ATM II RPG

[Lhunardawen]

What is wrong with me? Maika thought to herself, with a bit of panic.

She sat there quietly, once again utilizing her perfected practice of pretending to listen as her mind traveled elsewhere. But she was still listening, mind, listening without seeming to, with the rest not noticing her pretense. A hard tightrope to walk on, but Maika glides atop it with ease. But that is not the point here.

Her mind did not have too far to go this time; it just hovered over the faces right in front of her, visually taking in as much of each Gondorian without making it look like she was totally obsessed with them. She could still not comprehend why those emotions came with the ambassadors from Gondor. Needless to say, the overwhelming majority was of that which said "Business as usual." But she could not deny the faint vestiges of excitement at the thought of working with (or, perhaps more accurately, against) them, and the sheer wonder that "Ooooooh...so that's what people from Gondor are like!"

And it disturbed her. How does this differ from your normal duties? her voice of reason scolded her, yet for her own life she could not help but ignore it as she continued to observe the curious visitors.

Here's someone obviously of my age group. I hope not all Gondorians are like this stuck-up bear person. Now this is someone I can be proud of being associated with! Though I'm sure Skittles would immensely enjoy picking on him. Maika let her eyes linger, inconspicuously of course, at Hyarmenwë, but the sight of Angawen in her peripheral vision distracted her. I'm sure this is one lady I don't have to learn to hate.

The Dracomir fellow had just given his three statements when his face suddenly turned whiter than the wind-driven snow, if that was even possible - though none could tell why. Ms. Martinet took advantage of this distraction to further shame the poor individual. "How about you, Maikaelwen? What do you have to say?"

That you can go take a dip in Mount Doom, Maika thought. She turned politely to her. "Maika, Ms. Martinet, Maika. I'm in Mordor, anyway, so we would do well to make full use of that which brought me here."

"Alright then, Maika," she responded, saying the last word more loudly than necessary. Just then, as all the Mordorians expected, a resounding "Yes?" echoed along the corridor outside. The visitors jumped in their seats and looked around them with a confused frown. Ms. Martinet smirked, and Maika resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead she looked at each ambassador to call for their attention.

"I'm in my mid-thirties, I have a literal killer smile, and I sincerely welcome the presence of our Gondoria-"

"Lie!" the three Mordorians interjected as if on cue. The Gondorians scowled in response, likewise.

"Truth be told," Hyarmenwë said after quickly regaining his composure, "I would certainly not deny that the last could be a lie. But then, so is the second. A smile that literally kills? That's impossible."

"You're in Mordor, honey," Skittles countered. "Anything is possible."

"The only way that could be true," said Bearugard smugly, "is if dental hygiene does not exist here. Then again, I would not wonder at that."

"Hey, stop insulting us!" cried Igör, with a tear falling from his left eye and a manic glint on his right.

"Another chronic liar." It was Angawen Tupsë, still reeling from her recent embarrassment. "We have to be really careful in dealing with these people."

Maika's eyes flashed at the woman. Angawen quickly faced her and was about to hold her gaze, but Maika started to address the whole group.

"Speculate your entire lives. You will know the truth over my dead petite thirty-something body." She allowed herself a chuckle within.

[Formendacil]

"I'm in my mid-thirties, I have a literal killer smile, and I sincerely welcome the presence of our Gondoria-"

The normallest-seeming of the Mordorian diplomats spoke in turn, only to be interrupted by the other Mordorians:

"Lie!" Hyarmenwë scowled, as did the other Gondorian diplomats, they were willing enough to believe it was true, as Hyarmenwë said aloud:

"Truth be told, I would certainly not deny that the last could be a lie. But then, so is the second. A smile that literally kills? That's impossible."

"You're in Mordor, honey," Skittles had countered him. "Anything is possible."

There was more of the characteristic confusion and kerfuffle, ending in Maikaelwen's improbable, or so thought Hyarmenwë anyway, statement:

"Speculate your entire lives. You will know the truth over my dead petite thirty-something body."

No one was quite sure how to respond to that. Ms. Martinet decided to move things on.

"Hyarmenwë, why don't you next?"

The elderly Gondorian scowled somewhat at the absence of his noble title, but responded quickly enough with his two truth and a lie. He had, after all, spent a few minutes in thought on the matter.

"I was born in Minas Tirith, I have three daughters, and my wife was named Lalwen."

The questions didn't go over too well.

"How are we supposed to have the faintest clue?" asked Maikaelwen. "None of us know anything about your life at all!"

"A bit jealous that a Gondorian outdid you?" Angawen egged her on.

"Outdid me? He's practically cheating! How are we supposed to know."

"I think that guessing the right answer is probably the thing you OUGHT to be doing," said Malfoidacil with an air of someone extremely bored.

"I guess that it's the last one!" said Skittles. "I don't think this old fogey EVER had a wife!"

"Then that would make my second statement a falsehood as well, since I would not have three daughters then, now would I?" pointed out Hyarmenwë.

"You don't have to marry to have kids!" said Igor, almost earnestly. "Common-law relationships are responsible for over half the families in the greater Gorgoroth area, I've heard."

"Such things are reason for being Assigned to Mordor," said Hyarmenwë coldly. "And not only is it CLEARLY beneath my dignity, but one can see that I have not been Assigned."

"But you're here, aren't you?" pointed out Skittles. "Weren't you assigned to come here?"

Hyarmenwë sighed.

"It could still be the last question," Maika noted. "His wife could have a different name."

"You are correct," Hyarmenwë nodded as graciously as he might to a Mordorian. "Who's turn is it now?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"It is mine." Alli stepped forward from shadows that nobody had seen her slip into. The noise died down once more as the diplomats awaited instruction.

Or at least it did for a split second.

"What is this travesty of a diplomatic mission?" demanded Angawen coldly. "We were informed that we would be negotiating a treaty pertaining to immigration laws. I do not know why are you wasting our time with such trivial matters as these."

Alli met the woman's glare calmly, smiling at her with infuriating politeness.

"Lady Tupsè, I assure you that these matters are of the utmost importance. Just because you are ignorant of their cruciality to these proceedings means nothing of the truth of it. Have you ever seen oxygen, and yet do you breathe it? I suspect that if our world were comprised of only what you know, it would fit within this room and perhaps need to wear a helmet lest it hurt itself."

Alli stood straight, an amused glint dancing in her eyes. She shouldn't have said it, but she couldn't resist. She'd just received news that shook her calm. How could she expect these talented, if often disagreeable, people to do their job when they were still uncertain of what it was? And more importantly, how could Alli do the same?

Roggie had come to her moments ago in a rage, ranting over the latest group of Mordorians to escape. They had been spotted crossing the border and when followed, they were seen joining an armed guard of Gondorian soldiers. Short-staffed, Roggie's guardians of Cirith Ungol had been unable to pursue and reclaim the illegals. Roggie had recieved the message only this morning. Sixty-seven escapees. Sixty-seven. Intolerable, and that Mardil was helping them!

He'd come to Alli, telling her to call off the discussions that had only just begun, informing her harshly that her new assignment was to augment her Gondorian spy network, imprison the delegates, and perhaps torture them, though not necessarily in that order. She was at a loss for what to do. Yet she must do something, and so she had slipped quietly through a back entrance to the deliberating chambers and listened to each person speak, holding back laughter over Skittles's antics.

Now... now something must be done to calm Roggie.

"It is my turn." she repeated. "There has been a new development. Discussion that, I will admit, has not exactly begun, has been stalled. Gondorian delegates are as of right now confined to their quarters with the exception of Malfoidacil." She continued loudly, interrupting several cries of outrage. "He has already been allowed free passage between countries. He is not a visiter, he is a dual citizen. Ergo, he is well suited for the favor I am about to ask him; one that I am certain none of you will feel any jealousy over.

"It is for your own safety that you have been restricted to the level of the castle in which your suites are located. You may freely move between them, however you will be met by guards should you try to leave the general area. I do not suggest it. Malfoidacil, please stay. Skittles, Maika, and of course Ms. Martinet, please stay as well. Everyone else is dismissed. Mordorians, go on your way; have adventures should you feel the need. You will be summoned when you are needed. Gondorians, you will be escorted upstairs to your rooms. Talk, complain, interact... do what you will. But do not stray far."

Alli watched several angry diplomats stand and gather their belongings. The door opened and an armed guard stood to escort them. When they were gone, the Mordorians also dispersed, presumably to have a good time somewhere. When Alli turned back from the door, Dracomir, Maika, and Skittles looked at her curiously and even Ms. Martinet seemed slightly less austere than usual. Alli cut to the clichèd chase.

"Roggie just got word of a large number of escapees. He is not happy. He's called off negotiations and forbade me from trying to convince him to restart them. However he did not remember to forbid me from getting other people to talk to him. I want the three of you to talk him around. You are free to refuse. Ms. Martinet will preside to guarantee safety and to take notes. What say you all?"

[Diamond18]

Skittles titled her head to the side, much like a dog, and gave the idea some thought. Then, as a strange gleam came into her eyes, she responded, “Personally, Allamee, I’d rather torture the Gondorians. Roggie wants ’em interrogated, right?”

Alli reluctantly nodded, but added, “Roggie’s in a foul temper, I’d like to see cooler heads prevail.”

“Then why is she even here?” Maika asked, jerking her head toward Skittles.

Alli sighed wearily, “Roggie likes her, I thought maybe, someone he’s friendly with--”

“Torture is fun,” Skittles interrupted glibly. In a deft movement, she extracted four switchblades from her clothing and began to juggle them. As she juggled, she snapped them open one by one, and smiled in what was undeniably a terrifying manner. Her audience was mesmerized for a moment by the circus act, then Skittles twisted quickly and made three of the switchblades spear the floor in a triangle around Malfodacil. The fourth one she held glinting at his throat, and his eyes bugged out as he went still.

“Skittles!” Alli said sternly.

Skittles smiled and cut off a lock of Malfodacil’s hair as she swept the blade away from him. He let out a breath of relief, but gave her such a look of darkness that it cannot be described with anything remotely Tolkien-spirited. So Mordorian and anakronistic was this look -- and from a Gondorian diplomat, no less!

“So, can I interrogate the other Gondorians?” she asked, turning large puppy dog eyes towards Alli. “Please?”

[JennyHallu]

Ms. Martinet sighed and rolled her eyes at her employer, then turned to Skittles with exasperated logic.

"You're a tree, dear. You're above that sort of thing, aren't you?" Skittles immediately froze, and Martinet turned back to Alli with a sigh. "That's too easy, really.

"Meanwhile, why on earth should you pick me for this? Roggie doesn't like me; I make him nervous." This statement was accompanied by a disarming smile, as she clicked a blue-inked ballpoint pen in and out, in and out.

"You make him nervous on purpose," Alli accused, but her eyes sparkled.

"Exactly. You think I want to hang around in the presence of a calm, rational balrog who might remember people taste better toasted? Besides, it's fun. You don't think I'm going to stop, do you?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"If you want things doing," grumbled Smilog the Dwarf, "then ask a professional! I don't have time for this." he leaped off his chair, it was a little too big for him and he hit the ground with a thump. "If negotiations are called off, then I see no reason to re start them. Some of us have little time on our hands." He looked at everyone in turn and then finally at Alli.

"I bid you good day," he said angrily before turning around dramatically and, tripping over his own beard. He fell forth and whacked his chin on the hard floor, he let out a cry of annoyance and many began to snigger. Feeling dejected, the little Dwarf sat back down in his chair, hoping that everyone would ignore him now.

"So, are you volunteering?" asked Alli, with a smirk towards Smilog.

"No!" said the Dwarf sternly, "On second thought, yes! Yes I am. Better a Dwarf is sent to do this job then a-" he suddenly remembered how outnumbered he was, "well, you know. We Dwarves can be... very... persuasive..." he coughed quite violently and clutched at his heart. Before anyone even considered that he might be in trouble, he stopped and stood up straight. He folded his arms and looked Alli straight in the eyes, She thinks she can manipulate me, he thought, I'll show her. I'll show them all! No one manipulates a Dwarf!

[Anguirel]

Filthy little mudblood! How dare the ghastly low-born creature defile his perfectly groomed locks...

Then Dracomir's heady mixture of rage, contempt and panic was calmed by a firm, irrefutable voice addressed to Skittles. Or, as Dracomir suspected, Nancy.

"You're a tree, dear. You're above that sort of thing, aren't you?"

It was the secretary, Ms Martinet. Dracomir flashed her a speedy grin of appreciation as Skittles stretched out her arms, humming something apparently meant to represent the tweeting of birds nesting in a great, strong, oak.

Note to self. Or one of one's selves. Skittles can be neutralised by being reminded she is a great oak tree. By the way, Ms Martinet continues to be rather impressive. Must discover her first name...

Dracomir mentally shrugged off such thoughts, turning suavely to the Lady Spymaster.

"I would not normally deign to speak with a mere mudblood King of Mordor, madam, but since our acquaintance stretches back some considerable distance," he smirked slightly, "I will assist, if not exactly willingly, without reluctance. Mother always says that my persuasive skills are without peer."

The Lord Malfoidacil stretched slightly, yawning at an impressive volume without sacrificing any of his style. "The King of Morder should be absolutely nothing. It pains me to say it, but I have had much experience with drunken oafs and mudbloods," he draaawwwled.

And it was true. A certain gamekeeper came to mind. But at this point they were interrupted, not by a Giant, but by a Dwarf-Smilog, who had hitherto remained sourly aloof from proceedings. He had too plebeian and rustic an accent for Dracomir to bother listening to whatever he was saying, so he watched the stunted fellow's beard moving up and down. He was interested to see whether it was free-flowing or stiffened with some kind of salt. Or, whatever. Actually it was really amusing.

"Grrrurrrph, Dwarves grrrk grrrn rrrk persurrrarsirrve," the Dwarf insisted, before coughing loudly. The Lord Malfoidacil brightened up. Perhaps this mission was going to be rather entertaining after all.