ATM II RPG

[Celuien]

Marmalade skies over Lûndûn greeted the arrival of several brightly colored buses near the famed Mars Built Arch. A close observer might have noted that the skies were gray rather than marmalade, but the Werehippies found it far more poetic to assign a different hue to the sky. For the Werehippies were the arrivals heralded by the buses adding to the usual queues of vehicles near the Arch, and since it was their arrival, they reserved the right to name the atmosphere as they chose.

They poured out of the buses to the sound of excited conversation. A protest! They hadn't known such a thing to have taken place in years. Or at least in one year, since the battle between A Slan and Anakron had taken place. A new protest was long overdue, though the slogans hadn't changed. Indeed, since Anakron was again (in part) the subject of the current protest, many of the same signs appeared again. But new signs had been added, mostly at Panakeia's urging, to cry out against the Blue Istari.

And what of Panakeia? She appeared near the head of the group with an oddly determined face. RadicalISM agreed with her, surprisingly enough. Indeed, whether she was aware of the full import of the fact or not, she seemed to have joined the Werehippies...in every way.

They came to Speakeasy Corner and Panakeia climbed up on a soapbox.

"What do we want?" she cried.

"No Istari!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!"

The chant grew louder. Werehippies at the edges of the group handed out flowers. Many joined the crowd, shouting with the Werehippies gleefully. Panakeia grinned smugly. This demonstration was sure to draw some attention. She hoped it would be soon. The bushes in the park were somehow making her hungry.

[littlemanpoet]

What was this racket in the heart of Lûndûn? Anakron stopped to have a look.

It was a crowd colorfully and anakronistically dressed in garb that was known in those provinces of Mordor as kounter kultural. Anakron wondered who did the kounting, and what it had to do with kultures. He listened more closely to the raucous noise they were making. It was some kind of protest, apparently.

"What do we want?" cried the leader.

"No Istari!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!"

Anakron grinned. He could appreciate their sentiment. However, he was evil, and therefore he had work to do, and it had to do with this crowd. He raised his staff.

"Konvey!"

All of a sudden, as if by the power of a very dweomer, various members of the crowd started hawking their wares, which happened to be booze, hand-wrapped smokes, pills of various assortments, and other such paraphernalia.

"I recognize this," Anakron said to himself. "HedonISM."

But something had caught his attention. That leader's voice sounded oddly familiar. He took a closer look, wondering if it were some orc like Lûgnût getting himself into unnecessary trouble, or a over-educated Troll that was off its interdisciplinary rocker. It was a woman.

No. It's not her, is it?

Anakron made his way through the milling crowd, and had to refuse a toke, a bleeve, an assortment of colorful little pills, and a stocked pipe of questionable contents, on his way to the soapbox.

Oh ye gods. It was her. What in Middle Earth was she doing with these hedonISTic were-hippies, protesting against the ---- oh. ---- against the Istari. Anakron understood. Can't she get it through her head that I'm evil and provoking the Blue Istari is not going to do her any good?

"Panakeia, me love, I am going to have to konvey an ISM upon you," he muttered.

He had made it to the front of the crowd. She was grinning smugly. Oh, yes, she knew exactly what she was doing. He should have known.

"Hello there, Panakeia," he said just loud enough in a moment's lull, and raised his staff.

[Celuien]

"No Istari!"

"Hello, Panakeia."

Hello Panakeia? That wasn't part of the chant. Who dared to interrupt? Panakeia turned to glare at the intruder and recognized Anakron hovering next to her. His staff was raised.

Knowing that Anakron couldn't possibly have come to join the protest, Panakeia ignored him.

"What do we want?" she shouted.

The crowd boomed, "No Istari!"

"When do we...what do you want?" Anakron was tapping her on the shoulder. Interrupting again. Panakeia decided to find out why so that the protest could continue.

"What is this all about?" he asked.

"We're protesting the Blue Istari, of course."

"It won't do you any good, you know. I'm evil. Irritating the Istari with this protest won't change that."

Panakeia smirked at Anakron and put her arms akimbo, nearly burning a hole in her dress with a lit cigarette that had mysterious appeared betwixt her fingers. That was Anakron's doing, no doubt.

"You really think that this is all about you, don't you? How typical. You think a woman couldn't possibly do something on her own without the motive of getting a man. Egotistical male chauvinist behavior."

Anakron groaned at the effect of his latest ISM konveyance. Radical feminISM.

"Let me tell you something, oh Mister High and Mighty Grand Anakronist. This has nothing to do with you. I don't need you or your approval. You are such a square." She held her index fingers in front of her face and traced the shape in the air. As Anakron suddenly gaped, she took a puff on her cigarette and blew the smoke in his face. Panakeia gagged on the fumes, then put her hands back on her hips and stared at Anakron with more smug self-satisfaction than ever.

A call came from someone in the crowd. "White-all! March on White-all! Down with the Istari! Down with the Anakronist! March!"

The werehippies scattered to the park exits and waved their signs in the air. "No Istari! No Istari!" As the protesters moved away, Panakeia turned to follow, deliberately ignoring her former flame.

[Formendacil]

"Ah, where were we?" Elrogorn proceeded to say to Hyarmenwë.

"I was just introducing my daughter to you," said Hyarmenwë.

"You were?" said Elrogorn, with a puzzled look. "I could swear that was a couple of months ago."

"No, it was just now," said Hyarmenwë icily.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Anyway, let's get on with this," continued Elrogorn. "You were introducing to your daughter... who is a clone?"

"Yes, I was introducing you to Bobawen, my daughter," nodded Hyarmenwë, then he paused. "A kloen? What is a kloen?"

Bobawen, Fíriel, Aleksandur, and Maika all looked at Elrogorn expectantly. Maika looked, Hyarmenwë thought (wondering why he was noticing) a bit smug. Elrogorn blushed a very attractive shade of pink.

"That, ah, would be... restricted information. Secret Elven information."

"The Elves have been an ineffective and mostly missing force in Middle-Earth for centuries," said Hyarmenwë coldly. "Explain what a kloen is, please."

"Well, they're very anakronistic," began Elrogorn. "They're basically copies of people, grown in laboratories. They were created for the Clone Wars, and generally grow old at twice the rate of normal humans. I assumed the connection was obvious, considering Lady Bobawen's fast rate of growth."

"Copies... of... people..." Hyarmenwë's jaw was somewhat agape. "Then... that means..."

"That Bobawen is not your daughter, but a copy of your wife," said Maika, with an exasperated roll of her eyes. "Told you so." Hyarmenwë's back stiffened, and his jaw found his stiff upper lip.

"Perhaps you did, Lady Maika, but it is unseemly to point it out." Maika own jaw met her upper lip as she cut off a sharp responce.

"Well, what now, then?" she asked, after a couple moments.

"We flee," replied Elrogorn.

"Flee?" Hyarmenwë gave the half-Elf a querelous look. "Why?"

"Can't you hear them?" Elrogorn paused, then gave one of his dazzling, self-effacingly humble smiles. "Sorry, I forget that you don't have near-perfect hearing. There is an army of HobbyISTs on the march."

"What's so dangerous about a hobbyIST?" asked Maika, perplexed. "HobbyISM is pretty harmless."

"Not if your hobby is pillaging, and all that nasty stuff that goes with it," said Elrogorn, with another dashing (though it was of a witty nature this time) smile. "I guess you could also call them followers of Anarchism ."

"I'm fairly sure those aren't real -ISMs," said Maika frowning. "I don't think you'll find either word in a dictionary."

"We can debate anakronisms at a later point," interjected Hyarmenwë firmly. "Preferably a point when I am not present-- or you, if you know what's good for you." He looked at Maika disapprovingly.

"Good idea," said Elrogorn. "Follow me, I know a secret passage."

"How cliché," said Maika with a shake of her head. Hyarmenwë arched a disapproving eyebrow.

"This is Mordor, milady," said Elrogorn, pulling a the rug off the floor with a debonair flourish, and revealing a trap door with a heavy iron ring.

"There's only one thing we need to worry about," Elrogorn mentioned five minutes later, as he, Hyarmenwë, and Maika were down the tunnel, the darkness alleviated only by a flickering torch.

"Oh?" Hyarmenwë asked.

"This tunnel was built by the wereducks, and may still be used by them."

"And you tell us that NOW?" Hyarmenwë was rather displeased.

"It does look like," said Elrogorn absent-mindedly. "Oh look! Feathers!"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Main entrance to Mount Doom Palace and Casino was located at the foot of Sauron's Road and was fortunately still there after all the zooming about the mountain had been doing. It was twenty foot tall, painted orange, decorated with sequins (most of which had fallen off now) and made of solid steel. Smilog pushed it open and wandered in to that accursed mountain. In the entrance foyer, he saw a long table with a mini palantir, hundreds of papers and a large assortment of quills. Behind this table sat an old fat orc woman with purple lipstick poorly applied to her massive face.

"Hello" ventured Smilog, "... Miss?"

"It's Mrs!" replied the creature, grunting like a pig that has just been kicked in the stomach and then faced into a small box. Interestingly enough, Smilog had once done this and so knew exactly what it sounded like. "You're Smilog the Dwarf?" she said at last, he nodded. "Well, there is a package for you over there. It's been here for a while."

Smilog wandered across the absolutely ruined room, cups, saucers and dust coated the floor, bits of the ceiling were everywhere but on the ceiling. There in the corner of the room was a huge shape, not really a package, more a skip. The Dwarf cocked his head on one side and examined the shape. From inside came the quiet sound of weeping and someone blowing their nose. Smilog took hold of a small chair that was still standing to his left and used it to stand on, he looked into the skip and saw a quite unexpected sight.

"Father?" he said, filled with puzzlement, "You told me you were dead."

"Oh, not dead," said the old dwarf, covered in warts and filth, "just sad. So very sad."

"Yes," observed Smilog, "that's quite a fundamental difference isn't it? You know, being dead isn't quite the same as being a bit sad, isn't it?" The old dwarf blew his nose into his beard. "Look, what are you doing in that skip? And where are your trousers?"

***

The stairs went deep. Too deep, Tollin thought. They had been walking for about an hour now and had not come anywhere near the end of this staircase. The Barrow Wight let a corpse light shine from his withered hand (He never explained how he did this) as the tunnel was exceedingly dark. Step after step took them down further and further. Tollin was sure they were not in The Mountain anymore.

Finally, they fell to the ground as the stairs came to a sudden stop. To their left, Tollin spotted a small torch attached to the wall, The Barrow Wight handed him a tinder box. The tiny blaze seemed to light up the a good section of the room. The red glow revealed an endless hall, stretching off into the distance, left, right and forwards. Endless stacks of clothes on pegs were hung all about the place, going on into infinity and filling the air with the smell of cheap washing up powder.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight, "This must be Sauron's wardrobe. I thought it was just a legend... Well, less a legend, more a joke." Tollin examined the nearest stack and saw that it was full of cheesy T-Shirts with phrases like 'Eye am the greatest' and 'Eye see you' written on.

"Ah!" said a voice from deep in the room, "but can you escape the wardrobe of Sauron alive?"

"Yes." said Tollin, "the stairs are just behind us." There was a long pause and only the slight sound of dripping water could be heard far off in the distance like a ticking clock gone wrong.

"Shut up!" it said at last, "We shall see how smart you are when you meet... The watcher in the washer!" All of a sudden, a thousand snake-like tentacles flew out of the piles of clothes all around. They were all guided by some one force and made their swift way towards the odd duo.

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

“If it has nothing to do with tea, then I am afraid that I cannot see the importance of your errand!” Frej snaped. He had thought that him and Lola was the only one in the vicinity and now it he had learned that this little ghastly looking kid had watched him in his despair. Frej had felt a immediate feeling of sickness when the youngster entered and did not like what he saw. Save for the hair on the kids head, he did have great hair. In fact Frej wished his hair looked more like Dracomir's. . . the hair had a strange drawing effect to Frej.

“ehm you got something in your hair” Frej said in a very strange tone. He then ran his fingers through Dracomir’s hair, even though he knew such an action could cost him his life in a place like Mordor.

Then slowly barely whispering he started to recite a song from his childhood days.

“I got hair in my ears
I got hair in my nose
I got hair on my back
And between my toes
When the time comes & my hairwash is due
I'm gonna use one ton of shampoo
But don't give me those sentimental eyes
Coz I'm proud & my hair is nice

It's not fair when people they stare
I love the colors I wear
I wont cut my hair
I wont cut my hair
Oh no, I wont cut my hair
Coz I'm proud of my hair”

The song was suddenly changed to a small yell of pain from Frej.
He had just managed to hear Dracomir utter some words and then he immediately felt a sharp pain in the hand that had been touching Dracomir’s hair.

“Anyway” Frej continued, trying to sound important. “My name is Frej and I am a spy of Mordor!” not getting any sign of recognition from Dracomir, he continued. “and I was just consulting mrs. Ehmm. . . What is your name, mrs?”

Lola looked upon the two males and if a look could make a man melt, this would have been it. “I am Lola” she said with a smile that in some strange way radiated innocence and the complete opposite at the same time.

Frej continued the conversation with Dracomir “I was just consulting mrs. Lola about the location of Alli; as it is imperative that I get to see her at once! Of course I could not expect you to understand!” the last part of the sentence was uttered in the most condescending way ever imaginable. . “but if you have any information that might be of use to me, I would suggest that you give it to me”

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé yelped; Alli shuddered; the rain started to drizzle down.

"Quite the coincidence that a wolf should be lurking exactly where we're hiding" said Alli. "It's almost as if, out of all the millions of places to hide in the world, and the millions of places that the wolves won't be able to search tonight, we just so happened to find them, thus assuring tension-filled escapades."

"Not necessarily so, my dear" countered Aimé. "I suspect the only tension we will suffer tonight is....uh, nevermind. Look. No-one knows we're in the graveyard. We even slyly implied — to any eavesdroppers — that we would be going somewhere else. We're, like, total master deceivers." He chuckled manically.

Alli agreed that Aimé made a good point, and accepted that whatever the source of that howl, it probably wasn't a werewolf of any sort — let alone the werewolf that was after Alli.

"It was probably just a hyena" offered Aimé. "There are many hyenas in Mordor. Did you know that the Orcs are blaming them for taking their jobs? It's mad."

Alli nodded thoughtfully, and almost fell over. The howl resonated once more.