ATM II RPG

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë and Maika had been travelling for a good hour when a rather attention-demanding cough caused them to turn around. Hyarmenwë, who had been thinking that his sorry nag might not be so sorry if it had a proper grooming, and had been thinking of various ways to go about it, was surprised indeed to see that strange, anakronistic... half-elf person from the laundry room trailing them.

"I beg your pardon, good elder," he addressed Hyarmenwë, "but you've got my handkerchief." He pointed at Hyarmenwë's boot where, indeed, a very dirty, blood-stained handkerchief was stuck. The blood, which had been damp and sticky back in the laundry room had dried, bonding the handkerchief to his boot. With a tug, Hyarmenwë ripped it up, and dourly handed it to Elrogorn.

"Is there any particular reason why you waited a good hour before speaking up?" asked Maika. "I assume you've been following us the whole time?"

"Yes, I've been following," said Elrogorn, "but it took me until now to catch up."

"Why didn't you stop me before I left that... room... or in the halls?" asked Hyarmenwë.

"You were talking," said Elrogorn, as if it were really quite simple. "Far be it from me to rudely interrupt so intriguing a conversation my mundane request for a dirty handkerchief."

"And then, once you had shaken yourself out of this politeness, you followed us on foot for an hour, rather than just shouting and catching our attention?" Maika asked.

"Pretty much, yes," said Elrogorn, flashing her a smile that said he had planned it that way.

"Hold on..." said Hyarmenwë. "These are a couple of sorry nags, but they aren't that slow. You caught up to us on foot? You aren't even out of breath! You're as fresh as a garden vegetable!"

"Why, thank you," said Elrogorn, with a smooth bow. "But I can move quickly when I need to. It runs in the family, really. My uncle Aragorn was known as 'Strider', you know, and my mother's godfather, Tom Bombadil, was well-able to keep pace with hobbits riding ponies, and my legs are much longer than his."

"I still think a wise man would have shouted us down a good fifty-nine minutes ago," interjected Maika. "Why didn't you?"

"Having heard your conversation, my curiosity was piqued," said Elrogorn. "I know the tavern you travel to quite well. As nephew of the great King Elessar, I'm something of the Bonnie Prince Charlie of Mordor- minus the legitimate claim, of course. Though I don't know that the Gondmordorians are really of a Jacobite bent. In any case, as a someone who knows the dangers of Wereducks in the Wild, and having sworn to let none fall to their bills, it is only appropriate that I join the two of you on your journey, and not leave you to their dastardly clutches."

"So, basically, you didn't say anything so that we'd have to let you join us?" said Maika.

"Yes, pretty much," agreed the part-Elf. "I am Elrogorn, son of Elrohir, and if by life or death or something uncanonical I can protect you, I will. You have my sword, and my bow, and my dagger, and my Swiss Army Knife."

Neither Maika or Hyarmenwë said a word, but simply spurred their horses into continuing on, while Elrogorn followed at a trot behind them.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Although there were many winding stairs covered in a great many different kinds of slime, Smilog and his party soon came to the top of the Tower of Small Jim. They ere in a large square room, ten foot high the walls and the ceiling was up held by many thin pillars. On each wall they could see, dimly, the outline of great clock faces, each with a sword painted on them with yellow writing above; yet what the writing said, none could tell, for it was blurred and in a foreign language. "Kids," muttered Smilog, "always graffiti-ing our stuff."

Tollin examined the centre of the room, where there were, suspended three foot off the ground, four large bells, surrounding a larger bell made of brass and steel. All about them was the loudly echoed sound of ticking and the creaking of floorboards whenever they moved. There seemed nothing particularly odd about the place, bar the small group of rats in the corner who appeared to be dressed as 16th Century English aristocrats and drinking gallons of tea.

"I say," Shouted the Barrow Wight as he inspected the clock face closely, "I recognise this."

"You do?" said Smilog, turning suddenly and nearly falling over in the process.

"Yes, quite plainly," the dead man took out a monocle and peered at the face even closer, "it was several years ago when me and some other Wights came here and decided to leave a little message of our own. It simply reads 'The Barrow Downs' those were good times." Smilog resisted the urge to punch the Wight.

"Look at this," said Tollin noticing a part of the floor that appeared to have been recently cut out and replaced. "I think I can open it," continued the Minotaur, "shall I?" Smilog nodded and Tollin lifted the floorboards. Then, several things happened; a horse sneezed, a rat leaped out of the floor and bit The Barrow Wight on the ear, Smilog slipped and smashed through the floor, and Tollin saw a small book in the hole being carried down by gravity, just above Smilog.

There was some crashing and banging before a silence grew once again. "Good grief," said the Barrow Wight, "Smilog, I say!" he cried down the hole, there were some groans from the deeps, "You seem to have fallen down a thirty foot hole."

"I think he knows that," pointed out Tollin, "can you move." Smilog swore at them and muttered something about getting back up if he had to grow wings. "There was a book!" cried Tollin, "can you see it?" there was some muffled cursing and sounds of movement.

"Yes. I have it!" came Smilog's reply.

"What does it say, old bean?" asked The Barrow Wight, taking his pipe out and lighting it.

"It says, 'get me out of here you stupid rotting corpse!'" Smilog threw a rock up, but it did not even get close to the top, but came back down and obviously his him on the head. Tollin rose and stroked his chin, trying to think of a plan.

All of a sudden, the ceiling collapsed and a large figured clothed in an orange robe fell to the floor and then rose up again, gripping a large metal staff. It appeared to be a man, tall and blond with a short stubble and long hair that his threw back. He smiled widely and showed a set of ridiculously white teeth. "Sorry I'm late," he said in an agonisingly arrogant voice, "did I miss anything? I bet you're all glad to see me at last, eh beardy!" he grabbed Tollin and head butted him, "we're all real men here!"

"I'm sorry," said The Barrow Wight, putting his pipe out, "Who are you?" the man punched the Wight in the face and laughed.

"Me?" he laughed, "Who am I? Who am I?"

"Yes, that's what I asked," said The Wight after putting his head back on.

"I'm Flashalim, the fabled orange wizard of the south!" he announced, "you can call me 'Flash'!" he winked and said, "I had some terrible business to sort out back west, but now I'm here to sort out the so-called dark Lord and then take all his birds! Woof!"

The Barrow Wight stared, almost feeling sick. "I don't think they get many in Mordor. The air is too poisonous for them to fly." Flash looked at him for an awful second, then he threw his head back and laughed.

"You're a funny fellow!" he cried, "Now! Let’s get kicking some Sauron backside! And then, to Gondor! Woof!"

After explaining to Flash many times that he was a little late for the war with Sauron, Tollin eventually got around to asking him to help get Smilog out of the hole. "Well," said Flash, standing up and throwing his hair back, "I've got just the spell for this!

Two hours later, Smilog and the rest stood at the bottom of Mount Zoom, peering at the devastated remains of Small Jim. Flash was next to him, covered from head to tow in soot and brick remnant. "Well, wasn't that fantastic?" cried Flash, "Now, it was bucko seeing you ladies, but I've got a Middle Earth to save!" a mysterious rope appeared from no where from the sky. Flash grabbed it and swung off shouting "Woof!"

"I do hope he gets eaten," said Smilog as he watched the 'wizard' fly of towards the homes of the wild Wargs.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli slipped through shadows like it was her job, glaring at the sun for being out and making what action should look impressive and mysterious simply start looking a little creepy. She straightened up and walked normally, her stride long, and her cape (yes, she was wearing a cape... she found it covered her stash of weaponry very tidily) billowed like Batman's frequently did.

She had a lot on her mind, to say the least. Most of it would be transcribed as gibberish, sort of like aoig haorlighw ionawerewolfaweoihg aAimèmmvvvve rrrrIllamatar!!! fjaoi.

She was not entirely sure in which direction she walked... she didn't really care. But she needed information, and she needed a Vision. She'd had no dreams in days; she'd fallen asleep, exhausted, loathing every extra moment spent in Mount Zoom. She'd heard no whispers, seen nothing. And now... a Ranger... killed. There were only so many people, and what if?

She knew some identities... she knew who she could trust, as far as non-wolvery went. But she never entirely knew how reliable her good guy friends were. It was always easier to trust her shady contacts. Bad guys can always be trusted to be bad. You can guarantee their allegiance with money, or with power, or with... well... she didn't really want to go into all the ways to guarantee an alliance with a sketchy dude. But they were reliable, so long as you remembered not to rely on them. And what was better, they all knew she didn't trust a word they said! With good guys, she knew they'd do something really stupid with the least provocation. There wouldn't be logic to it, they'd do it because it was the Right Thing To Do. And when she didn't trust them, half the time they were legitimately insulted. She groaned. Being in charge of all of this stuff was way too much effort and nobody actually appreciated the vast number of papers she spent her work hours ignoring.

She wanted to be in the field again. Being in charge is not fun, she reflected. Going out and slaughtering orcs... that's where the action is. Paperwork... She shuddered.

And then she rounded a corner.

The light had mysteriously dimmed to a horror-movie-graveyard shade of creepy. A shop that seemed to sell some less than legal wares played a sound track of mildly Gothic classical. A black cat ran out in front of her. She wrapped her cloak around her, pulling her hood over her long black hair. She'd tied it back at the nape of her neck, but two long, straight locks still framed her face. Try though she might, she never could stop looking like a supermodel. Even when she was trying to be secretive and creepy. She only came off as looking incredible gorgeous in a secretive and hot creepy way.

Her mind on the blisters her black leather boots were mysteriously beginning to give her, Alli never saw him coming.

[Celuien]

"Do you really thing that's possible, Panakeia? Do you?" Anakron's voice was tense and despairing. Panakeia heard the tone, and cold fear gripped her. It was as though they were back in Lost Angles a week before, when she said her adieu to Anakron near the shores of the Pathetic Ocean, and the gulls cried above in an echo of her grief.

"Oh yes. My love, my darling! It is. Let's go now. We'll leave and never come back. They'll never find us. We'll go far away from here and be happy - as happy as we've been this week."

Anakron did not reply. His handsome face looked troubled, and Panakeia's heart ached with pity for the struggle she read in his eyes. The cloak billowed on the ground, though there was no breeze to stir its folds. Panakeia stared at the cloak and hat, and it seemed to her that the hat grew larger as she watched it. Clouds began to gather in the sky, and she shivered.

At last Anakron spoke. "Yes, I have been happy, though I fear such happiness is not to be my fate."

"No! Don't say that! Don't think it! You can leave. You gave up being the Grand Anakronist. It's over. The wizards have no hold over you."

"But do you not see? They do, and will." Anakron stepped towards the staff with his fingers outstretched.

"Anakron?" Panakeia's voice cracked as she spoke.

Anakron paused, only half-looking at her, and Panakeia leant forward to kiss him. But he did not return the embrace.

"I am sorry." Anakron pulled away and took up the staff. As he did so, a storm blew out of the east. Rain began to pour. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and Anakron's robe waved in the wind.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

He had been lying in the street, in more than one way: prone on the ground, but also faking a serious leg injury to elicit sympathy. Even some burly drunken yobs had thrown him some coins, out of habit rather than care but it's results that matter, ain't it? He had plenty now to get him through another night, although one old lady had (quite rudely) advised him against purchasing another bottle. What would she know? Her measure of the fun in alcohol was probably wine spritzers: she couldn't know what was best for him!

He tried to stand up, and fell over again.

Because drunk people never see the irony, his thoughts passed swiftly to the sweet young thing crossing the street. Despite being wrapped up in black robes, this boy could tell when it was a girl (well, apart from that one time, or was it twice?) Regardless, this was a fine chance to engage with a lady. He had not had much luck with women recently; they tended to run from him and he did not know why.

Sneaking along the road behind her, for this boy was a master of stealth even at 50%, he pondered which line he would give her. He spied a trinket discarded on the ground and picked it up; then he called out: "Oh miss? Didst thou drop this jewel?"

She stopped in her tracks, but relaxed visibly. The man smiled, but this smile quickly turned to a gasp of wonder, for he recognised the girl standing before him. In the least, he was pleased to know that his judgment was accurate, and that the stranger really was a sweet young thing.

"No, Aimé, it's not mine; and besides, it's a pebble." Aimé checked his hand and sure enough the vaunted jewel was a fairly unremarkable rock.

"But it seemed so pretty..." he murmured.

"Poor inebriated Aimé" she said. "I'm glad to see you're not busy these days. I've been meaning to find you. Once we sort you out, we'll move on to business, right?"

"Sort me out?" questioned Aimé. "Whatever do you......Sweet Varda! What's going on?" He had been pulled in front of a looking glass and was forced to stare at what he had become, to confront his demons and behold this pale shadow of his former self. He could scarcely recognise the horrific image before him!

Well, by that I mean he needed a shave and a new suit; but, you know, when you looked so great previously...

"Alli, you're like that little voice of reason I never had."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Love of my life, you've always had me!" And ignoring that it wasn't in the least bit true, because she hadn't always known him, and even when she had, she still had that thing for Mardil, and then that [insert naughty adjective] Feanor of the Peredhil showed up and, really, it wasn't so much that Aimè had ever been the love of Alli's life as that they'd got very and truly inebriated together to celebrate the death and destruction of the werewolf kind. They'd danced upon a table, held hands and even, Eru behold, kissed. Probably a few times. But ignoring all of that, Alli allowed for a moment of melodrama and threw her arms around Aimè.

"Oh how I've missed you!" she murmered sadly, and then backed away. "You know... Yeah... We really do need to get you cleaned up."

[Anguirel]

Suddenly Dracomir's head swam and he felt a pulling sensation behind his navel. Skittles too, amidst her leatherclad pre-rampage state, looked rather groggy, and even Hissyfit seemed to quail.

Tom shook his head violently, and the scene began to coalesce into focus again. Skittles' stare was uncharacteristically bewildered as well as angry. The two ambassadors and the cat were now in a completely different area of the Castle.

"Have you done some magical trick again, pretty-boy?" Skittles asked idly, her hand straying to her knife collection.

"This isn't me," Dracomir muttered. "Something...darker...is at work. Have you heard, Lady Skittles, of a grim and ancient incantation of delaying, propelling and postponing known only as a save?"

"No," Skittles confessed.

"Neither have I, really," Tom said with a shrug, "but I suspect that whatever it is, it's behind this mystery." I solemnly swear to fill in my save within 48 hours. Was Abraxas' enchanted map secretly involving him in powers beyond his control?

The corridor that the three reluctant companions now found themselves in was not especially exceptional. It was dusty, and dark almost to blackness, lit only by a single window, punctuated by graffiti and trophies from the Orcish Waterpolo Tournaments.

But ahead of them sprawled the distinguishing factor.

The horrifically mauled body of a man in a cloak of elven-grey, his eyes, still open and staring piteously upwards, the cold, commanding grey favoured by brooding romantic heroes, his ancient brand smashed to shards.

"A Ranger of the North," Dracomir muttered suspiciously. "But what could have been his bane?"