and stood up. "I'll answer this call to Roggie's audience chamber. He must have set fire to one of his subjects again. You three help my associate find the worm beast!"

"You want us to find that monstrosity?" asked Smilog, "Have you the brain worms?" but the doctor was gone, The Barrow Wight sat on the floor, draining another bottle of wine. It went right through him, literally. The Dwarf then picked up the Wight and walked back to Roggie's chamber, followed by Tollin.

"Wait!" cried the other Doctor, "What about the worm?"

"Not my problem," scowled Smilog, "I've got a Balrog to talk to about some negotiations. Although, I don't know why I'm bothering."

"Your head smells like a puppy!" cried the Barrow Wight as he drank more wine, "Lets make biscuits!"

[Kath]

Sighing resignedly Igor stepped toward Skittles, ducking under the jet of flame that had just been directed at Maika. The doctors in this place were about as much use as a bicycle is to a fish, and almost as slow-moving. Bending down next to the girl, avoiding the pool of blood as far as possible, he whipped out a needle and thread and proceeded to close the wound.

His job was hampered by Dracomir's little tricks, as Skittles became very agitated when he removed the knife she was holding and started to writhe around on the floor, almost causing Igor to re-slit her wrist. However, she was still losing blood fast, and soon fell unconscious, allowing him to finish up.

Stowing his repair kit away again Igor lifted Skittles off the ground and started towards the door.

"Where are you going!?" Came a roar from behind. Roggie was not pleased, and was making no secret of it.

Turning Igor hoped that the fact that he was holding Skittles in his arms would prevent Roggie flaming him, and spoke his mind.

"This whole day has been a complete shambles. First we meet the Gondorians who don't even want to be here, then the negotiations get called off and we go to war, then everyone runs off in different directions and when we finally get here we end up injured."

He paused, glad to see that at least some of his companions had the decency to look a little ashamed of themselves.

"So, I am going to take Skittles to her rooms and I am going to get some blood into her."

Again he paused, shifting Skittle slightly so he could pull out a bag of blood from a pocket and show it to everyone, ignoring the sound of someone thudding to the floor behind him.

"Once I've got this into her and she is awake and able to continue these 'negotiations' then maybe we can start this again and actually get a result."

Not waiting for the outburst he was sure would come from Roggie and the other diplomats, he put the bag away again and stalked out of the room, taking no notice of the medics that rushed in after him, or the giant worm that he met further down the corridor chasing a couple of technicians.

In fact, he didn't even pause until he reached Skittles' current home, where he laid the poor girl down on the bed and got to work. As he sat there waiting for life to return to her he vaguely wondered if he should get a psychiatrist in to sort out her brain at the same time, but dismissed the idea, remembering that they were more likely to cause delusions than to help with them.

Sitting quietly, he wondered how the others had fared after his parting shot.

[Roggie of Morgoth]

Roggie watched the scene before him with confused concern and not a little bit of calm anger. Medical professionals and Igor-with-an-accent and a bleeding Skittles... Absolutely not, it would not do.

"We are done here." he growled. "Nothing will resume, be they negotiations or anything else, until my Chief Warmistress is well."

"But--" some very brave person began.

"I said nothing!" Roggie boomed. "And that is final."

He glared at his subjects as though they were naughty children and they looked around, careful not to meet his eyes. Somehow, though Roggie was always a bit frightening looking, he seemed more in need of attention when he spoke calmly than when he breathed fire. Nobody argued again. He was swiftly told to shut up and tossed out a window and then not a single person in the world said another thing.

"I want reports on Ambassador Skittles's well-being every half hour or so. We will discuss this further two days hence. You are dismissed."

So it was that the guests in Roggie's court scattered, finding adventures to occupy them throughout the next two days. Smilog encountered an exceptionally large sea turtle in a hidden dungeon; Maika encountered a hair comb with particularly sharp teeth. Igor-with-an-accent carefully presided over Skittles, and the extra guests that had been present in the audience chamber enjoyed the beach, the wine cellars, and many other things that would assuredly be written in retrospectively by their respective writers. Dracomir Malfoidacil simply disappeared from the view of the public with no warning, and returned with even less. Nobody seemed to notice, and the king's official spymaster was still officially off premises.

[Boromir88]

Bearugard sat and mostly listened to Hyarmenwe's and the Gondmordorians conversation. Something wasn't sitting right with him, in his stomach that was. He felt as if someone had been punching him in the gut for 3 hours straight. He couldn't keep focus, the only thing on his mind was the aching of his stomach.

Bearugard, would you round up Angawen, that we might leave?" Bearugard did not answer. "Bearugard...Bearugard!"

"What was that?"

"Are you feeling ok?" Hyarmenwe asked, "You look a little strange." But the truth was Hyarmenwe thought Bearugard was being unusually...untalkative.

"Yeah I'm fine. You want me to get you a smoothie did you say?"

"No, I said go find Angaewen so we can get out of here."

"Oh, ok." Bearugard slowly got up and looked around, with a lost look on his face, the look you get when you forgot where you parked your vehicle in a packed Super Walmart parking lot. Everything seemed to start spinning; he felt weak and woozy. Then, it came, and it came up faster than the running rapids of Sarn Gebir. Bearugard's discorge had gotten itself all over Alekzander's corduroys.

"Isn't that just lovely." fumed Alekzander, as he and Firiel went running to the restrooms. Firiel shot an evil glare back at Hyarmenwe.

Hyarmenwe turned, red-faced, back to Bearugard, "Now why did you have to go do that?"

"Not like...I...could...hel-" before he could finish, he fell back onto his chair.

Angaewen had seen part of the event and came back to the Gondorians. "What happened here?"

"Bearugard just spewed all over one of the local Gondmordorians." Hyarmenwe said.

"Oh that's just great." said Angaewen. She turned and looked at him. "Well, he does look a little pale. No doubt that he's sick, he's probably got anakronitis."

"Anakronitis?" laughed Alli. "Don't be foolish Angaewen, there is no such thing as anakronitis. While you are not used to the things here in Mordor, anakronisms do not cause people to fall ill. Why your friend here has a case of food poisoning it looks like."

"I did notice he was shoving his face full of bread." replied Angaewen. "But why would anyone want to poison him?"

"No, no, no, his food wasn't poisoned." said Alli. "He has food poisoning, an illness caused by undercooked food. Afterall, I knew that hamburger, he chowed down, looked pink in the middle."

"What do we do?" asked Hyarmenwe, who now sounded a little concerned.

"Well, he's definitely going to need a lot of rest, so place in an order at the Pharmacy for some benadryl, which should knock him out. Then also you might want to get an antibiotic to help get rid of his symptoms. I would recommend the Pepto-Pink liquid medicine, it's got a yummy bubble-gum flavor. Anway within a few days to a week tops, he should be feeling all ship-shape."

Bearugard groaned and shook his head in disgust. Why did this happen to him? And why now, when he was going to be needed the most?

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli grimaced, telling herself calmly that she had seen the contents of a stomach multiple times, that she would again, and that she would, under no circumstances, be queasy just now. It didn't work. She turned white, though nobody noticed due to the lack of contrast between that and her usual pale cheeks.

"We'll be staying here until he's better."

Angawen and Hyarmenwë expressed concern over this. Though they had left the palace, they had not planned to be gone for as long as it would take for Bearugard to convalesce.

"Listen," Alli said briskly, "We shall be travelling back to the palace in highly unconventional ways. Do either of you wish, while moving at a high rate of speed, to be anywhere near Bearugard just now? Nor do I."

They blanched and Alli knew that they would not argue the matter further.

Alli spoke quietly to the deaf innkeeper and then repeated her words quite a lot louder when he made no signs of having heard.

"Old man," she finally yelled, waving her arms about. He looked at her, confused.

"Who are you? Nancy? Is that you?"

"No. My name is Alli Umfuil and I need two rooms."

"Two?" Angawen hissed from behind. Alli turned around and glared.

"When I was forced to leave the palace to find escaped political prisoners, I was also forced, due to time constraints, to leave my money purse behind. I have little money on me just now, and I know well that none you carry will work here. I would go into detail, but surely it would be slightly less than worth the effort given the unlikelihood of your subsequent understanding. As it is, I have only the money for two rooms and cannot charge it to a palace that has disappeared. You will share a room with me, and Hyarmenwë will, much though I regret it, quarter with your ill companion. Is that clear?"

Her voice was icy and Angawen, very much against character, did not respond. Her lips moved and Alli heard only a soft baa in one ear. She smiled and turned back to the innkeeper.

"Two rooms. Your payment, sir."

The next two days passed in a flurry of Gondorian cuisine followed by the occasional regurgitation of the same from their ill companion. Each member of the heavy hearted group politely pretended not to notice, though all patience was wearing thin by the time that Bearugard seemed well enough to travel.

It was with much relief that the four finally pulled up beside the mislocated palace, still miraculously parked in Lost Angles, after having stopped at every gas station (Hyarmenwë and Bearugard seemed dubious about this) along the way to ask for news and directions. Alli had hired a U-Haul and had driven carefully enough that Bearugard would not be sick again and just speedily enough that Angawen, without a seatbelt, was jostled unnecessarily. Hyarmenwë had expressed concern over this anakronism only to be assured by Alli that all would be as well as could be expected.

Still, as I already wrote, they were all relieved to get back. Alli sent the ambassadors to their rooms without consideration for the fact that they were all older than her by a rather large number of years. She slipped through hidden passageways that ran parallel to the main ones, coming into her office from a door built into the stonework of her fireplace.

"Ms. Martinet!!!" There was no answer. Alli sighed and went to her desk, finding six or seven towering stacks of paper. She wondered what her secretary had been doing since she left and glanced at each stack before conveniently losing her grip on every single pile just as she equally conveniently carried them past her roaring fire. Paperwork completed, she looked at the hand-written note that had been duct taped to her desk beneath each pile. She'd never been happier that she'd encouraged Ms. Martinet to let Lola do the occasional bit of information compilation. It was so much simpler this way...

Pile One:
Nothing of immediate importance.
Shelob and family on the move.
Igor spying. Permission granted?

Pile Two:
Vaguely interesting.
Ambassador Skittles nearly died. Igor fixed her.
Roggie seems in a better mood.
Malfoidacil disappears at night. Set higher watch?

Pile Three:
Critical.
You are out of tea.
And Sheridan's.
There appears to be a rat in your office. Did you put it there, dahling?

Alli jumped at reading that and pulled her feet up off of the floor before staring wistfully at her liquor cabinet. How could she be out of Sheridan's? That was depressing. She'd have to remedy that and then perhaps go speak with Roggie.

She glanced at the other messages, noting nothing but that she'd received no messages from Aime. Was he still interested? Had he forgotten the passion of the moment when he had saved her from the clutches of Mariowolf? Did he not like her kisses? She blushed. Why did he not write? Why did he not call?

She pushed the thoughts from her mind. Of course he was still interested in her. She refused to allow the word 'love' to flit through her mind and forced her attention onto more pressing matters. Tea. Where could she get good tea in Mordor? She'd had to smuggle the last in from Gondor, but that would be a bit tough right now...

She sighed, finally getting up with a grimace. She'd have loved a nap, but such was life.

"Roggie, let me in." She pounded on his door and heard him growl to enter. "The Gondorian ambassadors escaped, as I'm sure you know. I brought them back. Where is everybody else and what do you have planned?"

He sighed and turned around; he'd been staring into his barren fireplace.

"Warlady Skittles is healed by Igor. His only request for repayment is that negotiations should reopen."

"And?"

"And they will recommence tomorrow."

Alli jumped for joy inside of her perfectly still body and tried to remember just what the ambassadors had been discussing before everything turned confusing.

Had they even discussed anything? Icebreakers... that's what it was. She would fix matters.

And so, when the next day dawned, she met six of the eight delagates in the same room in which they had originally been. Bearugard was feeling a bit better, but not yet well enough to appear formally. Smilog was nowhere to be seen.

"You've all been introduced. You've gotten to know each other a bit better. If you feel the need, you may spend a bit more time on such matters. Your task for today is to discuss trade. Roggie would like to export. Mardil refuses to accept anakronistic trade items. I don't care how, but fix it so that both sides are vaguely content, or at least not war-happy. I'll be back later."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Is that catapult ready?" demanded Smilog as he stood on top of a great and high tower near the coast of LA. Tollin and The Barrow Wight were hastily putting the finishing touches to a massive catapult while a young doctor sat on the floor rocking back and forth. The building shook violently and Smilog looked through the binoculars he had picked up in the tower and peered towards Mount Zoom. "Here it comes!" he cried.

There was an almighty 'squelch' and the enormous worm creature squeezed out of the top of the mountain, panting and wheezing. The giant sea turtle was upside-down in the water, struggling to get back up and return to the fight. Tollin loaded a large boulder into the catapult and said, "It's ready to fire!" Smilog leaped towards it and set the correct angle and velocity.

"You had better be right about this!" cried the Dwarf, looking at The Barrow Wight, "if you're not, we'll all be in trouble!" The worm slid down the side of the mountain and began making its way towards the tower. "FIRE!" cried Smilog and Tollin cut the rope holding the end of the catapult with the boulder in. The rock flew through the air right towards the worm as it raised itself up, massive and horrible. The boulder flew right at it, but the worm whipped it with it's tail and the rock was knocked into the side of Mount Zoom.

The impact of the rock awoke the shadowy figure at the helm, it had been lying in a pile of empty snack rappers. It quickly, and with bury eyes, grabbed the steering wheel and pressed down on the accelerator. Yet, the driver seemed to have failed to realise that it was still set in reverse. The great mountain, thousands of mega tons of rock and ash, thundered backwards, squishing the worm and smashed into the building on which Smilog and the others were stood.

"AAAAAAAAGGGGHHH!" began Smilog as they were thrown off the top towards the crater of the Mountain. Tollin swiftly drew out a large blanket from his pack and used it as a parachute, grabbing Smilog and the Barrow Wight with one hand. The doctor, on the other hand, flew off into the horizon and was not heard of for a while. Slowly, the three weirdoes drifted to the side of Mount Zoom and landed safely on Sauron's road, near to the crack of DOOM.

"Well," said Tollin, "that would seem to be that." he sighed and sat on the floor, "it sure was in interesting adventure, the worm taking over the mountain, the turtle battling it, the intergalactic space battle in 3D that happened just before we got to that building..."

"I know what happened," said Smilog, rubbing his head, "I really wish that I didn't." he looked around and saw the crack of DOOM. "We had better get inside before the Mountain moves again."

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron had stayed in his rooms when the call had come from Alli for the ambassadors to meet again before Roggie. Trade? What difference to him? So the Mordorians wanted to trade anakronisms to Gondor, and Mardil did not want them. Personally, Anakron thought Mardil was right to keep them trapped in Mordor. He could imagine that the Blue Istari wanted them spread throughout the Empire, and perhaps throughout Arda. It mattered little to him though. Let them fight it out; the Blue Istari would get their way in the end in any case.

As for him, all Anakron wanted was to be free of the staff, hat, and cloak. Officially, only the staff held any anakronistic power at all; but the hat and cloak had come to symbolize the role every bit as much as had the staff; so, it all must go.

"Lûgnût!"

Dishes crashed to the floor in the kitchen.

"Oooooh! Jee Ay, must you do that! You scared meeee!"

Anakron rolled his eyes. He hated anakronized orcs; almost as much as he pitied them.

"Get in here, Lûgnût."

"You are soooooo mean!" The orc moved swiftly into the sitting room, tangling his clawed hands nervously in his watermelon apron.

"Take that apron off. You're coming with me. Now."

Lûgnût began fiddling with the bow in back, swinging his unprodigious hips back and forth in the effort. "Ow! Now look what you made me doooo! I chipped a nail!"

"You're wearing on my limited patience," Anakron warned, his head lowering so that he looked at the orc through raised and threateningly narrowed eyes beneath his suddenly stormy brow.

"Coming! Coming! Keep your knickers on! Sir!"

"Do what I say promptly and I'll forget you said that."

"Yes, oh Big Jee Ay!" Lûgnût led the way out the door.

~ : ~

Soon they were again standing at the edge of the Sammath Naur.

"Ooooh, I hate it here!" the orc cried.

"Do what I say and the sooner we'll be gone from here."

"What do you want me to do?" There was a mixture of fear and suspicion in his voice.

"Nothing that will harm you. Simply take the staff from my hands, along with this hat and cloak, and cast them into the fire."

The orc's eyes widened. "You can't be serious!"

"I am deadly serious."

"But that's the Anakronist Staff! Sylvester himself!"

"Take them from me."

"Why?"

"So that I can be free of the burden of the office. I don't want to be the Grand Anakronist anymore."

"Can I be?" A green light of pure lust suddenly appeared in the orc's eyes.

"If you could be, I'd give them to you, but if they aren't destroyed, they'll just return to me no matter what you do."

"Oh. Well, in that case, fine. I'll do it."

"One more thing. Ignore any pleas or cries from me to give them back or stop from destroying them."

"Got it."

With that, Lûgnût took the staff, hat, and cloak from Anakron's hands and strode toward the edge of the cliff.

"Nooooo! I didn't mean it!" cried Anakron. "Give them back! I neeeeed them!"

"Sorry, Anakron, too late."

"Good. Just testing."

The orc held the items over the fire for just a moment, during which Anakron felt his heart suddenly lurch and his tongue suddenly clove to the roof of his mouth in an impotent "n" to be followed by a hollow "o"; but the orc was too quick, and suddenly the staff, cloak, and hat were falling. Anakron ran to the edge to look, and saw them disappear into the flames and magma below.

"Well, that's a relief," he grinned to the orc.

[Celuien]

Two days passed uneventfully under the dazzling sunlight of Lost Angles. Panakeia drifted hither and thither, traversing the city from end to end, side to side, top to bottom, and any number of other ways meant to imply that she had seen it all. Too much, perhaps. One visit brought her to the Leaning Tower of Flapjacks, vast headquarters to Cap It All Records and House of Pancakes. She was terribly disappointed in the pancakes, served up as rounded black discs furrowed deeply by grooves. They were crispy, it was true, but a bit too crispy. Crispy enough, in fact, to make Panakeia suspect that they were recycled old 45s, despite their sweet topping of butter and syrup. Not nice at all. She told the cook her thoughts in a note, and was ejected from the building midway through her tour as reward. That was merciful enough - as it turned out, the recording session she would have seen if she remained featured her old friend the Captain. Panakeia would have died of embarrassment had she seen him so soon after her recent Dweomer inspired delusions.

She found no clarity at night either. Panakeia had hoped for a return to her dreams of Anakron, thinking that they might give her some direction. But her dreams had been strangely, almost perversely, irrelevant. On the first evening, her nocturnal visions were of penguins racing on bicycles along the edge of a deep gorge over the Pathetic Ocean. The penguins missed a turn and fell over the side, only to have their two-wheeled contraptions borne aloft on a raincloud as the lead penguin sang a tune about raindrops falling on his head. Panakeia awoke from that dream in a cold sweat and made a mental note to avoid meals from the food court in the future. Her next dream was no better. Panakeia found herself running through a park, pursued by a giant pink chicken who squawked about a sale at Woolworth's. But there was no sign of Anakron.

In need of guidance, Panakeia had even consulted a professional dream interpreter. She wondered if her subconscious had channelled thoughts of Anakron into less anxiety provoking images. But she had her doubts about the analyst's veracity when he assured her that the birds appearing in both her dreams spoke to a hidden combination of phobia and admiration for feathered species. When he asked her if she had recently eaten any questionable poultry while recommending that she visit him twice weekly for psychotherapy, Panakeia slowly backed out the door, reminding herself that she hadn't had particularly good experiences with psychologists in the past. Once outside safely, she broke into a run and put as much distance between her and the analyst as she could.

In the long and short of it, Panakeia found herself exactly where she started. Well, not quite exactly where she started. She had a new sunburn. And not quite enough cash remaining to make the trip back to Mâl-in-Bû by taxi. She was left stranded halfway between the vast regions of the valley and the ocean. The rest of the trip would have to be on foot.

That was exhausting. Out of energy, Panakeia dropped over a fence and climbed into the shade of the flood control system. At least she was able to find a bit of respite from the relentlessly pounding rays of the sun there, along with a bit of cool water to rest her feet in. But a second look at the water dissuaded her from taking a dip. Her feet remained on shore. With a sigh of weariness, Panakeia rested against the concrete and closed her eyes. Sleep took her.

~*~

Anakron stood at the edge of the Sammath Naur with Lûgnût. Anakron shouted to the Orc. Lûgnût shouted back.

"Braidfnrtnasd."

"Zzzzzerueyr."

And so forth. Even in her dream, Panakeia couldn't understand a word of their conversation. But it didn't matter. For in a moment, a beautiful moment, Lûgnût cast the staff, hat, and cloak into the pit. A soft puff of smoke wafting from below announced their destruction. Anakron smiled and danced out of the scene, laughing all the way.

~*~

A shout of pure joy brought Panakeia back to consciousness. At last! The sign she had been waiting for. Anakron had to be free now. This dream, while parts of it were certainly unreal, had to have some truth. Elempi had sent it to her, even as he had done before with his message about the werewolves. It had to be so.

Mount Doom! She had to return. Anakron would still be there, or at least nearby. With the Dweomer abandoned, things would surely be made right between them, perhaps better than they had ever been. Lighthearted and hopeful, Panakeia clambered up the concrete embankment and fairly ran towards Mount Doom's silhouette where it loomed against the smoggy sky.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

All this time, the evil creature had been waiting the moment when he would begin his conquest of the Earth. All it needed was a host better than the slug he now infested, and there it was, a huge Minotaur wielding a mighty Morning star. Once possessed, he would rain down mighty DOOM upon all the peoples of Middle Earth, beginning with the-

Smilog felt his foot squish something, he looked to see the remains of a slug, and he groaned and wiped his boot on a rock. "Lets get on with it," he said, knocking on the door to the Crack of DOOM. "Excuse me," he called, "We have your snacks!" The door flew open dramatically, and there stood the strange and mysterious shadowy figure that had taken control of the Mountain. The fire of Orodruin made it seem like a silhouette on an orange background with the eyes glowing like a mad inferno.

"I demand snakes of a thousand kinds!" said the figure, looking down to see Smilog merely holding up a small piece of cram bread. The creature's hands clenched into a fist and it shook violently, his voice building in a great roar of anger. "Those are not snacks!" it cried, striking a dramatic pose and shaking its fist towards the skies, "Why would you lie to me? Now, prepare to meet your horrible DOOM!" The creature pulled a hidden leaver and a trapdoor opened beneath the three weirdoes and they plunged into the darkness.

"Not again!" cried the Dwarf as the plummeted down and down; yet this was not a long fall, for they were all cast out soon into a small and dark chamber. There was an unpleasant smell, and it wasn't the Barrow Wight's rotting, or Smilog's beard. They all got up off the floor, with the Wight picking up a selection of his bones and putting himself back together. The room was utterly black, save for the small amount of light coming from the tunnel they had just come out of.

"I see I have visitors," said a strange voice from the corner of the room, the Barrow Wight emitted some light from his eyes and they saw an old man wrapped in blankets, wearing a large pointed hat and bearing an immense grey beard. "Come closer," he said, "I've not had friends for a long, long time."

Smilog slowly moved towards the strange man, fearing the very worst, and then knelt down beside him. "Who are you?" he asked, "What are you doing here?" the old man coughed and spluttered, throwing mucous everywhere.

"My name," he said, "is Robert, Robert the Moose."

"Moose?" said Tollin, "you don't look like a moose."

"Neither do you," remarked Robert, "and anyway, my name is not important. Ye need to know what I have to say." Smilog stood up, for the stench was getting to him; it smelled like whiskey and a vast number of unpleasant things. Robert the Moose sat up and laughed, taking a swig from a small glass bottle he had been holding, "Ye've heard of the blue wizards, I bet."

"Who hasn't," groaned Smilog, remembering the negotiations he was supposed to be involved in, and wondering if he could get away from this odd fellow. "What about them?"

"They're up to no good!" cried Robert the Moose, "And no good means bad, bad things are in store for us all! Ye mark my words, it wont be long before... before they all send us to our doom!"

"Of course," said The Barrow Wight, "well, sorry to have to say this, old bean, but we must all be on our jolly way soon. We've a mountain to stop and a whole host of other things to get done."

"Ye wont get far," cried the Moose, "Not far! Not with those Wizards abroad! They're up to something big! Bigger than just Mordor!" Smilog slowly began to listen, "Bigger than Mordor and Gondor put together. I've been following them for years, they're deep in conspiracy! And I've got a theory! Yes, I know what they are up to! Ye see, it only happens once every thousand years, all the wizards and old fold gather together in one place for-" he paused for effect, "the great uncloaking!"

Smilog raised an eyebrow, then cleared his throat, smirked and then laughed, louder and louder. He fell on the floor and began rolling around, "The great uncloaking!" he said, “you’re one of those conspiracy nuts I should have known! Come, Tollin, lets get out of here."

"Ye unbelievers!" cried Robert the Moose, "But remember this! Look for the tower of Small Jim!"

"Oh that," sniggered Tollin, "isn't that the 'alien spaceship' that landed in Mordor?" they all laughed, except Robert the Moose who grew wrathful.

"So, ye know of Small Jim," he grumbled, "the aliens tried to take over last time the uncloaking came about! But they weren't useful! Ever since Sauron, there have been those who- Hay! Get back here!" the three weirdoes had opened a door to the left and gone out, closing it behind them and locking it hastily. Looking around, they saw that they were near to one of the Casino floors.

[littlemanpoet]

Mount Zoom was heading south down some highway called Eye Nighty Five. Anakron didn't get it. But that didn't matter. The orc behind the wheel of Mount Zoom (for all drivers in Mordor are orcs) seemed to know what he was doing, and had only had road rage three times in the last hour. Anakron felt sorry for the other orc drivers whose vehicles lay to each side of the highway, victims of the Mount Zoom orc's need to go fast. It didn't help that Mount Zoom took up all three lanes of the highway, as well as much of the land either side. Anakron felt sorrier for the road construction crews who would now have to repair all the bridges Mount Zoom had crashed through in its southern hurtlement.

"Oh no," Anakron murmured, looking down the road. "We're about to enter Nurnia. I hope he knows what's coming."

The orc didn't. North of Nurnia, which they were leaving, road laws apparently followed American patterns, while in the south, they followed British rules. The highway's two sides undulated like a pair of snakes, the southbound lanes bridging over the northbound; which was fortunate because there was no way Mount Zoom was going to fit under the resulting bridge. But that wasn't the worst of it.

Sure enough, Anakron heard a gurgling "Gyaaaahh!" from the Mount Zoom cockpit as the steering wheel anakronistically and most magically disappeared from the driver's grasp and switched to the right side of the cockpit; pedals and gear shifts following suit. Problem was, nobody was sitting there. In fact, there hadn't even been a passenger seat there, but that hadn't mattered. The Dweomer was the dweomer, and there suddenly was a passenger seat that had just as suddenly turned into a driver's seat on the right side.

Mount Zoom began to veer off the highway. Which meant big trouble for northbound traffic, already distracted by the oncoming need to switch from American to British road rules and that confounded steering wheel switch that most drivers had become aware of in the last year.

In their efforts to avoid the mountain, northbound Clios (all green) and Minivans (all yellow) careened out of the way of the approaching mountain, risking the questionable comforts of the rough grass and rubble off the road, and also risking the jarring of the extra tires that all cars carried to deal with the inevitable flat tires of Mordor.

Luckily, Mount Zoom righted itself before it competely dominated the northbound lanes, going in the wrong direction, and listed back across the median to the southbound lanes, resuming its normal road-hog status.

A few hours later Mount Zoom arrived on the outskirts of Lûndûn, casting a brand new shadow over Heave-ho Airport. Anakron disembarked from the mountain, caught a fare on the Bliddy Unnergrind ('minding the gap' of course), and was in short order back at Caer Pairadocks, where he ordered up a limo to be readied, and immediately started back up north to Lost Angles, to go find Panakeia. On the way he dreamed up a proper way to celebrate his new found freedom from the Anakronism staff. It occurrred to him once that the anakronisms were still hanging on even though the staff had been destroyed, and a momentary disquiet settled over him: shouldn't the destruction of the staff have resulted in the end of the anakronisms? But then the Blue Istari were the real power behind the dweomer, and they were still somewhere in Middle Earth; so he gave it no more thought, happy to be free of the staff himself.

Half way to Lost Angles, he saw a television crew-mobilecareening at a ridiculous speed southbound, and wondered what in Middle Earth could be the rush, and who was so important to warrant such speeding? He sneered derisively and thought no more of it.

[Diamond18]

Skittles and Hissyfit stood in the hallway (or rather, Skittles stood in the hallway and Hissyfit perched on her shoulder) and played Dueling Diabolical Laughter.

"Mwa ha ha ha ha!" said Skittles.

"Bwuah hua hua hua hua hua hua!" guffawed Hissyfit.

"Mwu ha, mwu ha, mwu ha ha ha!" chortled Skittles.

And so on.

"Thkittleth!" came a strangely strangulated voice. Skittles heard, but was right in the middle of a particularly good effusion of ebullience, and so she paid no heed.

"Skittles!" came the voice again, and as Hissyfit lit into a fit of tittering, Skittles turned. She saw Igör ambling down the hallway. "Mind some company?" he asked, one eye rolling to the side inexplicably.

"Heh heh heh heh heh," she snickered disquietingly in response. "Sure."

"So, where are you headed?" Igör asked, then gave Hissyfit a concerned look. "Does you cat have hairballs?"

"What? Oh, no, she's just trying to one up me with an evil snicker of doom," Skittles said.

"A hairball, indeed," Hissyfit sniffed. She sat back on her haunches and preened her whiskers. "Well, I never."

"You must admit, it wasn't a very good snicker," said Skittles. "Sounded a bit flaky."

"Well, I didn't mean that," Igör backpeddled, eyes swimming between cat and catwoman. "It was a very nice evil snicker. Of doom."

"Don't patronize me," sniffed Hissyfit with a flick of her tail.

"So, Skittles, where are you headed?" Igör said, changing the subject, and Hissyfit uttered an affronted huff at being thus ignored.

"I dunno," replied Skittles evasively, forgetting her plans to ransack the armory. "Whatcha wanna do?"

"I dunno. Whatchoo wanna do?"

"I dunno. Whatchoo wanna do?"

"I dun... look here," Igör shook his head as if to dislodge cobwebs, "I thought you rushed off to go do something interesting. You don't mean to tell me you have no plans?"

Skittles shrugged. "We were bored."

"The meeting was insipid," Hissyfit offered.

"So, you were going to go do something not-boring, then?"

"That's the plan."

"Good. So, where are we going?"

"I don't know. We just went out, that's all," Skittles said with a sniff (nasty hayfever going around, apparently). "Thought we'd have a bit of fun. Thought you wanted to have a bit of fun, too. I didn't expect some sort of Spanish Inquisition."

Suddenly, three men clad in vermilion robes burst around the corner. "Aha!" their leader cried. "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!!!"

"Beg pardon?" asked Igör.

A lengthy and somewhat tedious yet inexplicably amusing sequence of events ensued, involving a discourse on the chief weaponry of the Spanish Inquisition. At the end, Igör found himself tied to a rack and seated in a comfy chair with a pair of triangular soft pillows about him. Skittles decided this was all just a little too tedious to take, so proceeded to throw the trio of robe clad men out the window.

"This is slightly disturbing," said Igör as he observed the defenenstration from his comfy chair. "But not as disturbing as it could be. You obviously watch too much television."

"I like to sleep on the television set," commented Hissyfit, kneading one of the soft pillows in preparation for a nap. Sadly, this comment went unheard by Igör, who merely patted her on the head and wondered, "Is there any point to any of this?"

"No," declared Skittles. "That's the fun of it! Now, who wants ice cream?"

[Celuien]

"And now, we're back with our exclusive interview series 'Unmasking the Chaser of Doom.' As you know by now, Mount Doom has mysteriously become more mobile than a mobile phone, faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Umm...strike that last part from the tape, will you Smitty?"

The technician addressed by the reporter scowled and pulled his kamura open, crumpled the film in his hands and, ripping a portion free, threw it to the ground with a scowl.

The reporter cleared his throat and continued. "Ahem. As you know by know, Mount Doom has mysteriously torn free of the shackles of geology to become a free-wheeling vehicle of Doom on Mordorian highways. And, defying death and danger, the mountain is now pursued by an equally mysterious lady of adventure. What drives her? Why does she follow Mount Doom? And, above all, who is she? Smitty! Cut to the guest spot!"

"Wait." Panakeia was suddenly alarmed. "You're not actually going to show my face on kamura, are you, Mr. Blather?" Panakeia was suddenly afraid that a channel-surfing Anakron would spot her on the air and be put out by her new public image as a swashbuckler.

"Of course not. Look at the monitor." Panakeia looked, and was somewhat reassured to see a bright, sunshine colored, smiling face replacing her own visage on the screen. "We've even disguised your voice. Listen." Mr. Blather nodded, and Smitty wound the tape back to Panakeia's question. Her words echoed in the van, her voice somehow deepened and smokier than she knew it to be. Suddenly, uncomfortably, Panakeia was reminded of Lola. She shifted in her seat. The voice, the news story, the eternally cheerful grinning mask on the screen all felt wrong. But there had been no other way to follow Mount Doom but to join the news program.

The reporter was still speaking. Panakeia caught only the last phrase. "And please, call me Samê."

Panakeia managed a half-hearted smile. "Alright. Where were we? Can you play it again, Samê?"

"Certainly." The introduction played again on the monitor, and Panakeia watched intently, determined to compose herself, determined to invent the wildest work of fiction for the interview seen since the last edition of the evening news.

Then the van swerved, sending Panakeia flying out of her chair. She recovered just in time to see the reason for the jolt, a long black limousine speeding in the other direction on the highway, almost directly in the path of the news van, which had crossed into the northbound lanes.

Shaken and stirred by the close call, Panakeia called to the driver to mind the road and asked to be excused for a moment to recover her nerves. She was shown to a soundproofed booth in the van, and soon fell into a deep sleep.

~*~

"Smitty! Got her picture?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Send it to the main office. Our mystery woman looks familiar, though I can't place her. See if we can get an ID, then we'll splash it all over the 10 o'clock show."

"She won't like it."

"It's a scoop, and it's ours. All ours. Besides, it's my duty to the viewing public to break the story. She's hiding something, and the audience needs to know."

Samê Blather grinned, as eager as a cat with a mouse.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron was back was back in Lost Angles. It was odd that Mount Doom no longer dominated the view to the east. In its place was a rising vapor and a red glow on the underside of the ubiquitous clouds above Gorgoroth, reflecting the giant pool of bubbling magma left behind by the sudden evacuation of the mountain.

Strange tales were noised about town about the magma pool. One story was that Roggie had turned into molten lava; that was a joke mostly, but there was always someone to be found who believed such nonsense. Another had it that the magma pool was a result of the Dweomer and that more and more magma would come from the doomed future and that the pool would eventually grow so large that it would swallow up Drollywood and Lost Angles and all of Mordor! Some said that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Anakron ignored the stories. He went to Drollywood and sought out Kaptain Kirkchoo(!) and Spockû to see if they had heard from Panakeia lately. Kaptain Kirkchoo(!) was staring heatedly at an apparent nemesis who happened to look like a much older version of himself and claimed to be the real William Shatner who happened to star in a real television show called something like "Lost town Beagle". Anakron couldn't quite make it out but wondered what on earth a Beagle and William Shatner had to do with each other.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Anakron gently interrupted.

They both glanced at him briefly before they returned to their heated argument, only to give him double take.

"Anakron!" shouted Kirkchoo(!), "What happened to your get up?"

"I tossed them. I'm done being the Grand Anakronist."

"Can you do that?"

Anakron raised both arms and shrugged in silent proof that apparently it was so. Then he asked them about Panakeia.

"No, we haven't seen her in person, but she's all over the news." Kirkchoo(!) pointed to a nearby television news cast, which featured the latest hot story about the mystery woman who was chasing the mountain, who was now revealed to be none other than Panakeia of Harad herself, the love interest of no less than the Grand Anakronist.

Shatner of Beagletown raised his eyebrows appreciatively, grinned, and said, "That's your girl? Not bad." He winked and leered in a most insulting yet flattering fashion.

"Confounded news media!" Anakron shouted and hurried back to his limo. It was obvious that she was trying to catch up to him while he had been trying to go back and find her, and that they had passed each other somewhere in between. He suddenly recalled the media van that had been careening down the road in the most orcish fashion, and couldn't help smiling, realizing that it must have been Panakeia.

In moments the limo was headed back south in hot pursuit of Panakeia of Harad and Mount Zoom, currently temporarily situated in Lûndûn. He couldn't wait to catch up to her there, because Lûndûn was a great place to go for a date, and they had not been back there since the Big Test a year ago. He was looking forward to treating Panakeia to a very, very special weekend. Or maybe an entire week. Why not a month? In fact, why not a whole year? Surely there was enough to do and see in that most fascinating of cities to take up a year. And to do it all with Panakeia was just the thing.

"Faster, Lûgnût!"

[Celuien]

In all of her 50 years, Panakeia of Harad had never imagined that the sight of Mount Doom would bring her relief and joy. But at the moment she espied the mountain belching black smoke over the Heave-ho Airport, her heart went pitter-patter. The van rolled onto the mountain's foot, and Panakeia, not even waiting for the driver to turn the ignition to off, bounded out, ignoring the kamura crew that followed hard upon her trail.

She burst through the palace gates, calling Anakron's name. No answer. Panakeia pushed on undaunted.

"Anakron. Oh, Anakron. It's me! I'm back. Where are you?"

"Not 'ere, miss."

Panakeia whirled, startled by the voice. It eminated from an Orc who stood lounging against a wall, blowing puffs of smoke from a cigarette. Choking on the fumes, Panakeia asked what was meant by that answer.

"Not 'ere. Gone clear off to Lost Angles lookin' for 'is lady-love." The Orc chuckled.

No! Not to Lost Angles! She must have passed Anakron on her frantic and unpleasant journey with the news crew. Like a flash, Panakeia thought of the limo - who else could it have been but Anakron?

He loves me. Panakeia's face positively glowed.

Back, back to Lost Angles! Panakeia, still known to the official bureaucracy of Mordor, soon succeeding in borrowing a lavender Jeep Cherokee and a driver. A Mordor moment later - meaning as quickly as the multitudinous and mushrooming paperwork required for the transaction could be completed and an official staff driver located - Panakeia was seated in the Jeep, northbound for Lost Angles.

Halfway back to the City of Smog, Panakeia spotted a black limousine headed for Lûndûn at full speed. Staring closely at the driver, she thought she recognized Lûgnût.

"Stop that limo!" she shouted. Her driver didn't comply and Panakeia, frantic over the idea of missing Anakron again, seized the wheel and swerved into the limousine’s path. Both cars veered off the road, and Panakeia screamed, both in fear of the impending crash and because she realized that she would now have her reunion with Anakron in Orcish form.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

A slight argument had broken out amongst the diplomats, Smilog had forgotten what it was about and had fallen asleep half way through. He awoke to see many of the Gondorians standing up; one raised up and shouted, "Well, you're so stupid that you can't even see how stupid you are!"

"Wait a moment," said Tollin, leaping to his feet, "it's stopped!" everyone turned to look at the Minotaur, some for the first time. "The mountain has stopped, I'm sure of it."

"Oh, that's nice," grunted Smilog, "but we're no closer to an agreement." he was then knocked off his chair by a flying table. The Barrow Wight blew smoke rings over the heads of the diplomats; he then took a large empty bottle of wine from his cloaks inside pocket. Disappointed at the lack of drink, The Barrow Wight walked out of the room in search of more. No one seemed to mind.

All along the corridor, the Wight saw nothing but hallucinations of snakes all over the ceiling. "I say," he drooled, "those bally, jolly, molly bollys had better... do something... sharp ish! Or they'll have to answer to the sergeant major! And you don't want that!" he laughed to himself and began recounting an absurd story of himself and another Wight being 'behind enemy lines', ‘shootign jerry out of the sky’ and ‘chasing the blosh' yet the story made little sense and had no continuity.

Eventually, the Barrow Wight came to a window looking out of the Mountain; he used it to be sick out of. "Blasted things," he muttered, "strung them all up! The whole bally lot of them!" He peered over the landscape of Lûndûn and mused on his old wartime adventures. Yet, something was staring him in the face and he couldn't work out what it was until it pecked him in the eye. "Blasted seagulls," he mumbled, "what about the piranhas? I've got a family to support! I can't be worrying about starving children!"

A towering... erm... tower seemed to dominate the skyline. A huge clock face shone forth from it, its hands almost both vertical. The Barrow Wight sung a little song to comfort himself as he watched the last hand slowly tick onto the huge "XII" at the top. There was a deafening 'DONG' and the mountain shook, as did the rest of Lûndûn. This was followed by eleven further 'DONG's. Suddenly, The Barrow Wight found himself sober and full of fear. He ran back to the conference chamber as fast as he could.

[Lhunardawen]

"Where are we going?" Maika finally spoke after she and Hyarmenwë have been walking silently for quite some time.

"I was of the idea, lady," responded Hyarmenwë, "that you will decide on our destination."

Maika stopped and turned abruptly to her right, looking up at the towering Gondorian. "Wait a minute - you're the one who called me out of the room."

"You know this place far better than I do, or ever will."

"Oh, yeah..." Maika slowly turned away, feeling shamed by Hyarmenwë's diplomatic tone against her own slightly aggressive one. Control your nerves, silly. "Alright, then."

She stepped on ahead, Hyarmenwë quickly catching up with her, and they resumed walking in silence. Out of the corner of her eye Maika saw him throwing uneasy glances at her now and again. She smiled inwardly, but pretended not to take notice.

"Where are you leading me?" he asked after a while, in a surprisingly quiet voice that belied the apprehension Maika thought he must be feeling.

"You said you wanted a private word," she replied, jerking her head to look at him without breaking her stride. "There's only one place for such a conversation."

She stopped beside a door; a sign hanging on it said BROOM SHED. Hyarmenwë looked doubtfully at the sign, and then at Maika, who pushed the door open.

"--phecy made about you and Lord Vol--"

"Professor!" a boy's voice gasped.

The two ambassadors stared wide-eyed at the broom shed's occupants. One, who had apparently been speaking as Maika opened the door, was an old man; a spider was crawling down his tall, pointed black hat to his surprised face. The boy had instinctively pulled out a wand from his pocket and was now pointing it at Maika. His eyes, she could see, flashed dangerously, but hers were drawn upwards to a curious scar, shaped like a lightning bolt, on his forehead.

"Pardon us," said Hyarmenwë with an apologetic bow, slowly shut the door, and pulled Maika away gently by the elbow. At this she stirred, as though from a waking dream, and shook her head vigorously, as though to dislodge the dream from her memory.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her lips barely moving. "Come on," she added a bit more loudly, and led Hyarmenwë down the hallway. They walked on with Maika muttering "Can't believe someone beat me to it..."

"Lady Maika," Hyarmenwë began tentatively, "do those - people - in the broom shed, do they, by any chance, bear any relation to Dracomir Malfoidacil?"

"They're anakronisms," Maika waved her hand dismissively. "Better not dwell on them."

She slightly upped her pace and felt Hyarmenwë beside her do likewise. At her lead they finally halted beside another door: a wardrobe, right in the hallway. Maika stretched her arm towards the handle--

"You won't get into Nurnia again by that route."

They turned around to see another old man - no pointed black hat this time - standing across them.

"Bless me," he added as he left them dumbfounded, "what do they teach them at these schools?" The old man rounded a corner, and he was gone. Maika turned back to the wardrobe and reached for the handle again, opened the door, and put her right foot in.

"Are you certain--"

"Hyarmenwë, you heard him," she gestured at the old man's wake. "It's safe. Now hurry up and get in. And whatever you do, don't shut the door behind you - that would be stupid."

"But--"

"Oh, come on! What's anakronistic about stepping into a wardrobe?"

Maika put her left foot in (and shook nothing about, nor did the hokey-pokey) before Hyarmenwë, who followed hesitantly behind, could stop her. They slowly made their way deeper into the wardrobe, guided by the sliver of light from the crack at the door.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Follow me, old bean," said the quivering Barrow Wight as he dragged Smilog out of the conference chamber. Tollin followed along to see what the fuss was about. "It's right over there!" the Wight waved out of the window and hid his eyes. "It's jolly horrible!"

"What," said Smilog, "the curtains?"

"No!" shouted the Barrow Wight, "there! That thing! I'll tell you what it is!" Smilog yawned and sat down as the ghostly skeleton said, in a deep and haunting voice, "Small Jim!" Smilog rolled his eyes. "I'm serious, old spice! Maybe that mumbling old fool was right about the blue wizards."

"Oh shut up." said the dwarf, "small Jim was built as a monument to annoy all the conspiracy theorists. I should know! I commissioned it. And there are no elaborate plans for a great uncloaking hidden under the floor boards."

The Barrow Wight sighed and lent against the wall before following the others back to the conference room. Smilog made a small diversion to visit the toilet. He passed through a door while the other two waited outside. They spoke of things past and present as well as what may yet to be. Or, rather, they speculated about how long they had left on that accursed Mountain of DOOM!

Time passed. And passed. It was nearly half an hour since Smilog vanished behind the door. Tollin arose and pushed open the door before he heard a familiar voice coming from behind him. "You are not going to believe this!" they turned around to see Smilog covered in slime and beaming.

"What happen?" asked Tollin, "did you fall into the toilet?"

"No, you imbecile!" snapped the Dwarf before a swift swing of Tollin's morning star corrected him. "Anyway," he continued, "there is a tiny door in there that leads inside of Gandalf Mithrandir!" The others looked at him puzzled. "It's true! You go in and you see through his eyes for about fifteen minuets before your spat out at a round about near Small Jim!"

"Who's Gandalf Mithrandir?" asked Tollin,

"Oh," replied Smilog, "he's this istari, but a good one."

"Perhaps he can deal with those blue blighters," suggested the Barrow Wight.

"No chance," replied the Dwarf, "he's in Valinor."

"Oh well," hummed Tollin, "we'd better get back."

"But-" began Smilog trying to bring himself to think of a convincing argument, but ultimately failing and saying, "Okay, lets go."

[littlemanpoet]

"Careful, Lûgnût," said Anakron, "we're about to enter Nurnia again, and the roads and steering wheels change. So get ready to jump to the other side of the car."

"Can't you undo that thing?" Lûgnût whined.

"Hardly. You threw away my gear."

"Dra-aaAAAAT!!!" Suddenly the road had begun to weave over its opposite lanes, and the steering wheel had suddenly disappeared from Lûgnût's grasp, only to reappear on the right side of the limo. Lûgnût scrabbled over to the right side as the limo began to swerve off the road, righting it just in time. Just then a lavendar Jeep Cherokee veered from the northbound lanes across the median, directly in front of Anakron's black limo. It figured: an orc was driving it....madly, over the protesting grip of another orc sitting in the driver's seat. Lucky for them they were going to be spared The Switch by crashing before they got there. Lûgnût let out a stream of cuss words as he jerked the steering wheel to the right to avoid a head-on, or direct-of-some-sort collision .... which they failed to do.

The Jeep Cherokee's engine practically howled like a stereotypical Native American ready for war whilst the limo roared and screeched, but they collided and locked fenders, such that Anakron found himself looking out his left window at the frantic orc who was grasping the steering wheel over the sitting orc's protests; meanwhile the frantic .... female ... orc was staring at him, with a silly, somewhat beaming grin on its hideous features. The sheer fascination caught and held Anakron's attention, and he could not help a slight sneer form upon his lips in appreciation for the horrific contrast between pure joy and pure ugliness on this female orc's face. But somehow the face did resemble someone, he just couldn't place whom.

Or had it been during the Challenge a year ago? There was a striking resemblance, take away the orcishness to-

"Panakeia!" Anakron blurted. "Stop this car!" he shouted.

"How the bliddy Thangorodrim am I supposed to control anything about this car with that putrid Jeep locking lips with my fend .... oh. We're stopped."

The female orc who was Panakeia climbed most ungraciously all over the other orc in her effort to somehow get out of the Jeep. Meanwhile, Anakron lunged for the free door to do the same. Panakeia jumped out the opposite side of the door and hooted with glee, jumping onto the roof of the Jeep while Anakron climbed undecorously onto the limo.

Anakron stopped. She was really quite grotesque.... at first. Her over-long arms began to shrink to normal size, she became bashful and embarrassed instead of aggressive, and as her fangs and forehead diminished, a not so awful looking blush came to her humanizing cheeks, and in moments she was his beauty. He jumped from roof to roof, and with the lavender deck firmly beneath their feet, Anarkon threw his arms around Panakeia.

"My Valinor! My Silmaril!"

Panakeia positively beamed.

They locked lips.

[Formendacil]

"Oh, come on! What's anakronistic about stepping into a wardrobe?"

Hyarmenwë could think of all sorts of reasons why he's rather not step into the wardrobe, but none of them were pertinent to the question, and he allowed himself to be talked into it...

...and stepped out into a rather empty-looking field of grain, not a person, tree, fence, rock, or interesting thing in sight. Only a stream in the far distance meandering down from distant mountains.

"Where are we?" Hyarmenwë gazed around, a bit concerned.

"Nurnia," explained Maika, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The Wardrobe leads to Nurnia."

Well, Hyarmenwë knew that Nurn had been the breadbasket of Sauron's empire, and it stood to reason that that was where they were. Precisely how that was supposed to relate to the wardrobe, he hadn't the foggiest idea. He also didn't want to know. It smacked of anakronism, and he had more important things to do, anyway.

"What I wished to speak to you about, Lady Maika," he began, "is a matter on which we have, I think, a certain amount of shared interest. You wish, I deem, to see certain of those Assigned to Mordor legitimate ability to return to Gondor- including yourself, I think. Well, it so happens that I have someone in Mordor I wish to find, and likewise restore to Gondor. My daughter was Assigned on birth for the unhappy name my wife gave her."

Something stirred in Maika. What, Hyarmenwë couldn't say, but clearly she was interested.

"How old would she be? And what was the unlucky name?" Maika whipped out her palm pilot.

"She'd be about ten, fifteen years younger than you," said Hyarmenwë, glaring at the palm pilot. "As to her name, I do not know. My wife refused to utter it when I returned and found our daughter gone."

"I'll need as exact an age as you can give," said Maika. "She'd be twenty-ish, then?"

"Eighteen... I think," Hyarmenwë scoured his mind. What year had that been? He'd tried so hard to put it out of his mind, that he wasn't quite sure. And age didn't help either.

Again, there was that flicker on Maika's face. She appeared ready to say something, but Hyarmenwë, irked at the look she was giving the palm pilot, a look entirely too used to it, grabbed the palm pilot, and tossed it away into the grains.

"WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?" Maika demanded to know, every bit as royally enraged as a Gondorian noble.

"If I am to reintegrate you into Gondor, you must try to live without anakronisms, Lady Maika," said Hyarmenwë. "As few as possible, preferably none."

"Just a second," snapped Maika, "We have no agreement yet!"

"Then I put it to you now," said Hyarmenwë, a good deal more composed than Maika was. "You know my offer. Do you accept?"

[Anguirel]

Dracomir stretched lanquidly across three seats at the now utterly deserted negotiation table. Even less progress had evidently been made by either side than yesterday. He had not really bothered, after his initial imput, to follow the sordid descent of the day's business into yet another sublime ludicrosity. A folded, silvery bundle on one chair-formerly Maika's-caught his eye, and he pocketed the Inaudibility Cloak once again. One couldn't be too careful. And it was something to do.

In a similar spirit, Tom produced the crumpled Mordorers' Map, and wearily muttered the weird incantation about filling in saves. Then, his eyes rolling, he attempted to locate his fellow, er, ambassadors. Smilog, surrounded by the usual pack of intoxicated intoxicates. Angawen and Beauregard not far off, pacing. Hyarmenwe and Maika in a wardrobe.

Hyarmenwe and Maika in a wardrobe???

Excellent. With the gossip-columnist mentality of a second-string villain, Dracomir grinned and twirled out his wand.

"Accio Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes-Quill!"

It was as Dracomir had suspected. Someone had, at some point, Assigned her to Mordor, and the Quill shot through a priceless window dating from the Second Age and depicting Sauron in the form of a fruitbat, shattering it to tiny pieces.

Dracomir stroked the Quill lightly, produced some clean parchment left over from the negotiations, and said in a monotone voice, "Your Hotness King Roggie, I think you should know that one of your ambassadors, Maika, has been found in a compromising permission with one of my colleagues. I fear treachery as well as gross moral misconduct. Signed, your old pal, Tom Felton."

He glanced at the paper. It was as he had hoped; the Quill had successfully read between the lines of his statement and produced a tabloid article dripping with lurid libel, denouncing Hyarmenwe and Maika as traitors to both their causes, as well as illicit lovers.

"Acccio Orc," the ghastly young journo-in-the-making cried imperiously, and a harrassed looking guard flew through an open door. "Take this to the King-without fail. Off you go."

The Lord Malfoidacil watched the Orc scurry off with a wicked smile on his angelic features.

[Lhunardawen]

Maika gave Hyarmenwë a look of purest loathing, fumbled for her palm pilot on the ground, and, with a fierce battle-cry to rival the Amazonas', hurled it violently towards his face.

If she were Skittles in disguise, perhaps.

But the real Maika could only glare at the Gondorian. An unwilling silence stifled all that was threatening to burst from her mouth--none of which had anything to do with the palm pilot lying near her feet. She suddenly found the meandering stream in the distance interesting, and towards it she turned her gaze as it softened. The clouds above them, she noticed gratefully, covered the sky entirely.

"What made you think, in the first place," she asked in as casual a voice as she could manage, "that I am one of those Gondorians I spoke of? Surely I am every bit as Mordorian as my fellow ambassadors are."

"No one else would have made that suggestion, Lady Maika. What motive could drive a non-Gondorian to want it done? And I mean no offence, but I've always thought you seem a bit too...normal, if you will, for their company."

"That's fair enough, I suppose..." she said, letting her gentle amusement trail into insignificance. "Alright then, you caught me. I am Gondorian. Or I was, rather."

Maika glanced at Hyarmenwë. Despite having correctly guessed, a mild surprise had still sneaked into his face.

"But you were right in only one count," she continued, again turning away. "I have no desire to return to Gondor."

"Why not, my lady?" The surprise rendered this time in his voice was more apparent.

"My loyalty lies with this land," she answered as she lightly touched her nose, and silently sighed in relief. "Surely you, of all people, know the meaning of duty. And it is as you yourself have expressed concern; there is no certainty that I will ever be purged of the anakronisms to which I've been accustomed."

"I understand," Hyarmenwë's response softly came. Maika did an internal double-take. Was there a hint of sadness in his voice, or was that just what she desired to hear?

"But as for your daughter..." she continued, pushing the thought away, "I'm certain that the child of someone of your position will have been cared for by the more conservative assigned Gondorians. They might have adopted her the moment she stepped into Mordor, and a visit to them can possibly lead us to her."

"So it is us, then?"

"Yes." Maika faced Hyarmenwë fully. "Yes," she repeated, "I am willing to help you inasmuch as I can."

"I am grateful," said Hyarmenwë with a bow.

"That might not be anything, though. For all I know those people regard me now as a traitor," Maika said carelessly, shrugging. "And I do not need to tell you--as you've already seen enough of this land for yourself--that this mission, quest, thing...it will not be easy."

"I am aware of that."

"Good. Now, if you have nothing else to say, let us return." She pointed towards the mountain behind them. "That's the back of the wardrobe; it is nothing more than a concealed exit from Mount Doom. We have, you see, been parking here in Nurnia for quite some time now."

Without waiting for a response, without seeing Hyarmenwë relieved that no anakronism had occured, without even thinking to pick up her palm pilot, Maika started her way back.

[littlemanpoet]

Leave Mordor. Anakron looked at Panakeia's beseeching eyes, stunned. He had never allowed himself to even imagine such a chance for himself, and she was laying it before him as a virtual imperative.

"My only estel, do you think it could be done?"

Her face, already aglow, began to beam with hope. She nodded. "We must!"

"Then we shall."

"Oh Anakron!" Panakeia proceeded to plant labial tissue yet again on Anakron's labio-responsive receptors; which were, according to the most up-to-date anakronistic diagnostics very receptive indeed.

"But first, my star of the morning," Anakron said momentarily, "I want to take you on an excursion to Lûndûn, strictly to see the sites."

"A date?"

"An extended date. Shall we?"

"Let's shall!"

Anakron escorted Panakeia to the black stretch-limo which happened to resemble the black taxis of Lûndûn in all but length. Soon they were on their way down the British law roads, side by side in the back seat, Lûgnût behind the wheel, leering grinningly through the rear view mirror. What the two spoke of to each other, no records say; nor does it say whether they spoke much or not, or whether they were otherwise engaged. Be that as it may, the records do say that they were living in a state of bliss, as if Mordor hardly existed for them.

At least for the time being.

[Anguirel]

The Lord Malfoidacil, having stashed his Map away, strolled into the next room where Angawen was looking daggers at a rather bored seeming Beauregard. Dracomir whistled jovially as he entered their presence.

"Hallo, chums. I do wonder where Hyarmenwe's got to. Most peculiar him going off with some Mordorian ambassador, isn't it? Still, stranger things have happened...as long as his professional dignity isn't compromised..."

He flashed a quick smile and tossed his head so that his scarily pale blonde hair flopped charmingly to one side.

"Still, perhaps we can do without his scruples for a bit. Any news from you lot?" he enquired, unable quite to banish an edge of disdain. "Or any sign of those Mordorian jokes calling themselves envoys?"

"None," Angawen replied almost mournfully. "The afternoon's only amusement has been kicking Beauregard."

"Or being kicked by Angawen, from my point of view," Beauregard pointed out brightly.

Still reeling slightly from the ingenuity of his Hyarmenwe/Maika accusation, Dracomir was quick to wonder...could there be potential for something here? But no, back to the daily grind of negotiating, or non-negotiating...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

And so it was that the day had ended, the save had been filled, and the author had been mysteriously logged off between typing and hitting post, and so the post was lost to the depths of cyberspace.

Within it were many puns, one pertaining to the tense of the word 'thought', and it involved Alli Umfuil reading parts of Malfoidacil's slanderous letter aloud.

She and Roggie argued and tabloids wrote about it. Smilog and company disappeared from Alli's radar (well, you know... her Middle Earthian equivilant of a radar... she didn't really have a radar... I was just using that as an example, ya know?) and probably had a bit of cliff-hanging adventure. Maika and Hyarmenwe were officially repremanded and their responses were left ambiguous so that their own writers could fill in the blank spots of the narration.

A few other people did a few other things, and it was written in such a way that if it had actually posted like it should have, the world would be at peace, the ozone would fix itself, teddy bears would go on picnic, turn gummi, and start dancing to various locations that rhyme, and pigs would fly through a chilly underworld.

A week flew by in an amazing narratorial blur and it ended in such a scene that the sky was darkening. It was that shade of evening wherein you can't see the deer no matter if you're using high or low beams, and all you succeed in doing is blinding other drivers that can't really see either, because the air turns opaque, the sky is pinkish, everything is really weird looking, and shadows don't seem to exist, except within your own eyes.

And so the night began...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

It has long been a point of contention among scholars why, exactly, formerly tranquil, pitch-black, stony corridors start echoing to tacky horror-music when something unfriendly is crawling down them. Some hold that it is an evolutionary response developed by castle walls in the Jurassic Period. Others put it down to a quirk of Romanian architecture. But on one fact all are agreed. The path of the Werewolf is always heralded by bastardised Strauss.

So it was on this particular dark watch of the night. Few heard the ominous strains of music in the Castle of Roggie, due to the majestic snoring of the Orc garrison. But there are some who always have ears to here*.

A figure in a grey cloak and hood flung itself to the ground, hollowing a hand round one alert ear. Then the Ranger-for it was he-rose to his feet with a stern expression.

"Gaurhoth," he spat, and drew his sword, a venerable weapon crafted by Petty-Dwarves to be the bane of mosquitoes. A rather suave growl from behind him answered his challenge, and he spun round in a fluid motion.

"Go back to the Shadow!" the Ranger cried. "You cannot take your prey tonight, Hound of Sauron. I am defending her."

"Oh, yes?" the fell spirit replied smoothly. "Think again, Ranger. It is you I have come for this eve."

The valiant Dunadan raised his sword in formal challenge.

"You shall ne'er defeat the grandson of Aradorable and son of Aramazing..."

The wolf sprang, a ray of moonlight illuminating its pale silver fur. The fabled sword of the hero bent and snapped, and the creature of the night lunged for the throat, and feasted.

"The prophecy is fulfilled, Aracannonfodder son of Aramazing," it commented. "You would indeed have tasted better with salt. No matter. The ambassadors are defenceless now!"

Loping to a window, the werewolf cast back its head and began to howl, rhythmically, in tune with the horror music...

*This typo has been left intentionally to suit the whims of the poster, the writer, and everybody that's wondering what the heck is happening.

[Lhunardawen]

Maika looked back in spite of herself, and turned into a pillar of salt. Er, she watched the raging werecreature, stunned yet altogether curious.

"Go, my lady!" cried Elrogorn, as though he had eyes at the back of his head. "This is not for kids!"

Maika was about to start on an icy response when she felt a strong grasp on her forearm forcing her away from the scene. It was Hyarmenwë, whose face was rather pale but otherwise set. The urgency in his eyes, though it might be there because of the wereduck, brought the thought of their own quest back to her. She nodded at him and suffered herself to be led into the inn.

"Quack! Quack!"

Maika rolled her eyes. Banters - even animals weren't spared. How thoroughly worthy of an old-school action film. Whatever witty (or otherwise) retort Elrogorn had for that, the two ambassadors no longer heard, for when the door closed behind them they were engulfed by the pleasant noise of scattered conversations around them. Maika was still amazed, even though she had been to the place a few times in the past. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. Typical Mordorian diners never felt this...this homey.

She realised that Hyarmenwë had let go of her arm and just begun to walk towards a vacant table in the distant corner of the room. She followed him, looking around, holding herself up importantly to disguise her interest.

"Maika!"

The Mordorian ambassador swung instinctively towards the table she had just passed. An old woman was ducking under it.

"How many times have I told you not to wander off when we're eating?"

I really should change my name, fumed Maika, picturing a mischievous little girl with food-stained clothes and pigtails.

"Meoooow."

Maika the cat got out from under the table and jumped suddenly onto the old woman's arched back, causing the poor woman to hit her head. Maika the human, on the other hand, pretended that sharing her name with an animal did not bother her the least. She resumed walking after Hyarmenwë, got to the table after him, and sat down on the seat he indicated. He took the place in front of her.

"I figured you must be famished; we have had no short journey," he said.

Yes. I want a smoothie. "I'm fine," she replied, "let's just get down to business. We'll have to be back--"

"Lord Hyarmenwë!"

Oh dear, Maika silently groaned. Don't tell me it's a guy addressing an aristocratic dog.

The two ambassadors turned and saw a happy-looking couple waving at them - or at Hyarmenwë, rather; Maika had no idea who they were. So, Hyarmenwë had already socialised with the people here! It might make their task a bit easier. She was glad to see that they were making their way towards their table, and Hyarmenwë seemed equally grateful. He promptly offered the remaining seats when they arrived, the lady taking the seat beside Maika's.

"How wonderful to see you again," the Gondorian told the newcomers.

The couple smiled. "The pleasure is ours, my lord," said the man. "What brings you back to this place? And I see you have a new companion." He nodded towards Maika, still smiling. The lady with him also looked at her welcomingly. Not for long, Maika thought, and proceeded to introduce herself, but Hyarmenwë beat her to it.

"This is Lady Maikaelwen, a Mordorian ambassador."

There was no change in their expressions. Was she seeing things? Did she really need a smoothie?

"Lady Maika, this is Aleksandur, and his betrothed, Fíriel. I met them the first time I had been here."

Maika was still in a detached state of disbelief and only managed to nod politely.

"You ask what brings me back here," continued Hyarmenwë, addressing the couple. "Do you remember what I once told you, before we left?"

"I do, my lord. You have a daughter somewhere in these parts," said Aleksandur.

"Precisely. Maika here had consented to help me look for her, and suggested starting with this place. She is, you see, herself Gondorian-born."

"I would have guessed it," said Fíriel. "She certainly looks the part."

Maika maintained a poker face. But inside...inside...she was not sure what she thought, or felt, regarding the comment. "Perhaps you would like something to eat?" she offered instead, in order to divert the conversation from her.

The other three approved of this idea, to Maika's relief. Fíriel waved at an approaching young lady in an apron, who smiled at seeing her and hurried towards their table. As anyone in their position would, the two men turned around instinctively to see at whom Fíriel gestured...and Hyarmenwë drew a sharp gasp.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron raised his Sylvestrian staff, much to the interest of Hissyfit, and said, "Konvay!" at the bliddy Dwarf who was suddenly beset by a bad but very suitable case (he was after all a Dwarf) of nepotISM.

Satisfied, Anakron turned away and watched the Minotaur and Barrow Wight, to see if they would incur his wrath.

"I say, old chap," rattled the boney Barrow Wight, "lot of rubbish about 'isms', what?"

"The dweomer does as it does," Anakron replied.

"Where's your girlfriend?" asked Skittles. "Did you hit her with fetishism? Hissyfit! Come here and leave Sylvester alone!" She watched the cat with apparent fascination. "I don't care if he keeps on lisping at you!" Anakron raised an eyebrow and consciously ignored the warmistress, distracting himself by the entertainment of the Dwarf who was apparently growing sons from his forehead.

"Oucht!" cried the Minotaur. "That hath to hurth!"

[Formendacil]

As anyone in their position would, the two men turned around instinctively to see at whom Fíriel gestured...and Hyarmenwë drew a sharp gasp.

"Morliniel!"

"Who?" Maika stopped looking at the stranger, who appeared to be in her later thirties.

"My wife," explained Hyarmenwë. "She looks exactly like my wife."

"Well, that was easy," said Maika. "I guess we've found your daughter."

Hyarmenwë shook his head. "She's too old. My daughter wouldn't be quite twenty."

"Oh, Bobawen isn't as old as she looks," said Fíriel. "She's not been here for quite twenty years. She was Assigned as a baby. We assume it's because of her accelerated growth. She looks closer to forty than the actual twenty that she is."

Hyarmenwë looked a bit perplexed. He had always thought his daughter had been assigned for her name, nothing more. But there was no denying that this woman, this "Bobawen", was close kin to his dear Morliniel, bless her memory.

"Bobawen!" Fíriel called, as he mulled it all over, "come over here!"

But Bobawen had not quite reached the table when a loud POP rocked the tavern from outside. As everyone rushed to the doors to see what had happened, Elrogorn swaggered it, looking a little shaken. He was soaked from head to toe, and stank somewhat.

"What is all that?" Hyarmenwë asked.

"This?" said Elrogorn, casually flicking some of the water off the end of his arm, and wiping his hair back out his eyes in a most dashing manner. "Dirty bathwater. Those Wereducks are full of them."

Through the door, Hyarmenwë could see large pieces of yellow rubber scattered around the ground.

"I'm not so sure that was a Wereduck..." Aleksandur began, but Fíriel cut him off.

"Gondorians don't know anything about Wereducks, remember dear?"

"Well, it was a duck anyway, and it was threatening our lives," said Elrogorn nonchalantly. "And it's dead now. Now, good pubkeeper," he addressed the bar, "I'll have a pint of your finest brew."

Settling himself down at the table, Elrogorn took the pint from the pubkeeper and swiftly downed it in one long, manly, chug. Though the normal thing to do at that point would have been to let loose with a long, manly, belch, Elrogorn retained his dreamlike cool and did nothing of the sort.

Instead, he turned to Hyarmenwë, pointed at Bobawen (who had still not been properly introduced) and asked.

"Tell me, good sir, who is this stunning youngish lady?"