ATM II RPG

[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?"

[Diamond18]

Skittles bent down and sniffed the corpse.

"Sulphiric residue," she announced sagely. "A sign of demonic presence. Possibly this is the work of a being possessed by an evil spirit."

She straightened and cast her gaze around the hall in a dark, stormy, ulta serious fashion. "Only one creature attacks in so bestial a manner and is possessed by an evil spirit."

Hissyfit made a comment to the effect that it wasn't her, if that's what Skittles was implying, but Skittles ignored her because it was, in fact, not what she was implying at all.

She looked at Tom for a long moment, and he looked back, conveniently speechless so as to preserve the gravity of the meaningful silence. Then, they said in unison:

"A werewolf!"

"A wereduck!"

There was a moment of confusion, then Skittles said, "I said wereduck."

"Well, I said werewolf," said Tom haughtily.

"It's clearly the work of a wereduck. Possibly several of the flockers," Skittles insisted.

"Don't be daft," Tom snorted. "See the claw marks? The tufts of fur left behind?"

"Silly boy, wereducks have claws on their little webbed feet. And that could be down tufts." Skittles crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. "Are we gonna have to fight about this?"

Tom thought for a moment, then suggested, "Maybe it's a werewolf and a wereduck working in conjunction? A fowl alliance?"

Skittles eyes lit up, despite the overused pun. "Bingo!" she cried, snapping open a gleaming blade. "You get the wolf, I'll go for the duck."

[Anguirel]

Dracomir nodded in a way that seemed both solemn and flippant, if that were possible.

"We shall strike at night, then, Skittles, and track down these fow...I mean, vile, creatures. I know you once dreamt, m'lady, of becoming a great oak tree."

Skittles stepped back, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, but the pseudo-Gondorian continued.

"And one day, without doubt, you shall be. But now is not the moment. You must take upon yourself the sacred duty of being a Hawk."

"Kreee kriii skkrrr krigh," Skittles answered, which was Hawkish for "Yes, and you shall be a Werewolf Hunter."

"We shall convene in the evenings to discuss our next moves," Malfoidacil went on sagely. "The culprits could be anyone in this castle. Even one of the other ambassadors. We must tell no one and never let our guard down. And, in strict confidence, I'll tell you who I'm suspecting most at the moment."

"Lola?" Skittles hissed. "Krree krivamp krree."

"One better," Tom replied. "I'm off to keep an appointment with the Spymaster of Mordor, Lady Alli..."

With that, he turned and Disapparated.

[littlemanpoet]

The rain poured down.

"Panakeia, get you gone from Mordor."

"But-"

The sky was becoming darker with swirling cloud.

"I must stay. I have no choice."

"No! I-"

Wind swirled with increasing speed in chaotic directions.

"You will leave Mordor. I cannot now be held responsible for what may happen to you."

Panakeia was soaked through by now and the picture of despondency. Anakron could not tell whether her face was soaked with tears or rain or both. It did not matter.

"If you will not leave, then I must leave you. You have been warned!" With that, Anakron left her by the Eye Tail Yam Guard Tons or whatever the place was called. He had been duped by the Blue Istari. There was no escape. They were evil and had every intention of corrupting him. Resistance had proved futile. Rage seethed within him. He walked quickly, his robe billowing about him in the wind, heedless of the rain and lightning and thunder and frenzied people running for shelter which could barely be found in these Guard Tons. Ridiculous name.

He was going to konvey something. But the last times he had tried, things had gone awry. How had that been possible? Were the Blue Istari losing power? He doubted it. No, it must be that they were trying to confuse and frustrate him. So be it.

After a few miles more of walking he came to Caer Pairadocks and stood on the pier before the billowing sea of Nurn. He raised his staff, which howled in feline ferocity.

"Ankronism! Konvey as never before! Find that which is the most horrible force from the terrible age from which these anakronisms come! Bring it down upon all our heads! Kaos come! Konveeeeeeey!!"

Anakron felt the staff vibrate and the kat did katerwawl most fiercely, and afterward began to hak as if in a fit of hairball choking as never before, for all it could get out was "ism! ism! ism!" It was a strange thing for a kat to choke out. The wind picked up the sound and instead of kaotic howling, it carried the call and into the city of Lûndûn, screaming the strange utterance - "Ism!! Ism!! Ism!!" - unceasingly.

Anakron did not see all that happened next, but it was reported to him later.

Orks opened their eyes, which became suddenly fierce. "Ism! Ism! Ism!" Some force seemed to kollectivize them into armies of indoktrination and soon armed kontingents of orks were prowling the city calling out "Marks - Ism! Marks - Ism! Marks - Ism!" Bystanders fled in fear.

Trolls in their university chairs raised their ugly heads and heard the strange kry as far away as Kirith Ungol University. "Ism. Ism. Ism." They gathered together in deeply serious filosofikal groups, marching throught he streets, intoning, "Dialektik-Ism .... Dialektik-Ism" None knew whether they were dangerous, but most feared that somehow they were.

All over Mordor little groups became infected with the Ism konveyance, and formed bigger groups until there were armies of opposing Isms all over the land. All in a single day.

[Anguirel]

Dracomir reappeared on another floor, having travelled, as far as he'd gathered, in the general direction of Alli's office. He felt rather queasy from all this teleportation, whether save-induced or Apparation, and had he known of the crushing sloth of his writer, who was eager to skip further scenes wandering about in corridors, he would have been unhappy, possibly murderously so. But as it was he had no choice and no scapegoat.

With vague memories of hangovers after cast parties in some impossibly remote other life, Tom lurched about, his hair flopping into his eyes. Until, that is, he was instantly frozen in place by a spell that silently but firmly froze him where he was.

"You look a disgrace to the House of Black, boy," a haughty voice announced. Tom ticked the boxes in his head. Aristocratic belief system, husky voice, stiletto heel clinks-it had to be Auntie Bellatrix. As she walked round into Dracomir's sight, her face of dramatically ruin'd beauty faced his. She looked like a cross between Helen McCrory and Helena Bonham-Carter. Blasted casting department, Tom thought, they should really make their minds up.

"And where are you off to, weakling whelp of worthy wizards?" Bellatrix asked (her mastery of Anglo-Saxon poetic techniques was one of her most attractive, but lesser-known, interests). Of course Dracomir, paralysed, could not reply, but he guessed she must be attempting to read his mind, or rather "examine the fickle skeins of mortal thought" or whatever you called mind-reading to make it sound more impressive.

With supreme boredom, Malfoidacil mentally replied to his aunt, That won't work, you taught me Occlumency, remember? Now any chance of letting me go to get to my vital meeting with the Lady Spymaster?

Bellatrix let out a proud laugh. "Lady Spymaster? Miss Umfuil? You are much mistaken, boy. Lord Roggie trusts in me alone, his most faithful friend and servant unto death!"

Dracomir rolled his eyes. Bellatrix Lestrange had a bad Dark Lord complex. She always deluded herself that she was the most favoured minion of whatever supervillain happened to be hanging about. Voldy, naturally, Lord Asriel for a while, and, lord, that stint with Blofeld didn't bear thinking about. Roggie was apparently her latest idol.

Her stay at the Evil Single Ladies Motel with Jadis, Mrs Coulter and all those other ladettes hadn't exactly improved things.

Bellatrix released Dracomir with a flick of her pitch-black wand. "A touch of discipline is what you need, boy. Now. I have orders straight from..." she looked about carefully, "...Those-Who-Must-Not-Be Named..."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Within a Mordorian amount of unspecified but unnecessarily lengthy, just to be obnoxious, time, Aimè was clean, sober, and smelling deliciously of feminine swoon inducement. It took all of Alli's will to keep her mind on the subject at hand.

"Aimè, we have a problem. We killed Mario... the Dweomer brought him back, as well as J.Lo. Whether or not they are wolves still eludes me, and I am not cool with that lack of knowledge. Illamatar is silent and my sources are unaware of the problem and therefore do not know to look for anything.

"There was an attack in the palace, Aimè... last night... my Ranger died. It was not Mario... he has an alibi... something to do with mushrooms and a princess, and that doesn't much sound plausible, but we're in Mordor, so quite frankly..." She trailed off for a moment, sipping some Jack and Coke. "I do not know where Lopez is... she could be anywhere. So my options are that Lopez attacked last night under my very nose, or that the third wolf, never identified, is in the palace slaughtering... or... there are more now.

"Aimè... what in Eru's name am I supposed to do? I'm in danger... if they find out I'm the Seer... they'll kill me. I'm their biggest threat... Aimè..." her voice fell to a whisper. "I don't want to die."