Assigned to Mordor RPG

[the phantom]

SAVE: Because it's funny to see four saves in a row.
(seriously- Mardil gets arrested but names some terms first, exact details of Dr. Hookbill's death explained)

[littlemanpoet]

[off topic/rpg post]

SAVE .... because they're assigned to Mordor. Now leave them where they are and everybody post after this; you may not touch the previous posts. Free for all! And thus LMP/Anakron unblocks the bottleneck. Carry on!

[/off topic/rpg post]

[Celuien]

Gasping for breath, Panakeia arrived at the Registrar's Office. She sat down on a bench outside the door to collect her thoughts. Though she had avoided a stay in the psychiatric hospital, she had a feeling that Anakron would not be happy with her behavior.

What should I do? she thought. I can't go back or I'll wind up in a padded room. I don't think they’ll give me the option of signing in twice. Not after the stunt I just pulled. But somehow, I have to get a clear evaluation to get out of here.

Maybe I should go back to see Dr. Sigmund. He's the one I was supposed to see anyway. But if I do that, you had better behave yourself this time. Deal?

I won't say a word. As long as you behave yourself too, my dear.

Okay. Let's give this another try.

Panakeia stood and began to return to the psychiatric department. As she started to leave, the Registrar's Office beckoned to her. It had been a fairly long run from the hospital. Not wanting to have made a wasted trip, she went inside to pick her classes. A basket near the door labeled Course Catalogs was empty, so she approached the nearest desk to ask for help.

"Excuse me. I'd like to sign up for a class," she said to a woman in horn-rimmed glasses.

"Do you have your course number?"

"No. I was hoping you could help me."

"What do I look like, the registrar?"

"As a matter of fact, you do." Panakeia pointed to a badge pinned on the woman's blouse. It said ‘Registrar’ in bold letters.

She replied huffily. "Always so demanding. Can't you lazy students do anything for yourselves?" As she spoke, she pulled out a long sheet of paper out of a drawer. "Here's a list of courses."

"Introduction to Fashion Design. That looks interesting."

"Filled." The registrar grinned smugly.

Panakeia's conscience chirped. Oh, oh. Look. Take the World Philosophy Class. Please?
"What about Philosophy 101?"

The registrar’s grin grew wider. "Canceled."

Panakeia cried out in exasperation, "Well, what is available?"

"Sales and Marketing in a Futile System, offered by the business department. Take it or leave it."

For once, Panakeia agreed with the nagging voice, which had started to protest against the course. The class sounded horribly boring, but it was the only option.

"Fine. Sign me up."

The registrar pulled out a slip of paper, scribbled the class name and information on it, and handed it to Panakeia.

"There. Are you happy now? Goodbye and good riddance." With that, the registrar stomped off to a back room.

Satisfied that she had managed to find a class, if not the one she wanted, Panakeia went to look for Dr. Sigmund.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli, uncertain of what just happened pertaining to her surgery and her save, walked down the hall in a daze and in search of the office of the registrar. She was sick of dazes and really wanted to get on with her life. It was as if she no longer had any control. Things just seemed to happen... She stepped on something squishy.

"MIGHIODEHGOI!" it mumbled beneath her foot. She shrieked and jumped off of it, sliding a little on the bloody floor that had not quite been cleaned yet.

"You ah repressing my voice because you cannot handle zee truth!"

Alli looked at the pair of disembodied lips incredulously. "It was an accident. I tripped."

"A Freudian slip! She's een denial. Can you hear her? She's denying zat she meant to stamp out zee truth from zee vorld!"

All's left eyebrow rose. "Let me guess... Sigmund? Poor Freud, whatever happened to you?"

"Skirting the issue! Zee patient tries to deflect attention to anuzzer. According to my iceberg approach to zee human mind, your unconsciously violent motives caused you to step on me, inflicting pain and stopping me from bringing to zee conscious level of your thought zee truth that it is your shameful experiences, unacceptable sexual desires, irrational wishes, and selfish needs that are causing you to remain fixated upon phallism."

"What?!" Alli couldn't believe her ears. People actually listened to this guy? "God... can your ego get any bigger? Do you really think that what you're saying is real?"

"Aha! Zee patient has an underdeveloped superego veech ees allowing her id to run free."

"You're insane." She looked laughingly down at the bouncing lips upon the dirty floor. "And you're splashing blood on my shoes."

"Projection!"

"Listen, I think you're just--"

"Rationalization!"

"You're only saying that because--"

"Reaction formation! Denial!"

Alli, finished with her psych evaluation whether Freud was or not, kicked the blustering piece of psychoanalyst under a nearby doorway and slipped through the closing doors to the Registrar's office. The line was long. Alli stood impatiently for nearly an hour before a large orc said sweetly to her, "I can help the next person."

She stepped forward. "I'd like to take Werewolf Hunting 1000."

"Full. That little Italian fellow in red just took the last seat." Alli startled and looked around. She saw nobody dressed in red. It was okay... she couldn't find Aimè to proclaim her love anyhow. But he was here... he was on campus... she would have to tell Aimè.

"What about..." she consulted her wish-list. "Border Control: Keeping Bad Guys In."

"Full."

"How to Deal with Nobles 1010?"

"Nope."

"Basket-weaving?"

"Yeah right."

"Well what do you have open?"

"Theology of Dollar Llama."

"Baaa." spake Illamatar. "Take that one."

"I'll take that one." Alli bumped into a large troll on her way out the door.

[Kath]

After a very weird experience with Fléin, which she was still not sure had really happened, Sai made her way up to the Registrar’s office, and joined the extortionately long queue that seemed to have formed in the 2 seconds between her reaching the room and getting inside. Sighing she settled in for a long wait, and saw that some of the members of the Offending Party had got here before her, though neither Alli or Panakeia looked particularly happy with whatever they had ended up taking.

An indeterminately boring amount of time passed, until Sai was finally near the front of the queue. By this time she was tired and close to collapse as a result of lack of blood sugar, and was not pleased to find her way blocked by a couple of students making out in the middle of the path. In no mood to be worried about offending others, she shoved past them.

“Hey!” Cried the girl, ungluing her lips from her boyfriend’s long enough to yell at Sai, who simply rolled her eyes and carried on to the free desk.

“Name?” Came the clipped voice of the Registrar.

”Sai Onara.”

“Course?”

“Uh, I don’t know, I thought that was why I was here.”

This comment was met with a steely glare and a huff of annoyance from the woman behind the screen. Used by now to the little tricks Mordor threw, Sai began to suggest courses, but each suggestion was met by a problem with that particular course. Eventually the woman just gave her one.

“You’ll have to take Grammar and Diction in Modern English, it’s the only one free right now. It starts in 5 minutes though, so you had better get a move on.”

Thanking her, Sai left, grabbing a map of the building on her way out. She didn’t hold out much hope that it would be of any help to her, but you never knew.

- - - - - - - - - -

A few wrong turns and people who don't know directions and give false ones later, Sai found her classroom and entered. She was surprised to see that she was the only person in there, aside from the tall man with the rumpled suit, who was standing behind a lectern at the front of the room wearing a rather bemused expression. Seeing her he threw his arms up in welcome.

“Hello! You must be Sai, come in, come in, I am so looking forward to teaching you, I’m sure we’re going to have a fabulous year together.”

Year! Thought Sai in horror. I can’t be here for a year, what if the chance to leave is over by then? Frantic she tried to think of something that would get her out of here before then, but nothing came to her. She opened her mouth to try and come up with some lie or excuse that would get her out of it, and as she did so, she realised what she needed to do. It would hurt, but it was necessary.

“Professor! I am so, like, you know, happy to be ‘ere.”

“Oh no! A valley girl, and you drop your h’s, I can see I have a lot to teach you.”

“Dis is so kewl man, I never got no English lessons before.”

She fought to keep from laughing at the horrified look on the man’s face, and carried on.

“Cus, you know, I always fort it were some kind of dead language you know, what wif all dem dictionary fings. I mean, you don’t write somfink down ‘less you don’t need it no more yeah?”

“Oh my God.” The poor professor was practically whimpering now. “I don’t know if I can cope!”

“What? Oh ok, gimme your siggy on dis bit o’ paper and I’ll get out of your face.”

“Well, I’m not sure I can . . .”

“Cus, you know, I bet I can start droppin’ pronouns an’ even more le’ers and add should of’s and would of’s and . . .”

“Alright! I’ll do it, just give me the damned paper.”

Snatching a hastily produced slip of paper from some pocket, Sai handed it over and watched as the professor scrawled his name on it. Overcome with relief she took it back and hugged him before running out of the door.

“Thank you! I won’t forget this!”

“Wait! You can speak properly!”

Oops, thought Sai as she passed through the door. Deciding to give the poor guy a break she stuck her head back through and smiled.

“You must be a really great teacher then.”

And she left him with a huge grin on his face.

- - - - - - - - -
Wandering up various flights of stairs as the lifts were, of course, out of order, Sai finally reached the dormitory room she had been assigned, and fell onto the bed. As she rolled over she noticed another bed in the room, and wondered who she would find in here when she woke up the next morning. Her last thought as she dropped off to sleep was that she had done everything Anakron had asked of her, perhaps tomorrow she would be getting out of Mordor . . .

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina had never held with psychologists.

She had never wanted anything to do with anyone who tried to decipher her as if she were some kind of code to be broken. And she was pretty sure that psychologists were all a bit touched in the head themselves, and, well, the blind leading the blind and all that.

So it was with some reluctance that she entered the office of one Doctor... what was it, Frood? He certainly didn't look like a very together guy. In fact, he really wasn't together at all -- bits and pieces of him were scattered in every corner of the room. Currently, a hand was slapping a pair of lips back on a skull which was half-covered in flesh and tissue.

"Should I come back later?" she asked.

The lips tutted as the hand lit a cigar. "Ah, I see you have very little confidence in yourself. Tell me, did you get enough attention as a child?" the skull said in between puffs.

"It sufficed," said Wilhelmina, who hadn't thought of her childhood in years.

"Please, lie down on the couch, Ms. Brochenbach, and tell me of your dreams of late," said the doctor, whose skull now had both eyes and an ear. Off in the far corner of the room, a shin was reacquainting itself with a thigh.

Wilhelmina refused to lie down, as five tobacco-stained fingers were doing a sort of dance on the couch in an attempt to establish in which order they belonged, although she was pleased that he had pronounced her name correctly.

"Hmm, let's see," she said. "I had a dream about werewolves trying to eat me, but that's only because Anakron told us there were werewolves who were trying to eat us."

"Cannot... distinguish... fiction... from... reality," he muttered as the newly assembled hand scribbled on his notepad. "Go on."

"And... I had a dream about Mr. Swanky, but that's really nothing special."

"Who?" asked the doctor, raising his brows in interest.

"That's my pet ferret," she informed him.

"Ah, yes. Ferret... as... phallic... symbol..." he said to himself.

That was when Wilhelmina left.

Outside the door, she was apprehended by a nurse with silky blonde hair and a bosom so ample it was quite unfair to all other women. She incidentally had an IQ of 154, but you wouldn't know it to look at her -- the great tragedy of her life.

Wilhelmina did not care very much about any of this. She did, however, care about the message the nurse was giving her.

"Ma'am?" she said with a concernedly friendly tone that people seemed to reserve for the elderly. "The people at registration asked me to take this up to you so you could avoid the complications down there. This is your course list."

A piece of paper was thrusted into Wilhelmina's hands. It contained only one course title in large print: Old Timers Dizeaze and How to Cope.

Silently she cursed the stupid switching of S's and Z's, and the decided lack of apostrophe. She also cursed the fact that when a person got older, other people thought your brain had gone to town.

She sweetly thanked the nurse (for anything but the gentlest treatment would surely break her like a delicate piece of crystal, the poor dear that she was, doubtless with a dark past and troubled thoughts behind that pretty face) and marched off to find her class.

[littlemanpoet]

Very, very early the next morning, Sai Onara was awakened by very loud knocking on her door.

"Go 'way!" she cried.

The knocking continued, even more forcibly, making the door shake.

Sai looked around. It was still dark. "It's too early! Come back when the sun's up!"

The knocking continued even louder, the door threatening to burst from its hinges.

"Just a minute!" Sai cried, then grumbled her way out of bed, and threw on a (conveniently provided) bathrobe. She opened the door yelling, "What do you want at this ungodly hour!"

Anakron stood in the door, smirking at her. He glanced to his right and thanked the troll who had banged on the door for him, then settled a level gaze on Sai.

"You will go back to your class today. I have straightened out the matter with your professor, and he understands that this is a one week crash course now. You will now have to fit five days worth of study into four, because the final exam is Saturday morning, bright and early. Hop to it. Your professor awaits you; he was willing to get out of bed early to give you a few hours extra time this morning to make up for yesterday. Good day."

Anakron turned away and strode down the hall, cape flowing in the breeze behind him, and had turned a corner before Sai could issue a single word of rebuttal, remonstration, or cussing.

[Durelin]

“You haven't even signed up for your classes yet?”

The glasses were creeping down the woman's small nose, and Valde’s lip twitched, wanting very much to curl into a sneer as his eyes were constantly drawn to those spectacles. It irked him that she peered at him over them, just as it irked him that she had the nerve to speak to him with anger in her voice, even raising it a bit. The shuffling paper and the whirring and clanking of a paper cloning device that he had always thought to belong only as a cardboard cut out next to Spockú.

“You should have been informed of my arrival.”

“So? That doesn't mean I have to like the idea of it. What is the point of a Registrar's office if anyone can just walk in here and expect to take a class? Are you even enrolled here?”

Valde deftly avoided the questions. “Well, what is the point of wearing glasses if you do not even look through them?”

With a huff, the woman forced her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, and with a wave of her hand informed him that he was assigned to the class ‘Interpretive Drama: Shakespeardil on Mordway.’ He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her, but it was clear that she was shooing him vehemently, and there was quite the line behind him. So when he had been told which room in which building his class was (For never could a university be located in just one building. That would take all the fun out of it, and diminish the effectiveness of the name ‘university.’ Rather than ‘The University’ being one select building, it was a fertile orchard containing a variety of trees and bushes from which innumerable fruits were ripe for the picking. The use of this rather graphic metaphor as an extended one is of course the only reason why there are so many different buildings. Why these buildings are all named after different people is due to entirely different metaphor which may not be cited here, due to the animosity it might cause).

As soon as Valde set foot in the classroom, he spared a half a moment to gape, and then turned on his heel to leave.

“Oh fool, I shall go mad!” was belted out in a quavering male soprano to music led by a somber but soulful bopping of a trumpet, complimented by the whine of overdone but thankfully under-toned strings. All music and song stopped soon after his entrance, though, and his retreating back of course did not go unnoticed. “Ah, Mr. Delego!” The stout troll rumbled in a voice that Valde had expected to squeak much in the same way that it had when the creature sang. Valde Delego whirled around, and saw that the troll professor wore a suit with a be-spotted bow tie that made the Lead Tragic Actor gag. Over this, he dared to wear some kind of cape, with a floppy forest green hat topped with a large feather that overhung it to the right. “Please do come in!”

“Please, do stay in. I’d rather not.”

A moment later, and he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder, and he was, at least by his own description, forcibly dragged into the room, and placed in the middle desk in the front row. He glanced around him, and found only four other students in the class. Each held a quill pen at the ready, and eyed him surprisingly casually from beneath plumed hats.

“Welcome, Mr. Delego, it is so good to have thee. It has been rumoured that you are indeed experienced in the art of…playing?” He chuckled to himself, finding himself funny, as any well-respected man instructing in a well-respected university would, what with all the confidence they had that was surely befitting them.

“Oh yeah, he’s a playa’ and he know it!” exclaimed the only student that sat in the back row. He then slunk down in his chair with a hand over his mouth as the professor’s eyes turned to stare at him, flaring up with anger. The troll stared at the young man in the back as if he were a cat had just expelled from either end of it, or perhaps both.

“Get thee to the guilloti—” He coughed. “Grammar and Diction in Modern English. Now.” He pointed to the door, and the man scurried out, leaving his hat and pen behind. After the troll professor had collected the abandoned things, he returned to look at Valde with a smile. “Now, what were you saying, Mr. Delego?”

Any sensible person would simply go ahead and begin saying what they had been going to say in response to what their professor had been interrupted in saying, and even if they had not had a response ready at that time, they would come up with one as quick as they could. But this was Valde Delego.

“Well, that’s a rather moot point, isn’t it professor?”

“No, my dear cos, I am afraid it is rather debatable as to what you were going to say.”

“Then we concur.”

“I assure thee: assuredly not.”

“But you agreed that it was debatable.”

“No, I said that ‘twas debatable, while you did speaketh of it being moot.”

“My point exactly. They are synonymous statements.”

“No they’re not.”

“Yes they are.”

“He’s right,” a voice squeaked from somewhere behind Valde, and he whirled around to look at who had spoken. It was a young mouse-like lady with honey hair that reddened severely in the face when the Lead Tragic Actor did gaze upon her. He thought that she looked rather constipated, but he thanked her nonetheless.

“What did you say?” the professor asked, an angry edge to his voice. The young woman squeaked again, and Valde was waiting for small gray and pink ears to pop out of her head, or at least largely disproportionate black ones. But she managed to hold up a dictionary, opened to the page containing the entry on ‘moot.’

“Why do you think it is called an Entmoot?” Valde asked, turning back to the professor after flashing one last smile at the young maiden, who was now clearly in distress.

“Ah,” the professor said simply. “Well, I believe it safe to say that Mr. Shakespeardil did not initiate use of that word, nor alter the meaning, so of course it would slip my mind so easily as it did thusly.”

“On the contrary. I doubt that you have traced back to the origin of the word ‘moot,’ sir, if you were not even aware of its meaning. In other and more obnoxious terms: how do you know?”

“Well, sir, I believe that is a moot point.”

“There, now you’ve got it.”

The troll professor rolled his large black eyes so much that Valde was certain they would get stuck in the back of his head, and with a sigh, he turned back to the blackboard behind him, where notes were scrawled in a lithe hand. “That’s quite enough, Mr. Delego. Now, wherefore art we here today, class?”

“I was forced to be here by some crackpot wizard and his dweomer nonsense,” Valde blurted out, obviously bemoaning his fate.

“To remaster the masterpieces of one Wilhelmër Shakespeardil so that they may be still worthy of his name, but may bring in loads of cash in today’s entertainment world,” the rest of the class drawled. The enthusiasm was bewildering, over two people muttering words that they obviously could care less about.

“In other words,” the troll professor cried out with a grin, flourishing his cape and brandishing a pointer stick that Valde was sure had been sharpened into a full-fledged poking stick, “we’re making a musical.”

“A musical?!” Valde cried out as if an arrow had just pierced his heart, and not one from the elfin quiver of Cupidrembor. “O untimely modernization!”

[the guy who be short]

After seeing, or rather, carefully not seeing the Death of A Slan, Fléin and Sai mourned a little before parting - Sai was to go to the registrar, Fléin needed to see Freud again to finish his psych. Hopefully, he was better by now.

Fléin entered Freud's office to find, to his surprise, a semi-congealed Freud along with a newcomer. An inquiring glance at the man promped him to present himself as Mr Jung. "I shall be assisting Mr Freud, as he is currently a little, ah, inconvenienced."

Fléin sat back down.

"So, Mr Freud tells me you're a homosexual. I shall help you overcome it, do not worry."

Fléin said "But Mr Freud told me it was perfectly normal!"

The two psychoanalysts started arguing like little children, giving Fléin a little time to himself. He made the most of it by thinking about A Slan, but before he knew it, he was weeping again.

At the noise of a particularly loud sob, the two psychiatrists turned around to face him once more. "He is dead," he sobbed to himself. "And I didn't even get to know him."

"Who's dead?" the lips of Freud asked from a corner of the room.

"Oh, he doesn't actually exist," Fléin replied bitterly. "Just a delusion, don't worry yourself."

"Ah!" Jung exclaimed, "Freud told me of these delusions of yours! You say your imaginary friend is dead? What was he like?"

"He was."

"I see, I see," Jung scribbled frantically. In a far corner, Freud's mostly congealed body picked up its lips and stuck them in a pocket for safekeeping. "But what did he look like? What was his name?"

"He was A Slan." Fléin responded. The scratching of the pen stopped. Fléin looked up; Jung had stopped writing, and his face had gone deathly pale.

When he next talked, he whispered hushedly, "A Slan is dead? You are sure?"

"He was sacrificed on a Stone Stretcher," Fléin responded in kind.

Jung collapsed his head into his hands, distraught. "A Slan! Gone!" Fléin caught snatches of words, little phrases that made no sense to him. After several minutes of this, Jung addressed him again, always in a whisper. "How did you know A Slan? Did you say he talked to you?"

"Yes."

Jung's eyes widened in shock. One of them revealed itself to be made of glass by falling out, but Jung ignored it. "A friend of the Llamasson. Do not worry, Fléin. I shall declare you to be in sound mental health. Now tell me, what was He like?"

The next half an hour was spent recounting Fléin's brief relationship with A Slan in whispers, but too soon Freud had reformed himself, and it was time to go. Nonetheless, Fléin had found yet another follower of A Slan - Jung had hoped to overthrow Freud, whom he condemned as a "commiter of incest" - in this crazy world. Though he was advised to keep his knowledge of A Slan quiet, he couldn't help but feel that not only was he special, he was potent. There were millions of Mordorians, especially Nurnians, who apparently followed A Slan. Perhaps there could be some sort of revolution.

Fléin allowed himself a fell laugh. How could there be revolt against the Dweomer without A Slan to lead them?

[the guy who be short]

Fléin shuffled up to the Registrar's office, carefully avoiding thinking about A Slan or offering any insight into his theological beliefs. It was no good dwelling on the past, after all.

His insides wept, but he ignored them. What use were they anyway?

When he entered the Registrar's office, it was empty. He trampled up to the front where a fierce looking woman was looking fiercely over her glasses at him.

"Oy! You there!" she barked at him, setting her jowls aquiver. Fléin watched them wobbling as she launched a verbal tirade. "Don't mope! Moping should be done outside of University! This is a mope-free environment! And look at your beard, dearie me, get yourself a haircut!"

Fléin rested his head in his arms on her desk and let her continue in this manner. He wasn't sure how long it lasted. The pain inside wouldn't stop hurting.

Finally, he realised she had stopped and was staring at him. He stirred, got up, begged her pardon, didn't get any, asked what course he would be taking, and was told about the times and places for the Self Defense For Short People qualification.

He half absorbed this information before trampling to his new dorm - it was empty, his roommate was evidently out - and curling into bed. He knew it was futile trying to sleep A Slan's death off, but tried anyway.

[Celuien]

After an hour long adventure of being directed and redirected to every building on campus (it seemed that Sales and Marketing in a Futile System had been moved several times), Panakeia found the correct classroom. She stepped inside the classroom, and finding that all of the seats in the back of the room were taken, sat at a desk in the front row. The student next to her, a girl with long dark curls framing a tired face that was pale from too many hours under fluorescent lighting, had an ominously thick pile of notes on her desk. Under the desktop she was playing a round of Solitare. Panakeia chuckled. Her neighbor looked up and smiled, brown eyes twinkling.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Nichole, with an aitch. Most people want to spell it n-i-c-o-l-e, but I don't. I rather like the aitches. Are you looking forward to this class?"

Panakeia introduced herself. "Well, Nichole with an aitch, it's nice to meet you. I'm not really looking forward to this course, but it's all I could get." Panakeia continued to study her neighbor, amusement increasing every moment. Nichole seemed to have no fashion sense, or if she did, it wasn't in Panakeia's style. She wore a plain brown skirt with a blue sweater, blue suede boots, and hardly a trace of makeup.

Nichole nodded. "I know exactly what you mean. I'm only here because I couldn't register for my physics class. At least Sales and Marketing in a Futile System is supposed to be easy. Terribly, terribly dull, but easy." Nichole gestured at the stack of papers on her desk. "Notes from last semester, taken by a friend of mine. Would you believe it? He wrote a 50 page paper that basically said the same thing on every page and got an A plus for originality and creativity." She broke into laughter. "But that's what lectures are like too, or so I hear. And so these notes seem to indicate."

Panakeia smiled in a friendly manner. "You know, I've never taken a class before. Any tips?"

"Try to look interested. Write as much as possible in your notebook, even if you don't actually write notes all the time. You'll need some notes to study, but in this class, I'm guessing you can get everything you need in the first 30 seconds. After that, it's all about looking enthusiastic about the lecture for the next hour so the professor doesn't wind up annoyed, if that makes any sense."

It didn't, but further discussion was interrupted by the entrance of the professor, an imposing troll in blue jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. He lumbered into the room and set a briefcase, bulging with papers, on the desk at the front of the room. Then he cleared his throat and, picking up a piece of chalk, turned to face the blackboard.

"Sales and marketing are dead," he droned in a monotone. "The system is futile because it has no point; therefore and thusly, it is pointless to sell or market anything in the futile system that is pointless." Panakeia glanced at Nichole’s notebook. She had scribbled "sales/marketing = dead" at the top of the sheet. That appeared to be the end of her notes. The rest of the page was occupied by sketches, including one of a troll lecturing to rows of stick figures that had collapsed on the ground. The troll droned on while Nichole began a scrawl from right to left in runes Panakeia didn't recognize. "Why, may I ask, is the futile system futile?" Without waiting for an answer from the class, he went on. "It is because sales and marketing are pointless when no one wants to buy. No one wants to buy because no one is interested in a futile system."

Panakeia decided she’d had enough. "That's just not true," she cried. "Why, I’ve been selling things to people for almost 30 years now. They buy, believe me they do. You just have to make them think they need what you have to sell. That's the trick. I can sell anything just by making the buyers believe it’s what they need. I make a fairly good living at it too, by the way, so I must be doing something right. Futile, my foot."

The professor focused a dull eye on her. No one had dared to challenge his authority before. "Class, this is someone who thinks that experience in the market outweighs the theories taught here. What is your name?" Panakeia proudly identified herself. "We all know that your statement about the market is not true. It is not true because the system is futile. And why is it futile? Because it is pointless."

Panakeia interrupted. "Oh please. Just stop. I must have heard that same redundant, say-nothing statement 30 times in the past 5 minutes. And you're flat out wrong. I have the Trolls and sales record to prove it."

The professor looked at her in disbelief. "Did I hear you say that I am wrong?" Panakeia shouted out in the affirmative. "That is what I thought I heard. You fail the course. That is the price of your challenge." He turned impassively to continue the lecture.

A new voice unexpectedly entered the debate. "That's just not fair," Nichole protested. "You haven't even given her a chance to prove her point or turn in assignments or anything." Panakeia couldn’t believe her ears. Someone she had met no more than 10 minutes ago was coming to her defense?

The professor gave his attention to Panakeia's new friend. "She is arguing with me. I am infallible in my classroom, so Panakeia must be wrong. If she is wrong, then I am right, and if I am right she is wrong. She has nothing to learn here and therefore will fail."

Nichole wasn't ready to give up the fight. "But what if Panakeia proves that she's right? What if she makes a great sales demonstration? You'd pass her then, wouldn't you?"

"If Panakeia can prove that I am wrong when I know that I am right, she will receive an A. If and only if she manages this feat, her grade will be changed. That will be all for now." He packed the chalk into his briefcase and stalked out of the room.

Panakeia looked at Nichole, still amazed at what had transpired. "Thank you," she said. Then she asked, "Why did you help me?"

Nichole replied eagerly, "I've been waiting for years for someone to stand up to nonsense like that. And do you know what? I wish I had the courage to do what you did just now. It was beautiful, and I've never enjoyed a scene in class so much in my life. I couldn't leave you out to dry, so I spoke up too." She shook Panakeia's hand. "You, Panakeia of Harad, are my hero." She paused. "But can you do it? Will you be able to make your sales pitch?"

"I'll have to." Then, in a confident voice, Panakeia said, "Yes, I think I can. I know I can." She stood and put her hand on the door to leave. Nichole followed. "But I'll have to make plans. Here's what I'm going to do." Panakeia quickly outlined her ideas. Nichole listened in delight. If the plan worked, the professor would surely have grant the promised A.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina had never really thought of herself as being old. Sure, she was a bit deaf, and her joints sometimes ached when it rained, and she'd never say no to a senior citizen discount (given the othewise ridiculously high price of movie tickets), but on the whole she didn't feel old. Also, she didn't want to have to sit in a room full of dribbling, diaper-clad people while an oddly perky troll lectured them in an extremely loud voice. Unfortunately, that was just what was happening.

"You'll find your textbookz next to your chair!" the troll shouted at them. "They're in large print zo it'z eazy on your eyez!"

Wilhelmina looked down and picked up the tome, which shared the name of the course, Old Timers' Dizeaze and How to Cope. Opening the cover, she realized why it was so bulky: apparently, large print meant three words per page.

"In thiz clazz, we hope to help you underztand that aging is a natural part of life'z progrezzion," the teacher buzzed. "And although you may feel that your body iz betraying you in itz old age, there are plenty of wayz to think young! And what are theze wayz, you want to know? Let me tell you!"

Wilhelmina sighed and wondered if she should start taking a tally of every swapped Z and S that came out of the troll's mouth.

"One method iz to do zilly thingz juzt for fun. Finger paint! Blow bubblez! Yez, you in the big hat!"

She lowered her hand. "Do we have to think quite that young? I think most of us would prefer 25 rather than 5."

A few of her classmates nodded in agreement.

"When I was twenty-five I had legs to die for," one of the old women said listlessly. "I had a sailor beau and everyone said I should go into pictures..."

"That'z nice," boomed the troll. "But we have to live for the now! You muzt realise that dwelling on the pazt only makez you age fazter! Any queztionz, clazz?"

"If your incessant shouting makes me go deafer, can I sue?" asked Wilhelmina just for the sake of being annoying. (She sometimes had these nasty streaks when she was irritated.)

The teacher grew pale at the thought of a lawsuit, as Mordor was full of lawyers who were only too eager to press charges for the most asinine things. "Well, I think we've done plenty for today! Pleaze have Chapter One of your bookz read for next clazz!"

Wilhelmina scooped up the enormous book and left the room in triumph.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin entered his classroom, walked a few paces, then stopped short.

He looked around the room, awestruck. Seated at three tables at the front were... five Dwarves! Dwarves!

In all his sejourn in Mordor, Fléin had never seen more than three Dwarves, himself inclusive, at the same time. This was amazing.

The professor did not seem to share the enthousiasm spreading across Fléin's face. "Wipe that grin off you face," he rumbled in an odd voice, fluctuating wildly in pitch. "I don't see anything funny about being late for your first lecture. Take a seat."

Fléin sat down next a Dwarf who had, for some reason, decided to coat his or her axe edge with ketchup. He smiled and shuffled into his seat.

"As I was saying," the professor turned around, "before I was rudely interrupted- WHERE IS YOUR PAPER BOY?"

Fléin carefully addressed his apology to the floor two feet in front of the professor. "Sorry sir... I didn't think we'd need any."

The professor, a squat stone figure, made a sound similar to that Fléin made when producing cats from his stomach; Fléin interpreted this as a laugh. "No paper? How are you to learn the Theory of Defense for Short People? Hah! I'm sorry, but there's little physical activity in this class!"

He didn't sound very apologetic - more gleeful than anything else - and apparently, Fléin was not the only one to suffer from this misconception. The other Dwarves murmured, annoyed, but the professor ignored them.

"You will have to borrow paper from another student. You will pay this back tomorrow, with a 50% interest rate, and I shall take 500% of the total repayment personally in Forgotten Paper Taxes to attone for your lack of effort." He turned back to the board, and finished off his sentence. "I am Professor Trunchbull."

[Kath]

Grumbling about bossy adults and being dragged out of bed far too early, Sai made her way back to class. Slamming the heavy stack of books that had mysteriously appeared on her bed that morning (though she wouldn’t bet against Anakron having put them there) down on the desk, she fell into a seat and prepared to act the epitome of a student in a class they did not want to take – bored, unsociable and bordering on rude. She promptly achieved all three, falling asleep in the chair just as her professor entered the room.

When she eventually woke up again she was surprised to find that someone had joined her, but was less surprised to find that the newcomer had also succumbed to the temptation of sleep, especially when she heard the droning of the professor in the background. Leaning over to get a look at her companion, Sai noticed a pad of paper lying on the desk. Picking it up she skimmed through a few note-filled pages. It looked as though this girl had managed to stay awake a little longer then she had! As she read, Sai absentmindedly corrected the various spelling and grammar mistakes she found in the writing, not really noticing she was doing so until the owner of the writing suddenly sat up and snatched the pad off her.

“Hey! What are you up to?”

Sai began to explain, but tripped over her words in her haste to assure the girl that she had not meant any harm. It didn’t matter though, as she had taken one look at the pad of paper and was now beaming at her. Confused, Sai stopped trying to explain, and questioned instead.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Are you kidding? You’ve just done me a huge favour. I knew I was going to have to work out what I’d done wrong later, and you’ve just done it all for me. I never wanted to take this course in the first place – grammar and diction? So not my forte. I’m Lucy by the way, and you are?”

A little stunned by the sudden U-turn in behaviour Sai didn’t reply for a moment. She wondered whether she’s picked up Alli’s natural distrust of new people, or whether even her short time in Mordor had led her to view those who seemed nice with a wary eye. Nevertheless, she could see no harm in at least trying to make friends.

“I’m Sai. And if you really are ok with me correcting your work like that then you’re welcome. It’s just an automatic thing, but I’m sorry I didn’t ask first.”

“Seriously it’s not a problem, like I said you did me a favour. In fact I’ve got a proposition for you. I’ll stay awake in the lessons and make notes if you’ll correct my mistakes and help me with any essays or stuff like that, agreed?”

Not believing her good fortune, Sai agreed on the spot. Of course, she argued with herself, Lucy could be tricking her. She might not even be taking notes, just making it up as she went along. But then, she argued back, that was a pretty ambitious scheme, and the girl seemed nice. Anyway, whatever the case there was no way she was going to stay awake in a lesson that started this early!

And so the week’s lessons passed in a gentle blur. Sai arrived on time and went back to sleep as soon as Lucy arrived. After class the two would go to one of their rooms where Sai would correct any mistakes and write essays for the both of them, as she had discovered that was simpler than trying to help. Thanks to this little partnership both girls kept in the professors good graces, and since they caused no trouble within the class they weren’t discovered.

The tranquil state of things was shattered, however, on the last day of the week – finals day. Sai and Lucy found themselves on opposite sides of the room as the students had been seated according to surname. Onara and Perks would normally be close to one another but, this being Mordor, there were 13 other candidates in between. Hoping that Lucy would cope on her own, Sai settled down and opened her paper.

2 hours later she exited the room. The questions hadn’t been hard and, thanks to Lucy’s notes, she had at least been able to write something for each one. She had a mild panic attack though as before she could find Lucy and ask her how the exam had gone, she was called back into the room.

Her professor stood before her brandishing her paper.

“Just what do you call this?” He demanded, shoving it under her nose and pointing at something she had written. Peering at it, Sai realised what he meant.

“That, sir, is a correction.”

“This is MY exam paper. I do not make mistakes!”

“I’m sorry but I think you’ll find that you have. You see . . .”

She was interrupted by a sudden bang, and turned to see her parents marching through the door. Perhaps 3 or even 2 weeks ago this would have made her jump, but now she just accepted their appearance with a weary sigh of resignation. Her mother was already reprimanding her as she walked.

“Don’t you answer back young lady! This, um, man is both your elder and you better and you should treat him accordingly. Honestly, I don’t know what today’s youth are coming to.”

“Yes!” Came her father’s voice. “And what is the point of carrying a mobile if you never have it on!”

After smiling at her father, who had become a bit addled in his old age, Sai turned her back on them and tried to continue her conversation with her professor.

“Here it is, look. You’ve written ‘was’ when it should be ‘were’.”

“That’s it! You are grounded!” Her mother’s voice sounded in her ear.

“You can’t ground me! We’re not even at home.”

“Oh? So now you challenge my authority! You’re going off the rails missy.”

“No, mum, I’m just trying to complete this task so I can get out of here. If you’d just go talk to Anakron . . .”

“And who is this Anakron – a boy?” Her father interjected suspiciously.

“Well, a man really but . . .”

“You are coming home with us right now! I don’t know, cavorting around with boys at your age.”

“Mum! Dad! I am not cavorting! And I am perfectly capable of looking out for myself, and even if I weren’t I have made friends here who certainly can.”

“Oh look, she thinks she doesn’t need us anymore. Who was it Sai that gave you life? Who was it that raised you? Who looked after you from the day you were born, forsaking any kind of life I might have had so that you might have a mother? Who worried about you all day every day simply out of love?”

“Yes. Who was it that marched across the frozen wastelands to bring you food? Who kept you warm all winter . . .”

“Darling do be quiet. You won’t be allowed to watch things anymore if they’re going to confuse you so.”

Shaking off the bemusement that arose from this little interlude in her mother’s attempt to guilt trip her, Sai allowed her anger to develop, and used it.

“I’ll answer your questions, mother. You gave me life, even if it was willed by Illamatar, but if you claim that then you cannot blame me in any way for your life going down the drain after I was born. You chose to have me! And I know that you worry about me but that’s your job! You are my parents, you worry. But you can’t stop me from living my life! It’s mine to live and I have to make mistakes in my own way. Speaking of which, professor, have you found yours yet?”

Turning away from her parents she directed fierce eyes at her professor, who rolled his and scribbled an A+ on her exam paper.

”Just take it and go. I’m fed up of arguments like this between my students and their parents. Maybe if you walked a mile in each others shoes you’d understand each other better.”

And with that he stormed out of the room. 'Well', thought Sai, 'at least these nutters are useful for something!' She was sure the professor would have been able to argue his way out of a paper bag if given the chance, and was glad that her parents had taken that opportunity from him. She heard her mother enthusing about something, and tuned her thoughts back into the present.

“Oh what a wonderful idea! Sai, give me your shoes.”

“Mum, you shouldn’t take these things so literally.”

“Now, Sai.”

Doing as she was told, Sai removed her shoes and put on the ones her mother passed her. As she did so she felt a searing pain go through her whole body, finally coming to rest near her heart. She gasped and clutched her chest.

“Mum, I think you’re ill or something. My chest is killing.”

“Well of course it is. I missed you, and I was so worried. You disappear and all we get is a note saying you’ve been taken to Mordor!”

“You can’t possibly be blaming me for the insensitivity of bureaucrats!”

“Well, you did speak an anakronism out loud, you did know what would happen.”

As her mother spoke, Sai felt something gentle wash over her, though it was tinged with sadness. She realised with surprise that it was love mixed with regret, and quickly yanked her mother’s shoes off her feet. She was a teenager for goodness sake! She wasn’t supposed to understand being a parent.

Taking her own shoes back she put them on again and sighed with relief as the familiar sensations of indignation and youthful know-it-all-ness flowed through her. Smiling she hugged both her parents.

“I know I worry you, but I’m afraid you’re just going to have to put up with it. I have to go but I’ll see you when . . . if . . . I get back. Bye!”

Leaving them standing there, she ran out of the room and headed off to find Lucy.

[Encaitare]

It had been a long and trying week for Ms. Brochenbach, between her idiot teacher shouting at the whole class for hours on end and the nagging worry of how she was possibly going to complete that pesky third task. (Oddly enough, whenever she thought about it she had the sudden urge to explore a hedge maze, but she’d never been overly fond of shrubberies and therefore ignored the unusual thought.)

Now it was the night before her final exam. She’d considered studying, but the textbook only had a few words per page and therefore actually contained the same amount of useful information as a supermarket tabloid.

“Well, Mr. Swanky,” she said to her hat, which was sitting on the bedside table in her cramped dorm room, “I’m sure I can do just fine. Real college students wing it all the time. Old Timers Dizeaze, my foot.” Feeling pretty confident in her abilities, she turned off the dingy lamp, rolled over on the squeaky bed, and went to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~

“Wilhelmina!” she heard a man’s voice say. Slowly regaining consciousness, she saw two fuzzy figures standing by the bed – so much for blaming Anakron for disturbing her slumber.

“Minnie, my child, wake up.” This time it was a woman’s voice. With effort, Wilhelmina sat up and squinted at the two people – she wasn’t squinting because her eyesight was poor, but rather because the pair was see-through.

“Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad,” she said somewhat lamely. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Mandos or wherever?”

“Normally we would be, you see, but we’ve heard some disturbing rumors,” Mrs. Brochenbach said mysteriously.

“More disturbing than one’s dead parents showing up in an already eerie dorm room?”

The ghosts looked hurt. “We wanted to see you,” said Mr. Brochenbach. “It’s been so long since you were taken away from us.”

Wonderful, now I feel like a horrible person, she thought. Nothing like reproachful parents to do that to you. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said apologetically. “It’s nice to see you both, too, even if it’s a little… odd.”

“There’s not much time for us to stay, Minnie,” said Mrs. Brochenbach. “We’ve heard about the impending war between parents and teenagers, and we want you to stay out of it.”

Wilhelmina raised her brow and scoffed, not unlike a sassy teen. “Why would I pick a side? I’m not either one.”

“We know that,” her father sighed. “We just don’t want anything to happen to you – it’s probably going to get pretty messy. You wouldn’t want to spoil your chances to get out of Mordor, would you?” He winked, just like he used to back in Minas Tirith…

“We might even be able to help you with that third task,” her mother said in a confidential tone.

“Does it involve a hedge maze?”

“Heavens, no!” Mrs. Brochenbach laughed like the young woman Wilhelmina remembered from her childhood. She suddenly realized that she had missed so much during her exile in Mordor – family, friends (of the non-ferret variety), the possibility of giving her parents grandchildren. She’d missed her parents so much at first, she remembered. The two smiled knowingly, and leaned in closer to give her their otherworldly wisdom –

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

She woke up to the offensive sound of an alarm clock.

Blasted dreams! She fumed, thinking how wretched were these unconscious musings over which she had no control. And how stupid Freud was for spending all his time thinking about them. She hadn’t even gotten any information out of the dream, except some false hopes and irritating sentimentality. Frowning, she put on her hat, picked up her walking stick, and left for her final exam.

[Durelin]

“I’m picturing…a raging sea, tormented by a storm that only Ilúvatar himself could spare anyone from. It is a very vivid picture that I have been shaping in my mind since my childhood, so please don’t ruin it.”

Valde was painting a word picture for all to imagine, having obviously and officially commandeered the class. And as easy as it may have been, he was extremely pleased with himself, feeling a natural pride spring up in him stronger than ever, finding himself in what felt to be his rightful place: holding a script – containing great words of tragedy, nonetheless – and telling people what to do. Six people now sat in the desks before him, though the majority of them seemed to find no reason to really listen to him. Perhaps they all knew that doom was indeed impending in its nature, and had seen the signs as if they had been literal meteors falling out of the sky. Perhaps they were. Valde was too busy directing, as well as maintaining his role as Lead Tragic Actor, to notice anything of that sort.

But he was not planning to cast himself as King Fëar, as most expected, for in his title of Lead Tragic Actor, there was nothing about old men, no matter how tragic they were. His dashing looks, and naturally brooding appearance could not be disguised by powder, whigs, or any kind of masking materials that would destroy any of his expectations that people would remember his face. He had considered adjusting the play so that King Fëar was not at all old, but the connotations brought even Valde’s mind to shame, if he was to avoid altering the story completely. And that just was not possible at this point. He knew they did not have much time; whether or not the impending doom was obvious to him, he realized that time was indeed scarce, though he knew not why. Everyone had most of their lines memorized, which were quite a large number, considering the five-act play was originally divided among four players.

“Actually,” piped up the troll professor, his voice cracking slightly as he raised a quivering hand, “I was picturing more of a “Singing in the Rain” feel…only, with a touch of deeply tragic madness.”

Valde turned a sharp gaze to the professor, who immediately lowered his hand. It was amazing that the man’s eyebrows could tame the wildest troll professor, even one with a fashion sense even more trollish than the majority of trolls. Perhaps it was due to the unfortunately non-trademarkéd v-shape, which sent messages of violence and viciousness and vindictiveness, and, possibly the most intimidating of all, vanity.

“I just thought you might want to know…” the professor stuttered out.

“I’m sure you also had a very clear image of what the billboards would look like, too. But we’re not going with a commercially gratifying musical. We’re waging war against the capitalist shadow that has fallen upon this land.”

Valde’s eyes scanned the room, and came to lie on the mousey girl. Only she watched him intently, and he could only stare back for a moment, unblinkingly, his lip twitching, trying to hold back a sneer. He was not sure if her enraptured attention was good or not. Quickly, he decided that he simply did not care, and moved on.

“Now, father, your lines?”

And so the class proceeded, until Valde had performed the ritualistic pulling out of the hair attempt many times over, until the shaggy black mass looked violently disheveled, his purposely ill-kempt sideburns and eyebrows only adding to the wildness of his look. It seemed he had decided to go with a look more akin to that of a frustrated composer, who, feeling under appreciated and meaningless, doubting his existence and finding his mortality shockingly real, sold his soul to the Dark Lord. This was why, possibly, he so missed the olden days in which Mordor had a much more corporeal demon to deal with, no matter how often he existed without a body.

It was a slow and steady proceeding, and they worked their way practically a line at a time, Valde constantly readjusting and questioning, snapping at those who failed to carry out his instructions properly, and often snarling angrily when he realized that even he did not like what he had only a moment before stated was his refined vision. He was discovering that perhaps his envisioning had been rather narrow-minded, limiting all the roles to being played by none other than he himself.

The final eruption came when he determined that his mother playing the Fool was indeed rather fake, no matter how much he wanted to think that it was a realistic role for her. “Grace and a cod-piece!” he bellowed, “that’s a wise man and a fool!” He apparently was getting sick of her forgetting her lines, he himself forgetting that she had only started memorizing them since her arrival.

His mother sighed. “Please, dear, may I simply read them for now?”

“No! You are the Fool! How hard can it be?”

The woman slapped a hand to her face, and her husband followed suit. “We have failed him, haven’t we, my dear?” Valde’s father asked, his voice filled with a sadness that would echo through any void, or through eternity itself, never to be silenced. Valde eyed them angrily, though the inquisitiveness was clear in his gaze.

“What is this nonsense? Let’s get a move on…”

“No, son, we must tell you something,” his father began grimly, his voice firm.

“What now? Do hurry it up…” Valde tried to maintain the sharp annoyance in his voice, but he was faltering. The seriousness in his father’s voice, and the pain and severity in both his parents’ eyes told him something was not right. He now had to admit, perhaps for the first time, that he had inherited his natural tragic tendencies from someone, and it had surely been these two. The emotions that warred within them were clear in their expressions, the simply way that held themselves, and allowed their eyes to convey more than any mere words would, was artistry. Valde was almost troubled enough to have to fight back a tear, but held any blatant sorrow at bay with a furrow of his brow.

“Son…this might be very hard for you…” his mother talked slowly, deep concern in her voice. She approached him, holding out a hand to take hold of his and squeeze it tight, looking up into his eyes. Tears had begun forming in small pools, cupped in her eyelids. Blinking, she turned away, seemingly ashamed. Valde looked on, as his father took several steps forward as well.

“My boy…I’m afraid…” he choked, but pushed himself on, forcing the words out slowly and steadily, his voice wavering only slightly as he tried to keep his head held high, gripping his hands tightly in two fists which he held at his side to steady him. “It is Act V, Scene III, and you have failed to produce catharsis.”

A poisonous ooze of fear ran up his stomach and into his throat, and Valde’s hands shot up to clutch it as if he were choking on the taste of what could only be failure. Supreme and utter failure, for the Lead Tragic Actor, playwright, and amateur director. He, Valde Delego, had failed? His production of King Fëar, before it could even endure one run through of the entire script, had failed? Nay, not just that production: the production, the play, the walking shadow. He, the poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, had finally come to Act V, Scene III, that final scene, that fateful scene, by which all tragedies fates’ are sealed. He felt cut short, but then, it was too late. He had his chance, he had his hour, and he had failed. He would be heard no more, left to be naught more than a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Turning away from his parents, and shrugging off even his mother’s loving touch, Valde began to trudge slowly toward stage right, to make his final exit. But suddenly, applause broke out, and, whirling on his heel, his long coat swirling behind him, he returned his gaze across the classroom that had for a brief time become his stage, and, strangely, found hundreds – no, thousands – of faces staring back at him. The others in the room began to gather down stage from him, in front of the desks, facing out to the audience. Clasping hands, they took a bow. Valde stood frozen in shock, even as they beckoned to him to join them.

“But…” he stammered, “If it is over, why are they cheering?”

His father laughed at him over the noise of the crowd. “Because they have been entertained! You could surely say they are full of sound and fury,” he remarked, gesturing out to the audience, “but signifying nothing? I am no so sure…”

Valde’s lips curled into a small smile, and he made his way up to join his fellow players. They took another bow, before they broke away, leaving Valde standing alone to take a few bows by himself. Finally, on the very last flourishing bow, his face cracked into a full smile, even showing teeth, until the flash of a motionless capturing kamura caused him momentarily blindness, and he stumbled off backstage. There, awaiting him, he found no one. No one with flowers, no one even to remove his makeup or help him with his costume. But then, looking down, he realized that there had been no transformation in this performance. He had remained himself throughout the entirety of it. Perhaps Shakespeardil was right… he considered momentarily, but soon his mind was busied with other things.

He hurriedly searched around backstage, but could find no one, not even his parents. Exiting through a back door, he found himself back in the hallway of the Univeristy of Mordor, and reality suddenly came crashing down. Act V, Scene III was over. The applause of the crowd had made him forget what that meant. Time was up. The Anakron… Had he passed his test? Had he passed any of his test? Had he even been tested? Or had he been forgotten? After all, he had failed to produce catharsis.

He had also failed to secure a pair of eyebrows legally. He had failed to make his way through Lûndûn in the proper amount of time. He had lost his role in Spamlet. He had failed to make it to the Mount Doom Casino and Resort on his own, even with the help of Mr. T. He was almost certain he had failed his ‘psych eval’ due to the simple fact that he had altogether blown it off. And his class… His life was but a tale of failure, and woe was his constant state because of that. If only his parents, if only the Grand Anakronist, if only Mordor, and if only the world knew that, then perhaps his failures would not cause him to…fail. Where was there for him to go, when he was a failure even once assigned to Mordor?

“Where?” he shouted to no one but the wind. He would find Anakron, and demand an answer from him. He cared not what it was; he already expected to find himself cast aside, forgotten, as the failure, the loser of the game. It was fun while it lasted. And so he raged on.

“Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, shall I pay mind!
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
Thou gods who hath treated me as they play thing!
Cast me aside, used; I care not!
Assigneth me – no, by my right,
By the gnarled marrow of my forefathers,
I assigneth mineself…to Mordor!”

~*Exeunt, with much credit owed to Shakespeardil*~

[littlemanpoet]

The tableau was the remains of the battlefield, hemmed in on north, east, and south by the sheer cliffs of the Ephel Duath. To the west was the Gate that led to Ithilien. It was closed. Beneath the cliffs to the east stood the former tower of Minas Ithil, Morgul, now somehow Cirith Ungol, though why in the Dweomer it should be named for a spider was beyond Anakron. He and A Slan met in the middle of the battlefield, which had once been a haven, if have one could call it, for poisonous death-flowers. All the flowers that had grown there were now dead themselves. Anakron and A Slan shook hand to paw.

They were distracted by the repeated chuff of an oversized bug that looked not unlike a dragonfly. It was shiny yellow, and had antennae sticking out from its top, which added to the effect. Both armies backed away from the spot where it was coming down with a great wind of choking dust and now deafening chuff of propellers. It landed, and out popped Karís Mâtiktwít, a big grin on his face and his overly whitened teeth gleaming.

"That was excellent! Incredible! Fantabulous! The best take we've ever had! What a reality show! This'll get better ratings than anything we've done yet!"

"So you got it all?" Anakron asked.

"Yes! Everything! Even the voice of Illamatar! Which I must say," Karis grinned, "was an ingenious idea. You really should consider a career in show business, Anakron. You certainly have that gift, that élan, that creative spark for just the right touch."

"I thought it rather weak myself," Anakron replied, "a deus ex machina if ever there was one."

"Welllllll, it was your idea, Anakron." Karis pointed a reprimanding finger at him.

"Little matter if it was or not," Anakron retorted, "as long as those Trolls are safely in my bank account?"

"Yes, all three million of them."

"Good. After all, I need to have something to fall back on when I retire from this < ahem > less than advantageous profession."

"Less than advantageous!" Karis cried. "Such power! Such notoriety!"

"I was referring to the more, shall we say, enslaving aspects of it, such as being forced into the position by a pair of bellicose and overwheening wizards."

"Well, all's well as ends in great tv ratings!" Karis said, and marched off, giving orders to his staff of lisping orcs.

"So," said A Slan, "you really are just a marionette, as you say, in this whole thing." Anakron merely nodded. "And there are two wizards who control this..." A Slan looked around "...place?"

"So it is."

"And these anakronisms, as you call them, come from your future, and in that future I have already appeared in this world?"

"Well, there is a rumor that this entire situation is a feigned history, and even so there is much debate as to whether you actually did - or will - appear as that which you claim to be, and whether you actually did what you claimed to have done. But for all intents and purposes, it is as you say."

"Well, being who I am," said A Slan, "I'll take it that I will have been here, and therefore there is no more that I need to do here. I'll be off now! And sorry for the little misunderstanding!" There is some debate as to what happened next. Some say that A Slan roared, and the power of his roar made the air shake, and into that shaken air he disapparated to yet another dimension. Others say that Anakron's raised staff, and the cat's 'meower' conveyed the Dweomer, and he thus sent A Slan packing. Be as it may, A Slan was no more to be seen, and this feigned history, if it is that, continued on with no more A Slan to confuse the bliddy issue. (Nevertheless, it was said that in later years, two brothers and two sisters led a rebellion and took over Cair Pairadocks, under the banner of A Slan, and ruled there in pieces until they left as mysteriously as they came.)

"And now!" cried Anakron. "The fates of the Offending Party has been determined! As soon as arrangements for presentations have been made, the determinations shall be announced!"

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

"Valde Delego! Come forth!" cried Anakron Istkon Vayor.

The dour personage stepped out of the crowd, hat for once in hand. His tall and lanky frame was hunched at the shoulders, and his head drooped.

"How do you think you fared, Valde Delego?" Anakron asked.

"Well to be honest, milord, I think I failed."

"Why do you think so?"

"I never made it to my psychological evaluation, milord."

"That did not help you, I grant it."

"What do you think was your greatest moment?"

"It is hard to say for certain, milord, but being on stage in the classroom, as Lead Tragic Actor."

"Indeed. I will come back to that. Now for the scores. You were late in completing the first test, and won seven points. In the second, you and the others missed some obvious chances to be proper Mordorian drivers. The third, the celebrity hunt, as we call it, you failed and never made up. You seem to have avoided a physical and any surgeries that might have resulted as well, so I cannot consider you to have passed that either. On the positive side, you did not vote for a single lynched victim in the werewolf scenario, ten points; and your final exam was stellar; another ten points. Finally, for overall gamesmanship in all its forms, and any self-improvements achieved (other than the shallow kinds), I award you with twenty-five out of thirty possible points. Your total score is thus ..... sixty-three points out of one hundred. I am afraid that it is not enough. You have not succeeded."

Valde deflated. His shoulders sagged even. His face went sallow, his eyes dimmed. His hat folded in on itself. In a word, he was crushed. Figuratively speaking. "I - I did not expect any better, to be honest, milord."

"Even in that you are wrong, Valde Delego, for one thing has become clear. You are indeed a great performer, and not only performer, but an able teacher of performance in the arts, be they as they are in this Dweomer-ridden land. Thus, I am happy to be able to announce that the University & Hospital of Mordor at Urukapolis has determined that you are the best nominee to replace the retiring (in more ways than one) Dr. Trollianus Tyredazthaykúm. You shall, if you accept the post, become Head of the College of Performing Arts, and Director of all plays, musicals, operas, and skits; and, of course, tragedies. What say you?"

Valde looked stunned. In fact, he was stunned. His shoulders straightened. His eyes cleared. His hat uncrushed and became wearable. He was uncrushed. He was positively bubbling. Indeed, he was uncola. After a fashion.

"I - I - I'll need to think about it, milord!"

"You have time. I have six more dooms to declare. When I have finished, return to me with your answer. Is it well?"

"It is, milord." Valde Delego bowed, turned, and walked away with a bemused and whimsical look on his face.

Anakron smirked. It could have gone worse for that one. No doubt. And these trolls needed replacing. He hoped more Offending Parties might produce such rich surprises for Mordor in its various facets. He was tempted to tell the other six that they had failed as well, then place them where they would be most useful; but that would be unfair, for some of the others had passed as well. He turned his attention to the crowd that waited with bated breath, which was getting to be ridiculous for they were all turning blue, and he readied himself to announce the next member of the Offending Party to whom he would announce doom.

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

"Alumine Umfoil!" Anakron cried.

Alli walked up, leaning on the left shoulder of just as tipsy Aimé, a dreamy and contented smile on her beaming face.

"You shaid it right!"

"But of course. Do you think I'm a dolt?

"I must inform you, Alli, that < ahem > being in love does not qualify as self-improvement, even though it certainly has improved your disposition, disregarding your current state of inebriation. Nevertheless..." A pained look came over Anakron's face. "I congratulate you on your newfound relationship. May it last as long as it should.

"That said, it is time to settle accounts." This sounded ominous. It was. Anakron raised his head and then his voice. "Complainants! Come forth! Stand on the Offending Person's right."

Alli frowned and looked around Aimé's shoulder. (He almost lost his balance from the sudden change in his equilibrium, and groaned from an oncoming alcolhol induced headache.) Walking toward the threesome were Orlando Bloom, Britney Spears, Feanor of the Peredhil, and Mario.

"Witnesses for the Defense, rise and come forth! Stand on the Offending Person's left."

Tom Felton came forward, followed by a host of fangirls, and Roggie taking up the rear.

Aimé said, "I think I ought to get on your other side." Alli nodded and switched sides with Aimé, so that he stood with Tom Felton and the other witnesses for what apparently was turning into her Defense. What had she done? It was true that she and Aimé had killed the werewolf Mario, but here he was now, alive and as menacing as ever! How could that be? Did everybody come back to life in Mordor? It was so unfair! At least they couldn't accuse her of killing somebody who was standing before them, so obviously alive.

"Just what the doubleyooteeyef is going on here, anyway?" Alli demanded.

"These individuals have complaints that must be answered before your fate may be determined," Anakron replied.

Alli's hands went to her hips. "But you never said anything about that! You laid down the rules and we abided by them (in general), and here all of a sudden you're holding us accountable for all kinds of things that should have been allowed!"

"Who says that they were ever allowed?" Anakron retorted. "Did you think that you could do any blessed thing you pleased, just because you were part of the Offending Party?"

"Wellllll..... yeah!"

"I'm sorry to hear that. You are very much mistaken."

Alli added quickly, "Well, maybe I didn't think I could do just anything."

Anakron raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

Now Alli was at a loss for words. The fact was, she had not even considered the consequences of her actions beyond making sure she passed the tests. She had lived very much in the moment, had done what seemed like needing to be done, and had skated, jumped, wiggled, crawled, stamped, and danced through the challenges, with only the thought of making it through. Well, also the thought of taking vengeance upon Mario for the sake of Hookbill, and listening to Illamatar.

"I had visions!" she cried desperately. "I had a spiritual experience! A change of ... heart...." The final word almost died on her lips.

"Tell me about this so-called change of heart, Alli," Anakron said quietly.

"I -- I -- " Alli was at a loss for words. In desperation she cried, "a change of heart wasn't in the original contract! Nobody said I had to have one!"

Anakron smirked. "That is true. You claimed to have had one, not I."

"Deeyayemen!" She looked at Aimé for help. He was looking at her with great concern, but helplessly. This seemed to be beyond his scope. At last she said, "Well, let's hear the complaints! We might as well get this overwith seeing as I'm probably not going to make it out of Mordor." Which, she considered, wouldn't be all bad, seeing as Aimé couldn't leave.

"Very well," said Anakron. "Orlando Bloom, say your complaint!"

"She took away my fangirls!" he yelled, pointing at Alli.

"Is that the entirety of your complaint, Mr. Bloom?"

"Yes!"

"Is there an answer?" Anakron asked.

"There is!" Tom Felton called, stepping forward. "It was I who took away his fangirls, not Alli. She merely set up the circumstances that brought it about!"

"Is his claim true, Mr. Bloom?"

Orlando Bloom glowered. "Yes, it is." He slumped.

"Your complaint is answered," Anakron said. "Off with you to Kirsten Dunst and New Jersey!" Anakron raised his staff, and Orlando Bloom disappeared.

"Britney Spears!" Anakron called. "Say your complaint!"

"She stole the show!" Britney whined. "I was on stage, recording my new CD, and she just barged in and took over! And then my stage got a big hole in it, which is her fault too!"

"Is there anybody to answer for this complaint?"

Roggie strode forward. "I am the one who made the hole," he said.

"Very well. Is there anyone to answer for stealing the complainants show?"

"I'll speak to that!" cried Feanor of the Peredhil from amongst the complainants.

"Will you?" Anakron queried. "That is odd, seeing as you have your own complaint."

"Even though I have my own complaint, this so-called singer's complaint is a fallacy!"

"On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that I'm the one who assigned her to Mordor!"

"Those are solid grounds. You may speak to the defense of Alli on this point."

Feanor of the Peredhil stood tall and announced, "She's just puke!" Britney gnashed her teeth at this, ready to strangle the Peredhil.

Anakron merely raised his brows. "How do you know this?"

"Easy. There's a test. A demonstration." Feanor of the Peredhil turned to Britney Spears and yelled, "The Only Real Estel!"

Suddenly, Britney Spears' jaw dropped and her eyes went wide with horror. She melted. And turned a sickening green-yellow, and stank of bile.

"Hmm...." murmured Anakron. "Apparently she is indeed!" He turned to Alli. "You are cleared of this complaint, since stealing the show from puke is only right. The next complainant, since she has already spoken, is Feanor of the Peredhil!"

Feanor pointed at Alli. "She voted for my death!"

"Is that the entirety of your complaint?"

"No. She's also me when I was younger and didn't know better, and that's just a horrible thought! She ought to stay in Mordor!"

"Is there anyone to answer this complaint?"

"I will!" Alli said. "First off, I only voted for her fair and square because it was part of the rules! And if I'm her at a younger age, then she's still the same person as me, and if I stay in Mordor, she should too!"

"And if she's not the same person as you, just older?" Anakron wondered aloud.

"Then her complaint's false in the first place!"

"Very good." Anakron turned to Feanor of the Peredhil. "You are answered."

Feanor of the Peredhil gave Alli a dirty look, but slowly it began to change to a smirk, then a grin, then a wink, leaving Alli very, very confused.

"Are there any more complaints?" Anakron asked.

"Yes!" It was Mario. "She killed me!"

"But you're alive, you fool," Anakron answered.

"That's only because of the Dweomer! It still hurt!"

"It is true that the deed was done, and that it was most certainly painful," Anakron acknowledged. "Is there anyone here to answer the complaint?"

Silence ensued. It lasted for two whole moments. Then it lasted for three more moments on top of that.

Finally, Anakron spoke. "Alli, it seems that there is no one who will answer this complaint. What have you to say for yourself?"

"He's an evil werewolf! He killed and maimed people! He hurt Hookbill!"

"Yes," commented Anakron, "and he's not the only werewolf to do so, oddly. Nevertheless, no-one gave you authority for bounty hunting or vigilanti-ism. What is your answer?"

Alli could think of nothing. But she had a question. "If his complaint stands, how does that affect my score?"

"Greatly, for it bears upon how you've handled yourself throughout all the tests."

Alli's head drooped. "I - I - I have no answer."

"I do!" came an oddly familiar voice from the back of the crowd.

"Come forward!" Anakron said.

Up walked a virtual duplicate of Alli. Anakron's lip slowly rose in a hint of a smile. "And who might you be?"

"The real Alli!"

"Is that so?"

"Yes!"

"Explain."

"I made her during the three day rest period between challenges two and three. She was bait, standing for me, while I achieved the challenges."

"This needs proof," Anakron said with a skeptical arch of his brow.

"Easy," she answered. "Surely you noticed that I inexplicably passed the final exam and psych eval, even though it seemed that I failed. It's because while she failed them, I went back and completed them successfully. I may have made her, but that doesn't mean she's as effective as me. She's a little unstable compared to me."

"Illamatar help us all!" blurted Feanor of the Peredhil.

"It must be admitted," Anakron said, "that your evidence is circumstantial."

"What in this Illamatar forsaken challenge is not?" the "new" Alli challenged.

Anakron smirked. "You have a point. Very well! The final complaint is answered. Go away, Mario."

Mario huffed and puffed away, and it is said that he went back to Dol Gaurgauroth and blew a couple houses down.

"Now for the scores. For your first test, Lúndún, you scored a nine; for the road rage trip, six points. For the celebrity hunt, ten points. For werewolf, your votes resulted in the deaths of two innocents, eight points. Your physical and surgery went seamlessly, ten points. Your psych eval netted nine points, which is higher than the original total I had been ready to award you due to the fact that your golem of sorts almost caused you a disaster; the same may be said for your final exam, which would have been lower than the nine points I am giving you. Now, regarding your gameship. You have proven yourself to be unstable and highly explosive, you have had dealings with the Mordorian underworld which raises ethical questions, and yet in spiete of all these negative aspects, you have been defended against all complaints, even murder. Therefore, you receive twenty points out of a possible thirty, and your final score is eighty. You pass. By the skin of your teeth (now go and brush them, ick).

"Finally, I have a sealed envelope for you, the contents of which I am not at liberty to divulge." Anakron handed her the envelope. "Your friend here, if I may so call him," Anakron indicated Aimé, has not achieved the goal that you have, and you must leave him behind, if you choose to leave Mordor. You are free to do so, but it is your choice. Do what you will! But do not answer me now. Wait until I have dealt with all of the members of the Offending Party and tell me then what you have decided."

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

"Fléin!" Anakron called.

"I'm right here," came a gruff voice. "In front of you."

Anakron looked down. But of course. Fléin the Dwarf stood there glowering, awaiting his doom.

"Yours, Fléin, is an interesting situation. You gruffed, intimidated, befriended, assaulted and battered, religiously fanaticised, and infatuated your way through these challenges."

"I what?!?" Fléin's brows formed a "v" rivaling those of Spockú.

"Trust me. The important thing is that you passed every specific test, although not always to perfection. My reason for describing your methods with a series of adjectives is to reveal the way you approached the challenges. To that end, some of those with whom you had dealings, have requested to speak regarding your case." Anakron looked up. "Come forward!"

Fléin looked behind him. There came a sparrow, an inebriated man wearing bathtubs, a beaver, a pair of bespectacled psychologists, and a Dwarf.

"Ketchupkin!" Fléin cried.

The Dwarf smiled and winked.

"He just about killed me!" came a squawking voice, interrupting Fléin's brief happily infatuated moment. It was the sparrow. "I don't care if I was part of some weird battle regarding the incarnations of Johnny Depp, A Slan, or the swamp thing! He just about killed me!"

"But I didn't!" Fléin asserted.

"But you did kill me!" yelled the Beaver, somehow free of his lisp.

"Oh. Well. Yeah. But you came back to life! That was the werewolf game! And that whole thing was a set-up! And you're only an animal anyway!"

"A talking Animal, Dwarf!" cried the Beaver. "You do not deserve freedom from Mordor! You deserve death!"

"Whoa now, just hold up a minute," Fléin said.

"Do you have a defense, Fléin?" asked Anakron. "Or is there someone to speak in your defense?"

"I do!" Ketchupkin said boldly. "Fléin joined the forces of A Slan."

"And this helps him, how?" asked Anakron pointedly, "seeing as it put him on the opposing side from me?"

"Lesh not confuzhe zhe issue," interrupted SpaM. "I wuzh a lawyer in my preevush exishtinsh, and yer clouding thingshup (urp)."

"Maybe you would care to enlighten us, sir," Anakron smirked.

"Thadeyewood! Shir. Firsh regarding the shparrow. Izh it not ture- tar- - ah - a fact that thishparrow attacked Fléin?"

"It is!" Fléin cried. "It was self-defense!"

"It was not!" yelled the sparrow. "It was a duel!"

"In (hic) that cashe, shparrow, it wuzh ashault between two conshenting parteezh an' theref- (urp) thushly, you have no recoursh!"

"Aw dagnabit!" the sparrow said, and stalked off.

"But he murdered me!" cried the Beaver.

"You don't seem very murdered," Fléin accused.

"You still did it!"

"Dwarf, did you know it wuzh a talking Beaver when you killed it?" said the somewhat not so inebriatedly seeming SpaM.

"Um, yes."

"Oh. Well then. Wuzh it an aksheedent?"

"Um, no."

"Oh." SpaM made a gesture of surrender and backed away.

"One count of open murder," Anakron intoned, "confessed to. That will count against you, Fléin."

"But it's just a beaver!" Fléin roared.

"A talking beaver," the beaver insisted.

"Oh you shut up, you little orc!"

The beaver swore at him.

"Tut tut, Mr. Beaver," drawled Anakron. "Are there any other complaints against Fléin the Dwarf?"

"He is insane," said Sigmund.

"What proof have you?"

"He is delusional, thinking some kind of spiritual being has given him a special purpose."

"Oh shut up," said Jung. "I'm sure he's quite right!"

Freud looked at Jung, scandalized. "You maniac!"

"You atheist!" cried Jung.

"You religious fanatic!" retorted Freud.

"You sex-obsessed lecher!" shouted Jung.

"You traitor!" bellowed Freud.

"Enough! Shut up, both of you!" roared Anakron. They stared at him, confounded. "Get out of here. You're neither helping nor hindering Fléin's case. Go!"

They turned and scurried back to Shelob's Lair to harrass and victimize other unfortunates.

"Are there any other complaints?" Anakron waited. Nothing more was said. "Any good words for Fléin?"

"He voted shmart and came up with the sticksh method for keeping track of votesh back in Dol Gaurgauroth," SpaM remarked.

"He fought on the side that he thought was right," Ketchupkin said.

"These things shall be taken into account. Now to it! Ten points for Lûndûn. Six points for the road rage. Eight points for Johnny Depp's integration. Eight points for DolGaurgauroth (you voted against two innocents). Ten points each for your physical, your psych eval, and your final exam. Of the thirty points I would give for general gamesmanship, I take away two for getting into an unnecessary duel, and twenty for open murder of a talking beaver. But I award ten points back to you for fighting on the side that you thought was right. Total points, eighty-two out of one hundred. You pass. You may pass through the gates and go to Ithilien.

"But he should be tried for murder!" cried the Beaver.

"There is one problem with that," Anakron said, "you cannot produce a corpse, so there can be no trial."

"Deeyayemen!" the Beaver swore.

"Hah!" Fléin crowed and swung his axe jubilantly. The beaver and Ketchupkin ducked.

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

Whilst the cross-examinations of Alli and Fléin proceeded, events unknown to the rest of the Offending Party were occurring in Mardil's jail cell. His psych-eval concluded, he made to leave his cell only to be stopped by two unassuming hooded and cloaked fellows leaning on their staves. Their cloaks were of a blue so dark that they were almost - not quite but almost - black.

"Greetings, Lord Mardil the Second, Crown Prince of Ithilien, Heir of Faramir the Good," said the slightly taller of the two.

"Hello," Mardil answered, slightly taken aback that they knew exactly who he was. "Who are you?" He had a good idea already.

"That shall be revealed, completely," said the slightly shorter of the two, "very soon. Let us move back into this cozy little room and have a meeting of minds." He gestured into Mardil's cell. Mardil turned around and saw that where before there had only been one chair, now there were three. He did a brow creased double take of the two cloaked fellows, then walked in and rearranged the seats so that he could keep both individuals in his sight at all times. He stood waiting behind his choice of seat while the two blue-hooded men sat down; then he sat himself. The two men threw back their hoods to reveal ancient faces with piercing eyes and long hooked noses, bushy eyebrows and scraggly white beards.

"As you may have guessed already, Mardil," said the slightly taller man, "I am known as Pallando, or as Stamo, by various folks, and my counterpart here is known as Alatar or Mori, depending of course upon where we happen to be." Mardil nodded. These were the two blue Istari, the ones who had cursed all of Gondor with the Anakronism Dweomer.

"What do you want?" Mardil asked.

Pallando smiled. "Right to the point as usual. I like that about you."

"But before we get to what we want," said Alatar, "you should know about certain information about which we are aware."

"First," continued Pallando, "we are aware of your chosen weaponry, such as doses of this and that in your little bottles, and your effectiveness with knives. We encourage you not to try to use either weapon against us, as it will only be to your own disadvantage."

"Rest assured on that point," Alatar intoned.

"You've threatened me," Mardil answered, "not to try to harm you or it will go the worse for me. I understand. So, what are you here for?"

Pallando's brows rose. "Threatened? Nay! We have merely warned."

"We have more to tell you," Alatar continued, "before we answer your question. It has, shall we say, to do with 'doing what you are supposed to do, what you should do, and what you can do.'"

Mardil's eyes narrowed. "So you've listened in on conversations I've had with Anakron. Either that, or he has reported to you."

The two Istari merely smiled by way of response.

"We are also aware," said Pallando, "of various organizations that specialize in illegal activities here in Mordor, and their cellgroups and activities throughout the rest of the Gondorian Imperium."

"Indeed," continued Alatar, "we have been keeping tabs on a campaign that denounces the King of Gondor for sending a certain young heir to the Stewardship of Ithilien to Mordor despite the fact that he did not speak an anakronism. We are also aware of a similar ad campaign blaming the King for all the corruption that has engulfed Gondor's government, as well as the weakened state of the military. We are aware of the source of these campaigns."

Mardil's brow furrowed. "Oh? And who might that be?"

"Do not play coy with us, Mardil the Second," Alatar warned. "We are aware of your father's grand ambitions for you."

Mardil sat forward in his chair, outrage warring with his self control. "Have you done something to my father?"

"Not a thing," answered Pallando.

"There is no need," added Alatar, "yet."

"We think," Pallando said, "that it was a minor stroke of genius that you forged an alliance with 'Roggie', as the current Lord of Mount Doom has been nicknamed. He very much looks forward to becoming Prince of all Mordor."

"Not to mention," Alatar picked up, "your clever alliance with Khamul and his criminal organization. It is even quite noble of you to aspire to destroying that organization. However....." Alatar stopped speaking and looked carefully into the eyes of Mardil; Pallando did the same.

What were they up to, Mardil wondered? Obviously, they knew everything he was doing; at least, everything he was doing that he had ever told to Anakron. Had Anakron betrayed him to these two? Or did they hold more power than Mardil had understood until now? And why were they studying him now? Could they read his thoughts? He had never developed the ability to hide his thoughts from those who could do such a thing, so he found himself to be defenseless on that score, and therefore decided that it was useless to worry about it. He decided that he might as well push to the heart of the issue.

"You've had your say, obviously. I'll ask again: what do you want?"

Pallando smiled. But the smile reached no higher than his abundant mustache; his eyes were as coals. "We want to replace the King of Gondor with you."

"Fine, but I was going to do that anyway."

The two chuckled. "But on our terms," said Alatar.

Anger flared in Mardil's heart. "And if I say no?"

"There is something you have yet to understand, Mardil," Pallando purred. "Khamul answers to us. Roggie answers to us. Anakron answers to us."

"Furthermore," Alatar murmured, "there are no High Elves left, no rival Istari (unless you count that bumbling Radagast), no evil Overlord with Rings to enslave others, no King in Gondor with the virtue of character to stand against us. We alone remain of all the powers of the former ages, and none can stand against us. You, my dear Mardil, would be a fool to try."

"What are your terms?" Mardil asked the obvious question, giving no clue as to whether he intended to abide by whatever terms they offered.

"It is simple, really," Pallando said. "Leave the Dweomer alone, and thus our Anakronist alone, and rule as you will except in any way that we overrule your decisions, and we will put our power and wisdom at your disposal. Refuse this offer, and be stopped from even escaping from Mordor, whether you passed the tests or not, whether your father has come to support you or not. These are your terms. Mardil the Second, Crown Prince of Ithilien, Heir of Faramir the Good, Would-be Usurper to the Throne of Gondor, what is your choice?"

[littlemanpoet]

"Wilhe-"

"I'm right here!"

Anakron looked down. There was a little circular garden sitting on a pedestal that had been there since the deliberations had begun. However, it was not a circular garden, but a very garish flowery hat; and the pedestal was not a pedestal at all, but Wilhelmina, looking up from beneath her hat! Mr. Swanky stuck out a wiggling nose and a pair of black coal eyes. Anakron's eyebrows rose while his face remained otherwise expressionless.

"Very well, Wilhelmina Brochenbach."

Wilhelmina grinned. "You said my name right!"

"I should hope so," he said without a smile, though his tone was kindly. "Are there any accusations?"

"I want my dog back!" cried a snippy voice from somewhere back in the crowd. A too thin, arrogant, and not very pretty young woman, wearing ridiculously expensive and too skimpy pink and accessorized clothing, came sauntering up in five inch pink heels and matching watchband.

"Oh. Garish Swilton."

The woman stamped her foot angrily. "Paris Hilton!"

"Ah." Anakron looked down at her through half closed lids.

She smiled coquettishly and batted her overly made up eyelashes. "I'm famous, you know."

Anakron rolled his eyes. "Get on with it."

She pouted, hands on accessorized hips, then pointed overly dramatically at Wilhelmina. "She stole my dog!"

"Your stupid dog," Wilhelmina corrected.

The spoiled snit made a face at Wilhelmina.

"You don't deserve a dog," Anakron declared, "no matter how stupid. Nor the wealth and fame. Get out of here."

The snit's jaw dropped. "I'll have me daddy sue you!"

"He's not here. Now get out of my sight. You are a taint on Mordor."

Her jaw dropped even farther. Hands on hips, she turned around, still staring at the speaker of such terrible news, then turned her head away dramatically.

"Best acting I've ever seen from you," Anakron drawled.

Her jaw hit the ground. Reaching down, she picked it up. While she was bent over, Wilhelmina landed a solid kick on the behind and sent her sprawling, the points of her heels askew.

"One extra point for Wilhelmina," Anakron announced. The crowd roared with laughter, and the young snit lost herself in the crowd.

"Now for Wilhelmina's points earned. For the Bliddy Unnergrind race, nine points; the road rage race, six points; for the celebrity hunt you are awarded nine points, one point deducted for lateness; for werewolf, nine points (you voted someone dead); for your physical and ensuing surgery, ten points; for your psychological evaluation, you achieved the disintegration of the obviously insane Sigmund Freud ... although that did not entirely establish your sanity, it was still worth seven points; and for your final exam-" Anakron's mouth slowly drew up in a grin "-which I personally found quite delightful, ten points. And now, for the final addition. As I said, you did receive an extra point just now for your most appropriately exacted punishment for atrocious behavior exhibited by one particular snitful idiot worth less than one tenth of a fangirl. On top of that, you receive twenty-five points for an although imperfect performance, you showed great resolve, creativity, and ingenuity (not to mention lots of clever writing), and got Mr. Swanky back from Queen Quon to pass your initially failed test - quite well done. Total, eighty-six points. You pass. You may leave Mordor and enter Ithilien."

[littlemanpoet]

"Sai Onara!" Anakron called.

"Goodbye to you to!" Wilhelmina grinned, waving, and walked away.

Anakron clicked his tongue. "Has anyone seen Sai Onara?"

Way, way in the back of the crowd, about a score of people pointed off in the direction of the mountains just behind what used to be known as Minas Morgul. Squinting, Anakron could barely make out three figures running at the foot of the mountains, two apparently chasing one. The one trailing seemed to be a particularly butt-less woman; the middle party was by all accounts a reincarnated Uruk-hai from way back in the end of the Third Age by the name of Lurge, who hadn't really been there but had been dreamed up by Bleater Quackson and thereby found himself in Mordor. These two were chasing a young lady who Anakron could now see was screaming at the top of her lungs, seeking escape or rescue from her two pursuers.... at least the closer and more fanged fo the two.

"Dweomer," said Anakron raising his staff, "convey." The Siamese figure on the top of his staff caterwauled. Somehow, even Anakron didn't know how - nevertheless it happened, suddenly Sai Onara appeared stage left, still screaming and dashing at full speed stage right, Lurge and Jaylo in hot pursuit.

"Stop!" Anakron yelled.

Sai stopped in her tracks, suddenly aware that she was not where she had been. Next instant she was bowled over by Lurge who started licking her face.

"Yuck!" she pulled away, disgusted for some reason.

"You are so good at the mating call of female orcs!" Lurge growled happily.

"If you don't get off me I'll vomit!" Sai threatened

"Ooh!" He chuckled. "Orcish kissing! I'm ready when you are!"

Jaylo started beating on the back of Lurge. "Get off her so I can get my butt back!"

"Stop! All three of you!" Anakron commanded. "Now! Somebody hand her a towel."

"And soap and water!" Sai couldn't get her face to undo its look of revulsion. Lurge got up and offered Sai a hand. "Get away from me! I'll get up myself!"

After Sai had wiped herself down, she looked up expectantly at Anakron. "Please tell me I passed!" She gave Lurge a horrified glance of revulsion.

"Actually," Anakron said, "you seem to have metaphorically ridden on the backs of others for much of these tests. You clung to Alli and Mardil to get you through the first two tests, with Alli on the third and fourth, and only on the fifth did you go it alone, stumbling through as you went. It was only by a stroke of Bagginsish luck that you passed your psych eval, stumbling upon just the 'riddle in the dark' that you needed; and you shared the classload with Lucy, who happens to be standing just behind you by the way, in order to get through your class and final exam."

Sai Onara gulped and looked down. She saw the pattern developing.

"In short, you were very effective in using others to gain your own ends, especially by doing so in such a way that they consider you to be their friend. Very effective indeed, especially for one so new to Mordor."

As Anakron had said these words, Sai had slowly raised her head and met his eyes with her own widening ones, her jaw dropping, looking more hopeful with each word.

"I still want my bottom back," Jaylo interrupted.

"Be quiet," Anakron ordered. "I'll deal with you soon enough."

"So maybe I didn't do so bad?" asked Sai tentatively.

"You scored a ten, a six, a ten, and a nine in the first four challenges. In the fifth triple challenge, you scored three tens. And for general gamesmanship, you scored twenty-four out of thirty; whereas you stuck to the same strategy throughout, it is clear to the Dweomer that it was out of instinct and not strategy. It would take keen strategizing throughout the tests to score higher than twenty-four. Be that as it may, you scored a total of eight-nine. You have passed. You may leave Mordor; that is, once you have made Jaylo butteefull again, more's the pity.

"What about him?" Sai pointed to Lurge fearfully, pleading with her eyes that he couldn't leave Mordor.

Lurge grinned toothily and fangily. "She wants me to go with her!"

"You have not passed the tests she has passed, Lurge. You may not leave."

He frowned mightily, which on an orc is an evil expression indeed. "I'll sign up!"

"It doesn't work that way; you must wait until your name is called from the ATM in Cair Pairadox."

Sai hugged Lucy and Anakron dismissed her to deal with Jaylo.

[littlemanpoet]

"I call Panakeia of Harad to the front!" Anakron announced.

Something toward the back began to move. It looked like an up-ended couch. As it neared the front, Anakron saw that it was indeed an up-ended couch, being moved on a rather large two-wheeled dolly. He raised his eyebrows: he had not been aware that that particular anakronism had been conassigned to Mordor; maybe the two wizards were responsible. Having no control over their decisions, Anakron shrugged and waited until the couch stopped mere footsteps away from him, was let fall with a THUNK, and Panakeia was revealed behind it, hoisting up a shoe and an Eagles jersey for good measure.

"I got these three things from celebrities, and they gave them to me of their own free will!"

"No deception?"

"Wellll.... there was a wee bit of deception... but you didn't say we couldn't!"

"Quite right. Nevertheless, there are a couple of individuals who have been waiting to speak with you in that regard." Anakron pointed stage left, where stood two athletes, staring at her accusingly.

"Oh! Donovan McNabb and David Beckham." Panakeia's eyes widened momentarily, but she looked back to Anakron, becoming fierce. "But they gave them to me freely!"

"Quite so."

"An' we want 'em back!" McNabb said.

"Hold it!" Panakeia cried. "Do I get points for completing the celebrity hunt test?"

"The couch was adequate," Anakron replied. "You receive nine points, one deducted for lateness."

"Okay. I just wanted to be sure."

"And the shoes and jersey were unnecessary."

"Well, I wanted to be sure."

"As I said, unnecessary. However, your sheer gumption and enterprising nature shall be rewarded. Add two points. Eleven total for the celebrity hunt."

Panakeia's eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped in surprise. A murmur went up in the crowd, to the effect of 'I thought there were only ten points per test; what's with eleven points?' Panakeia heard the crowd and flushed. Anakron paid them no mind.

"You may return the shoe and jersey to their owners, Panakeia of Harad."

"No problem!" she said happily, and handed them over. The two athletes left.

"On to the other tests," Anakron announced. With that, four individuals came forward that Panakeia recalled having seen somewhere before, but she couldn't recall precisely where.

"Yep," one of them pointed, "that'd be her. She up an' jus' abaoot ruined our leetle scam."

Suddenly recognition dawned. These were the King's Trio: Willy, Isildil Payne, Dwaine, and Eckaust Fûmës.

"That is what I thought," Anakron responded. "You originally achieved ten points for this challenge. For bringing these four to justice, one bonus point. Eleven points for the first test."

"But - but - I didn't bring them to justice!" Panakeia protested.

"You were being filmed for the reality show; their scam was revealed on kamura, and thus they were brought to justice."

"But I didn't tell anybody a thing about them!"

"They complained about you, and so we looked into it. Caught musically scamming in the Bliddy Unnergrind. Four counts of misdemeanor. Moving along...."

The four King's Trio villains marched off, giving Panakeia evil looks, and were immediately accosted by Lûgnût and his/her cronies. "Pay up!" s/he was overheard yelling at them.

"....moving along," continued Anakron, "I had given you six points for your efforts in the race, as I gave all the others; however, it came to my attention through Bert the kamura troll-" at this point, the kamura wielding troll stepped forward. Impossibly, Panakeia received a conspiratorial wink from a troll, something that she would tell her friends and family the rest of her life, which nobody would believe ... for Bert never made it out of Mordor, at least not in any way that the legends tell us. "-that you singlehandedly rescued Valde Delego: one additonal point awarded, in spite of the fact that Valde squandered his chance not to fail. Total for the race test: seven points."

Panakeia sensed a pattern developing, as did the increasingly loudly murmuring crowd in, and wondered why things were turning out as they were. Had she done so badly on the general rating that Anakron was unbelievably having mercy on her? No, he wouldn't do such a thing. He had failed Valde already; why not her?

Seven more people stepped forward, saluting Panakeia each in their turn: Jim Kirk with toupeé in place, Spockú with both eyebrows now, and Dr. McBones, each wearing bodiform outfits bearing an emblem saying 'United Federation of Drekkies'; there was the Goth roommate, the professor troll, the fortune teller.

And last but not least, Nichole, who smiled brightly at her and came over and gave her a big, mushy hug. "I think you're going to make it!" she cried.

"Thanks!" Panakeia smiled, feeling a bit dazed.

"What is the opinion of you witnesses?" Anakron asked.

"Pass her!" Panakeia had never seen a Goth student acting so positive in all her days in Mordor.

"With flying colors!" Nichole added gleefully.

"Quite so," Anakron said, a small smile forming on his lips. "Although I can find no persuasive reason to change your score for the werewolf test, so that remains an eight. Please have a seat, Panakeia of Harad." Anakron gestured to the couch. Once she was seated, Anakron stepped from his little platform of Grand Authority, and sat down beside her.

"Now what's going on?" Panakeia wondered a little nervously; but she voiced a different question. "Um, what about the triple test at the University?"

"Tens for each. Does that satisfy you?"

"Yes!"

"There is one more witness," Anakron said smoothly.

"Oh?"

Anakron nodded. "Elempí."

"But he's .... you .... isn't he?"

"Indeed," Anakron smiled. "You were right about something, as was my alter-ego, who though he can be such an idiot, still has excellent judgment in ... certain matters."

"Uh, what do you mean?"

"You are indeed beautiful without the hair color and make-up."

"Oh!"

"Thirty points for creative ingenuity, regaining your conscience, and for doing it all with becoming grace."

Panakeia blinked. Something clicked in her mind. "I get it. You're coming on to me and you're beefing up my score to get what you want."

"Not so," Anakron replied smoothly. "I would award you just as highly regardless of my personal inclinations. However, as they say, there is no time like the present. Obviously, you have passed with the highest score of any of the Offending Party; ninety-six out of one hundred by the way, and you may leave Mordor in just a little while..."

Panakeia sensed a following clause. "But..." she said.

Anakron smiled as winningly as he seemed to be able. "...but I would like to make an offer." Panakeia waited on pins and needles as Anakron paused - she was sure they hadn't been the stuffing for the couch until this very moment, but this was Mordor - "Stay with me, join me, walk my path with me, and see if you enjoy it. I assure you that you will not lack for any need or desire..." Anakron nodded toward the Siamese Cat that sat atop his staff. "... for I most certainly have the means to assure your security. Do not speak just yet!" Anakron raised a hand to her lips, for she had been about to speak her mind - she couldn't believe she was letting him touch her lips! - "Do not answer me yet. Give it a little time, think on it, mull it, and by all means dream a bit, and we shall talk of this again." With that, Anakron stood and with cloak billowing in such a way that his form looked more upright and handsome to Panakeia - she was sure it must be a trick of the dweomer - and he resumed his stance on the small pedestal. Panakeia crossed her legs and watched the Grand Anakronist, her thoughts whirling.

[littlemanpoet]

"Mardil the Second, Crown Prince of Ithilien, Heir of Faramir the Good, Would-be Usurper to the Throne of Gondor, what is your choice?"

"I'm no usurper!" Mardil retorted. "I am a direct heir, father to son, of Amandil II, the younger son of the Tarciryan II. Tarciryan's son and every King since has had but one son up till now, and so when King Aranar dies will, by the laws of Gondor, be King."

"Then why," asked Alatar, "do you force your claim with raised armies and publicity campaigns and dire strategy? Why not wait until that which is yours by right of inheritance, if such truly be the case, is given to you in due course of law?"

"Because the current King is trying to bypass my family and put someone on the throne of his choosing."

"And what possible personage," Pallando queried, "have your vain imaginings produced to fill this fanciful challenge to your hollow claim?"

"Prince Curuman of Umbar is King Aranar's mother's brother's son, and is the King's favorite. He has a claim, but not as direct as mine; which is not hollow at all, as can be demonstrated outside of Mordor."

"Why now, Mardil?" Alatar asked.

"If I wait, Prince Curuman may gather enough of a backing to cause a ruinous kin strife. Gondor must remain free of such an evil."

Pallando's eyes almost closed and his lips played in the hint of a sarcastic smile. "And you are the self appointed savior to help all middle earth avoid such a fate?"

"No, merely the lawful heir to the throne."

"That is all well and good," Pallando retorted, "but if you do not do as we say-"

"You are not invincible!" Mardil cried. "You may know about my weaponry and potions, but you are not gods! If I stick a knife into your heart you will die. Saruman, the head of your order of old, was killed by the arrows of halflings. My knives are more deadly than small arrows. If I attacked you, maybe I would be killed, but not until I took at least one of you with me."

"Brave words, and maybe you believe them," Alatar smiled coldly, "but do you really think that we would be so foolish as to allow ourselves to be vulnerable to you and your weapons in this small cell?"

The two wizards did not rise from their seats, but they seemed to grow where they sat until they seemed to have become dark and ancient and threatening, eldritch powers.

Mardil gave pause and thought. They were suggesting and showing that he could not touch them, as if they had cast a warding dweomer or worse: something that he could not bypass. If so, he would have to be careful, for the odds were likely stacked in their favor, and he did not doubt that they would press their advantage if they so chose.

"It matters not," he replied. "What matters most is your demand." The two wizards shrank back to their original aspects as Mardil spoke. "You know very well that I would be no more than your puppet; another Anakron Istkon Vayor. Or would I be named Arbit Rarywhimkon Vayor instead? You could ask me to pass a law sentencing all children to death and I would have no choice but to obey. That is unacceptable. I could not take such an oath."

"Nonsense," Pallando said. "You presume that we are fools blinded by our own greed for power, such that we might do any foolish and evil thing. You do not understand our purpose. Do not presume that we are fools, or that we are blinded by evil."

"It does not matter that you aren't blinded by evil," Mardil cried, "what matters is that you are evil! You did not fight with the Men of the West against the evil of Sauron. Instead, you are following in the footsteps of the wicked Saruman and seeking to be rulers of men. The only one of your kind I'd be willing to place myself under is Gandalf, and he never would ask such a thing of me, which is why he was worthy of the leadership that the peoples of Middle Earth gave him. The very fact that you have asked for rule over a kingdom that is not yours to rule is reason enough for me not to give it to you, to say nothing of the threatening way in which you are asking. And what of my duty as King of Gondor? As King, I would have the great responsibility of protecting and aiding my people. By subjugating myself to you, or to anyone, I would be shirking this sacred charge, given to the first King, Elros, by the Valar themselves! You have not offered me something that I am able to do, even if I wanted to."

Pallando and Alatar's smiles slowly grew into sardonic smirks as Mardil's diatribe ranged through its points.

"Is that what they're saying about us in the Empire these days?" Pallando murmured, and turned to Alatar. "Shall we disabuse him of his illusions?"

"Yes, we shall," Alatar returned, "but shall we do so now through words, or through another test?"

"You know as well as I that he will not take us at our word," Pallando replied, "so a test it must be."

Both wizards rose, walking quickly to the door of the cell, and turned suddenly, their staves raised.

"Ontamandongauro!"

The hair rose on the nape of Mardil's neck. There was a great crash as the door of the cell slammed. They were gone. Mardil heard tinkling around him. Looking down, he saw that all of his potions and bottles had somehow cast themselves to the stone floor and broken, dissolving quickly into smoke and mist.

"Noooooooooo!" Mardil howled.

------------------------------------------

The orc guards watched the two cloaked men leave quickly, and shrugged. Apparently the man was to remain their prisoner for a while longer yet. Suddenly the cell door burst open. A beast came hurtling out. In moments, both guards were dead, lying in their own blood, their necks ripped open and faces mauled. Howling could be heard outside the prison, echoing into the distance.

[littlemanpoet]

While Anakron was preparing himself for the final recounting, to be given to Mardil, he kept half an eye on Panakeia. whose comely face slipped from one expression to another as quickly as waves sloughing on the sea shore: surprise, confusion, a moment of mild pleasure - perhaps, then revulsion - Anakron feared, replaced by a tilt of the head in bemusement - of reconsideration, Anakron hoped; then a nod, a fleeting smile, a purse of the lips, a shrug, then a quick glimpse at Valde. Suddenly she rose and wlaked to the lead tragic actor who was apparently musing upon his choices.

This was not good. Anakron had noticed her infatuation for Valde Delego, and much as Anakron held a liking for the ungainly fellow, he had considered it quite farcical that she should fall for him in the least. But now they exchanged words. Ah, it was not going well. Anakron kept the relief he felt off of his face. Now she returned to him, looking up at him purposefully, some sort of resolve having apparently been made, already!

He had noticed something in her from the very first. She wore too much make-up; on that count Elempí had been right. Why? Intrigued by the mystery about her, he had kept his eye on her, though he never let it show; it would not have been good form. Nevertheless, her pluck and verve, as well as her more than pleasant features of face and form, had grown on him ... to say the least. At some point in the middle of the five test - well, seven test - ordeal, she had changed. The blonde hair coloring and gobs of make-up disappeared; this had been the most obvious sign, but there had been others. Sending the toupeé back to Kirk had made him sit up and take notice. He had had the letter intercepted, and read it, and had it sent on to its intended audience. He had been impressed. At some point, probably quite soon, he would have to confess that he had read her mail. But it might not be necessary.

She took his hand in hers and made her speech, which wound between no and yes and no, before settling on what she really thought. She had not let go of his hand. He smiled.

What Panakeia saw was more than a smile. The hard lines of the Anakron face softened as she had never seen before, and there was a sadness that he usually kept well guarded.

"Panakeia," he said slowly, as if relishing each syllable of her name, "you would see past the Anakron to the Elempí." He nodded, still smiling. "I should have expected no less. You wish to know the real man rather than the figure of authority. Very well. Once I was no more than Elempí, a studious man who stayed most often in his chambers, eager for the gaining and dispensing of knowledge. It is so long ago. Too long! I've worn these robes and this face of authority for so long that I had forgotten that there was anyone in here but the austere Anakronist. You have helped me remember who I am. Thank you."

"Um, you're welcome," replied Panakeia, quite taken aback at the veritable transformation of this man. "I-"

A howl broke out from far back in the crowd. Screams shattered the air. The crowd erupted in a sudden mass panic. Anakron grabbed Panakeia and drew him up close, away from the danger of the crowd. Looking out over the frantic mob, he sighed.

"What's going on?" Panakeia cried.

"It is Mardil, turned to a werewolf. He comes this way."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli stood slightly off-balance with her fingers intertwined lightly with Aimè's. She watched bemusedly as Anakron propositioned Panakeia and listened confusedly when she heard the words "It is Mardil, turned to a werewolf. He comes this way."

Through her post-inebriation blur of thought, the words sounded slightly more like "Is Merle. Turn dintwa airulf. He comsis ay." It was small wonder she was slightly confused.

Aimè, who had not only had less to drink, but had more substance to him to soak up the alcohol than the slender lass did, heard the words and drew his sword. He carefully unwound Alli's fingers from his and turned her so that she was looking into his eyes.

"Alli, are you listening?"

"Wow... you've got the most amazing eyes."

"Alli! Pay attention!"

"What? I'm listening."

"Mardil is a werewolf."

"WHAT!?"

"He's probably coming after you. You're the Seer and pretty much everyone knows it. I can protect you, but you're still in danger."

"Um..."

"We have to kill him."

Alli stood motionless for a moment, waiting for the meaning of the words to sink in. She knew that it would sooner or later, but it was looking more like later. Aimè stood waiting. Alli's face suddenly took on a look of over-whelmed shock and she fainted into Aimè's arms. Or she passed out. It wasn't entirely clear which.

[Encaitare]

She was an old woman, and she'd spent a good fifty years in the barren wastes of Mordor. Ever since the ATM had selected her name, practically all she had thought about was getting out of the wretched place. But now that she was free to go, Wilhelmina Brochenbach had a few things to say to some of her comrades.

She made her way over to Fléin, whom she knew looked quite pleased somewhere under his beard. "Congratulations, my dear," she said, grinning as she noticed Mârtha Stewârt's hand-painted, virtually indestructible beaker poking out of his pack. "If you and Ketchupkin should ever find yourselves wanting some licorice and ferrety company, do drop in sometime in Ithilien." She gave the Dwarf a quick hug and bid him adieu.

Noticing Anakron standing off to the side staring wistfully off at Panakeia's retrating figure, she headed in his direction. "Hey, Anakron!" she called. His gaze flicked over to her as if he had been snapped out of a daze.

"Yes, Wilhelmina?"

"Well... let's just say I never liked you much. But I guess you're really not so bad. Maybe the Dweomer is an acquired taste... like sushi, or Wagnerian opera. After all, you did get us out of here. So, I suppose what I mean to say is 'thanks'."

"You're welcome," Anakron replied sincerely. "All in the Grand Anakronist's day's work."

Wilhelmina turned and strode towards the last person -- or creature, rather -- she wanted to talk to, but called over her shoulder, "And I hope it works out with Panakeia, too! Maybe you can talk her out of that horrid Pearie Ockcide Potion!"

Suddenly, there was a kamura in her face -- it was her kamuraorc, who was asking her--

"What awe woo going to do fiwst now that wou'we fwee to weave Mowdow?" he lisped.

"Er... I don't really know," she said puzzledly. She'd focused so much on the things that wouldn't be in the world outside Mordor that she'd nearly forgotten all the nice things that would be there. She could go walking in the forests of Ithilien, go to market whenever she wanted without nearly being run over by Orcs... maybe she'd even meet a nice gentleman, and they wouldn't have to go on dates to bowling alleys.

"I don't know what exactly I'll do first," she admitted to the kamuraorc, whom she found, like Anakron, she didn't entirely hate anymore either. "But I hope the reality show gets good ratings. It had better, after all these escapades. And if it does do well, you know there'll be remakes and an infinite number of seasons... Now if you'll excuse me..."

There was just one more to talk to.

"Yoo-hoo! Queenie!" she called loudly to the gigantic ape, who was still loitering about. "Would you mind terribly taking Mr. Swanky and myself for one last trip?" Queen Quon seemed to grin, and she picked Wilhelmina up and placed her (and Mr. Swanky) on her back.

"The Black Gate, please," Wilhelmina said happily. "One way."

[the guy who be short]

Fléin watched Wilhelmina ride away with a tear in his eye. What a wild time they'd had together! A brilliant woman...

He remembered, suddenly, that she hadn't given him an address. But no matter. He could track her down in Ithilien, couldn't he? Yes, definitely.

He felt somewhat dazed. After two years of this horrendous - but not quite godforsaken, as Alli had shown - place, here, finally, was his chance to leave. To leave it all behind. All of it.

He turned to face Ketchupkin. Was he really willing to leave the Dwarf? Ketchupkin betrayed no signs of emotion, or, perhaps, the emotion was lost beneath the thickly matted beard.

It was time. "Ketchupkin," Fléin started, before choking on his words. "Do... don't think me rash. But, if I am to leave, and even if I am not, I would like to know... I hope you do not think me rude... I think we know each other quite well now... Well..." he sputtered lamely.

"What I mean is..." he drew a deep breath, "are you male or female?"

Instead of the usual look of shock one would expect from a Dwarf asked such a question, there was only a gentle smile. They did know each other well enough. The simple reply seemed to Fléin the most beautiful word in the world. "Female."

"And," she continued, "I can see by the smile in your eyes...?" she let the question hang.

Fléin nodded. He didn't even need to say it. He just nodded. Male.

"I don't expect you to stay on my account."

Fléin nodded once again. "I don't intend to," he replied bluntly. "You're a wonderful person, Ketchupkin, really. If we had met under different circumstances... If you are ever freed from this evil land, come seek me. Seek me in the Orocarni, Ketchupkin."

She bowed her head in acknowledgement.

"You know... I'm not planning on leaving until tomorrow morning," he said.

Night fell. They decided, since it was his last night in Mordor, to do something very naughty together.

They stole Anakron's left shoe in the middle of the night.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Fléin awoke early. Ketchupkin walked by his side. He wanted to avoid Anakron, for obvious reasons; nor did he much like the idea of saying farewell to Panakeia, Valde, or Mardil. Well, he liked the idea of saying farewell to them - but not of actually communicating with them. They were hardly nice people, and sharing a week with them had done little to mellow his views. Alli and Sai though - nice girls.

They made their way to Alli's quarters. Fléin knocked.

Nothing happened.

He knocked again. Nothing.

She was probably tired from all the excitement of last night. Still, if he waited any longer, the others would wake up.

He left her a note.

Alli,

Thank you for explaining to me about you-know-what. It was really enlightening. I had a wonderful time with you. Thanks for everything. I won't forget you. If ever you should journey to the East, seek me in the Orocarni.

Fléin

He actually managed to catch Sai. She hugged him. He asked her to visit him in the Orocarni, she asked him to visit her in Gondor. And, having said his goodbyes, he trekked off, not to Ithilien in the West, but to the Eastern borders of Mordor with Ketchupkin at his side.