Assigned to Mordor RPG

[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 was rudely awoke in the morning by Anakron. His first feeling was one of confusion: How had he actually been able to get to sleep after what he'd seen? He must have been awake until the wee hours crying.

His second emotion was fear as he realised it was Anakron who had shook him awake; the murderer, the slayer of the Antilion.

His third feeling was confusion once more, as he realised that it was still the wee hours, so he couldn't have been awake through them.

Reluctantly, he got up and set off to class, aiming to meet the five 'o' clock deadline. He got lost and ended up wandering the corridors aimlessly. He was sure he crossed the room where A Slan had been murdered, and bowed in respect. The inside was now brightly lit and a gaudy purple.

Finally, he found the right classroom, and knocked on the door, knowing that he was fully an hour late.

[Celuien]

Panakeia returned to class the next morning with her sample case in hand. Scoping the hallway outside the classroom, she picked an empty spot in clear view of corridor traffic and proceeded to set up her sales display. Just as she finished, Nichole came down the hall. She greeted Panakeia cheerfully.

"It looks like this is the big day. Are you ready?"

"I am. And I can't wait to put that troll in his place. Where is he anyway? Class is supposed to start soon."

They didn't have long to wait. A rumbling at the end of the hall announced his approach a few minutes later.

"Good morning, professor," Nichole chirped, an huge grin on her face.

Panakeia echoed the greeting. "Yes. Good morning." Looking down the hall beyond his cowboy hat, she called out, "Ah, I see we have another visitor." Her roommate was hurrying down the hall, calling to the professor. She held a slip that mysteriously appeared in her room during the night to inform her that she had been transferred to his course in futility. Only the half smirk on Panakeia's lips could have told her that the notice was a clever forgery designed to bring her to the class on this particular day.

"So, are we ready to begin?" Panakeia queried.

"Begin what?" replied the troll.

"My demonstration that marketing and sales are not futile."

"You continue to resist the truth? Begin if you wish, but remember this: resistance is futile." He stood aside and watched Panakeia start her sales pitch.

And what a sales pitch it was. Half an hour later, the sample case was empty and Panakeia's scarf was filled with coins. Better yet, the professor had been a major purchaser. His pockets were filled with Forest Fresh Moisturizing Hand Lotion and several packages of perfume. Panakeia's roommate bought a few boxes of Rosy Blush foundation and a frilly floral dress that Nichole had donated to the sale. As for Nichole herself, she retreated to a corner of the hallway, face buried in a handkerchief, shaking with silent laughter.

"Well, professor. It seems that my marketing is not futile after all. Just look at yourself. Did you really need those bottles of hand lotion? Or that perfume? No. But you bought them just the same. And what about you, my nameless roomie? Would you ever buy a dress like that on your own? Of course not. But I convinced you that you needed it. And my case is empty. I sold something to everyone who walked past, even though shopping was the last thing they were thinking about when they came by." Panakeia basked in her triumph. "What do you say? Do I get an A?"

The troll glowered. "Yes. Take your A." He threw the bottles of lotion on the floor. "You have your grade, but A stands for more things than a letter on your report card." He held out a threatening hand. "Panakeia, ape of the futile system, become Pan Akeia. A for Ape!" A shadow passed over the corridor, and the troll seemed to grow taller. Just for a moment. Then the shadow passed. Panakeia stood in the hallway unchanged. She laughed.

"What a nut! Come on, Nichole. Let's go for lunch. I'm hungry." They walked away.

Then Panakeia noticed that the people they passed were staring at her. She nudged Nichole. "Can you believe the way those people are looking at me?"

It was Nichole's turn to stare. She gave a little scream. "Panakeia! Look in the mirror. It can't be, it can't be true!"

Panakeia looked. An unfamiliar image looked back at her. She still wore a green dress, but it had turned olive green with a brown leather inset at the bodice. And her face was that of a chimpanzee with hair bobbed at the chin. Worst of all, she had a beard clinging to her face.

The professor came up behind Panakeia and grinned maliciously. "Panakeia, meet Pan Akeia. Don't be surprised if anyone calls you Zira. Resistance is futile." He strolled away, leaving Panakeia to stare after him helplessly.

"What are we going to do now?" said Nichole. For once, Panakeia was at a loss for an answer.

[littlemanpoet]

"Troll!"

The troll professor stopped in his tracks. Pan Akeia the ape stared in disbelief; which was odd; Anakron had never seen an ape stare in disbelief. He shrugged. The troll turned.

"Yes sir?" asked the Troll.

"You have been teaching a mockery of this course."

The troll looked confused. "That cannot be. Sales and Marketing in a Futile System. It is quite obvious."

"You ninny. I thought you trolls knew better than that. I can see that someone has mis-spellt the name of the course, and you have not questioned the matter. The course is supposed to be "Sales and Marketing in a Feudal System." Anakron raised his staff, the cat meowed, and a piece of chalk appeared in Anakron's hand. He raised it and wrote on the corridor wall, saying the letters as he wrote. "F-E-U-D-A-L. Feudal. Have you any idea what this course is supposed to be about now? You vermin. Nincompoop!" Panakiea had never seen Anakron get angry, but his ire seemed to be rising with each new derogation that came to mind. "You - you - TROLL! Don't you understand that she's being prepared, supposedly, by your course, to survive in the great big middle earth out there?!?"

The troll looked wounded. "I - I'm sorry, Grand Anakronist. I shall change my syllabus immediately."

"I want that ape taught how to survive!!"

"Yes sir!"

"See to it!" With that, Anakron turned on a dime and passed Panakeia with a smile. "Good morning to you, and nice work. Um, you might want to shave...."

[Celuien]

Anakron walked away, cloak billowing in front of a distracted, nervous troll. The professor scrambled off in the direction of the library and disappeared. Nichole and Panakeia sat on a bench to think, elbows propped on knees, heads resting on hands and paws.

Time passed in silence, finally broken by a frustrated Panakeia. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she cried. "Look at me. I'm a walking anakronism now. There's no way I'll be let out of Mordor like this. Even if I did get away, I'd be sent back as soon as anyone saw me. I've got to find some way to change back into myself again."

Nichole was a hopeless optimist. "Maybe the professor will do it. He changed you in the first place. He should be able to change you back."

Panakeia was more realistic. "Able and willing are different things. It's my fault Anakron is here, and my fault that he was scolded about the course. Add that to my original offenses and I'm lucky if he doesn't change me into a frog. You're a nice girl, Nichole, but awfully naive. Where are you from?"

Nichole sighed. "That's just it. I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No. Not really. Other than a few scattered pieces, I don't remember anything before I came here. Somehow, though, I think I'm an anakronism myself." Her eyes gazed far away. "There was a city, a vast city built of metal and glass. Towers reached to touch the sky by day, and at night, there were lights shining by the edge of a wide black river. The lights were mirrored there in the dark water until dawn came and the towers stretched out to greet the sun again." Nichole fell into musings.

Panakeia looked at her thoughtfully. "You must have loved that place very much."

"I don't know. I suppose I did, but not enough. The last thing I remember of the city was moving quickly beside the river. I think I was driving. Something hit me from behind and I flew toward the lights. Everything went black. Then comes the strangest thing of all. I know I was given a choice of two doors. One would have sent me back to pick up where I left off. The other, well, the other sent me here. And so it's my own fault that I'm here, although I'm certain that Mordor wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I picked the second door. That's all I remember of my old life. That and the letters you saw me scribbling in my notebook. Otherwise, I might as well have been born at the edge of a Mordorian gravel pit with a shovel in my hand."

"What a strange story," Panakeia murmured. "I hope you find your way home one day."

"I hope so too." Nichole continued in a cheerful tone. "But let's get back to your problem. I was thinking, maybe we could ask the author what to do."

"The author? You mean Illamatar?"

"I don't know exactly what I mean. But we're all in a story after all. Our whole lives are a story. Someone has to be writing it, right? So let's ask the author."

Suddenly, there came the sound of clicking on a keyboard followed by a loud 'ding.' A small boy riding a bicycle materialized out of nowhere. He walked up to Nichole and handed her an envelope. "Message for you," he said and pedaled away, disappearing as quickly as he arrived. Nichole tore open the envelope with shaking hands.

"What does it say?" Panakeia asked eagerly.

Nichole read the note aloud. "I haven't given you free will for nothing. Do you think I write out every minute of your lives for you? How uncanonical. You'll have to figure this one out for yourselves, but I'll give you hints along the way if you look for them. Signed, The Author P.S. There are some interesting shops around campus. Why don't you check them out?" She looked at Panakeia. "Not very helpful, is it?"

"Not very. But we'll have to look at those shops. There must be something there."

Panakeia glanced up to see the professor hurrying towards them with a stack of books. "What can I do, what can I do?" he said. "I could speak on futility, and that is what I spoke about, but what now? How can I create an entirely new course in just one day and do it by tomorrow? How, how? I don't know anything about feudalism."

Panakeia was about to remark that he didn't know much about the futility of sales either, but checked herself. The troll looked too sad and pitiable to tease. "I don't know. Why don't you just read something out of one of those books and then cut the class short? You'll have satisfied Anakron by teaching about feudalism and given yourself a few days to rework the course."

"That is an excellent idea. We will reconvene at once. Follow me back to the classroom." They hurried along, calling to the other students as they spotted them. Soon, the entire group was back in their seats.

The professor stood at the head of the room. "Class, a most grievous error has been called to my attention. It would appear that I have been given the wrong course title. Thus, I have been teaching the right class to the wrong course." A chorus of chuckles erupted, all quickly silenced by a glare from the troll. "However, all is not lost. This will be our final meeting, in which I shall propound to you the information required by our administration and then conclude with a final exam. All grades that I have given you will stand, which means, Panakeia, that you still receive an A, although you must take the new final to prove participation in the new course material. We will now begin."

For the next hour, the professor read out of books on lords and ladies, nobles and serfs, princes and paupers. Panakeia was bored to tears, but she did prefer the new material to the old. Only once did the professor slip into his old lecture, when he remarked on the futility of marketing to peasants when money was controlled by the nobility. This, of course, led to a discourse on futility and pointlessness in a futile system, but only briefly; the professor quickly switched back to feudalism at the loud meowing of a cat.

The professor shut his book. "We will now take the final." He passed out a single sheet of paper, face down. "Do not turn your paper over until given instruction to do so. Are you ready?" Ignoring several shouts of "No," he said, "You may begin." Papers flipped over with a noisy rustle to reveal four questions:

1. What is your name?

That was easy enough. Panakeia wrote her name.

2. What is your favorite color?

Another easy question. Lime.

3. What is your quest?

Simple. To get out of Mordor.

4. Has this course helped your quest? Give examples. (Extra credit)

Panakeia thought for a minute before writing yes. Examples were slightly harder. She decided to list the emptying of her sample case. It was much easier to carry without its heavy contents. Besides, she felt better about herself without the burden of dubiously useful products. And that was a relief too.

She handed in her exam. The professor hardly glanced at the paper before writing 105% at the top of the page. "A+" he hissed.

"Does this mean you could, well, maybe see your way clear to changing me back?"

He glared and waved her out of the room. "No." She left the classroom, slamming the door behind her.

Nichole followed a few seconds later. "That has to be the easiest final exam ever written. What do you think? Should we go look for those shops now?"

"Sounds like a good idea." They walked to the shopping district with no clear idea of what they were searching for, but glad to be doing something other than sitting in class.

They walked and walked. Then Nichole gripped Panakeia’s arm and pointed at a tiny storefront. “Look. Do you think that’s what we’re looking for?” Psychic Readings. 10 Trolls. Also see us about our special services. All problems solved. A neon hand blinked in the window.

Panakeia had her doubts but didn’t have any better ideas. “I guess we’ll find out,” she said.

Inside, they met a woman who wore almost as much jewelry as Panakeia. A brightly colored bandana covered her wild hair. Skirts swishing, she approached the pair and blinked at Panakeia’s strange appearance. “Read your palm? Tell your future?” she asked in a thickly accented voice.

“Actually,” Panakeia said, “we were hoping you could help me with this.”

“With what?”

“This. Someone put a spell on me or something. I’m not really a chimpanzee. Can you help?”

The fortuneteller gulped. “I can fix anything. Follow me. Alone.” The last word was directed at Nichole.

Panakeia smiled at her friend. “Wish me luck.” She walked into a back room with the fortuneteller.

Shouts and flashes of light came from the room, followed by a hush. The fortuneteller emerged. “You may come in now,” she said dramatically, waving her arm at the door. Nichole rushed back anxiously. And there sat Panakeia, no longer a chimp, but not looking quite the way Nichole remembered her, either. Her makeup was gone and, most noticeably, her hair was no longer blonde.

The fortuneteller spoke rapidly, losing her accent in her excitement. “It worked. I can’t believe it, but it worked. She’s back. But she’s back the way she naturally appears. She wasn’t very happy about her hair at first, but it’s better than being a monkey, she must admit.”

Nichole smiled. “I sort of like your hair that way.”

Panakeia wasn’t convinced. She thought that she looked too much like an older version of her conscience for comfort. But there was nothing to be done and it was true, at least she wasn't a chimp. She paid the fortuneteller and walked back to the dorm to await further instructions from Anakron. She hoped that she would soon be on her way home.