ATM II RPG

[Diamond18]

Skittles felt an odd twinge, and blinked. Something nagging in the back of her head told her that she was angry as this incredibly pale boy standing next to her, but she couldn’t quite remember the reason. Did this have anything to do with the unfortunate breath mint incident? No, that had happened last month, and was taken care of...

She shook her head, and heard the end of Dracomir’s question.

“Yeah, I know her,” she said. “Her name is Lola, she was a showgirl with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there at the Copa, Copacabana, the hottest spot north of Havana, where music and passion were always the fashion. Then she got into administrative assistance, and the rest, as they say, is historically inaccurate.”

Dracomir nodded, and made a noncommittal noise as if debating whether or not to believe what she was saying. Skittles wrinkled her forehead and said, “You are a very charming boy, but I think I came here to carve my initials onto your face. Can you do me a favor and remind me why?”

[Anguirel]

Dracomir was rather relieved. His tactics of distracting Skittles from her original purpose, if not making her altogether forget it, seemed to be working.

"I can't say I ever knew why," he replied. "You were obviously far too cunning and intelligent to tell me of your, ah, motives. Planning to take me by surprise, that sort of thing."

What Skittles had told him of Lola was interesting. So she was a sort of Mordor good-time girl. "Everyone likes Lola," Ms. Martinet had said. Certainly, he could see a possible clash of character. The stern secretary was probably unwilling to tolerate chorus-girls. Well, now they had only this woman to wait for before their audience with the King...

In the meantime, Skittles had to be kept relatively calm and somewhat less switchblade happy. Tom thought that trying to converse with her own exceptional eclecticism might just work.

"Skittles," he asked, "what's your favourite colour?"

[Lhunardawen]

"My lady, you seem worried about your fair complexion in the presence of the boorish King Roggie," Dracomir's voice cut into Maika's worried thoughts. "As you can see, I suffer from a similar problem. It's a clear sign of nobility of blood. I often find a Disillusionment Charm can help lessen the effect of exposure...would you allow me to help?"

Nobility? Maika almost laughed, but caught herself. Nobility. It was funny. Or was it? Without realizing it she was soon turning the word over and over in her head, but a quick sight of the waiting Gondorian made her stop.

"I would advise you against speaking ill of Roggie in the presence of a Mordorian, sire," she replied with a slight glare. "And as for your offer, you're welcome to try. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"Warn me of what?" Dracomir drew his wand from inside his robe anyway, and without waiting for an appropriate response started waving it towards her...when Alli came to her, uh, rescue.

"Malfoidacil, please refrain from casting spells upon my workers, no matter how clever you find your charm work to be. Maika, I will speak to Buildings and Grounds workers about it. More likely will be that we'll merely have to open a window. If you like, I have skin cream that works wonders, and it is not even from Panakeia."

Maika sneaked a smug look over at Dracomir as Alli rebuked him, and turned to Alli with a blank stare at her offer. Sighing inwardly in relief that the product was not from the infamous Panakeia, she decided to accept it. She doubted it would work, but who knows?

After Alli had given their orders and asked Dracomir (Tom?) to what seemed like a date, Maika quietly followed her out of the room. She caught her a short distance down the corridor. "Alli," she almost whispered, "so, can I give this skin cream a try?" Asking help from an ex-Balrog winger? Maika could not believe the depth to which she had fallen.

[Diamond18]

"What's your favorite colour?"

Surely, Dracomir had no idea how disasterous a question this would have been to ask giddy-Skittles. He would have doomed himself to a detailed description of every color in the rainbow, and the many variations of said colors. Luckily, she was in leather-mode and simply responded:

"Black and red, the colors of blood."

"Oh. How nice," Dracomir replied.

She leaned closely and asked, "Tell me, Draco-packo, do you dream in color... or black and white?"

[Anguirel]

Tom was slightly disconcerted-by the increasing proximity to him of Skittles-and her knives-but at least the conversation they had strayed onto seemed comparatively harmless.

"Actually," he answered, his right hand sweeping through his adorable hair, "I don't dream that much. I have a bit of a case of insomnia, as it happens, and the Occlumency practice and stuff doesn't help. If you want to talk to some dream-obsessed drip, you'll be wanting that Potter boy."

Now, for a change, Skittles looked confused. "Who?"

"Oh, you wouldn't know him," Dracomir answered sourly. "He's idolised as a role-model by too many small children to ever get Assigned...twerp of a celebrity..."

Once again, the Lord Malfoidacil had to breathe deeply and suppress his violent emotions before he could speak again. He had acquired new powers since he had last met Daniel Radcliffe, terrible new powers...if they ever met again...Tom grinned viciously.

Then a new thought for destressing occurred to him, and he took a strange device-two sticks, attached by a string, with an hour-glass shaped lump of yellow plastic suspended between them.

"Have you ever seen one of these? It's called a Diabolo..."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

*Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!*

All the hallmarks of a rather upset Dwarf. Grumbling and muttering, Smilog marched along the corridor with his head bowed and his arms folded across his fat stomach. Trying to convince Roggie to begin negotiations wouldn't be easy. Leaders are idiots, he decided.

"That dratted creature," he muttered under his breath as he walked past a door ladled ‘Alli Umfuil’.

*Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!*

He walked on. His boots really were heavy and beginning to aggravate his athlete's foot. Or rather, lack of athletics foot. Just as he passed a small bench marked "In memory of The Incompetent Doctor Hookbill" he realised he'd been there before. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, when he saw two men walking towards him he quickly stomped along the corridor as casually as he could.

Left? Right? Up? Up? How could here be an up? Stairs? Shut up brain. His mind wandered as he tried to work out where he was. Retrace you're steps, he told himself before backing into a large suite of armour and having it all come crashing down on top of him.

Fuming, Smilog leaped out of the metal and saw that there were several people staring at him. "And that’s for my mother!" he cried, and gave the head a kick. "It was accusing me of... of... being a... Gnome." that'll convince them he thought in vain.

*Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!*

He walked through another series of corridors, seeking the chamber of Roggie. He just turned another corner and thought he was on the right track until he came to the door marked 'Alli Umfuil'. He stared at it, fists clenched. "That dratted creature!" he cried.

*Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!*

[Celuien]

The never-ending din of traffic, horns, and assorted ubiquitous irritants of city life drifted in through the half-open, chintz-draped window. The noise wafted through the room, settling on the form of Panakeia of Harad as she napped on a divan. She twitched now and then in response to any particularly loud sound, but was apparently accustomed to the racket of Lûndûn's busy streets.

But her rest was not fated to last. Outside, a speeding PT Cruiser slammed into a stopped garbage truck blocking traffic (one that, in Mordorian fashion, delivered rather than collected rubbish) directly outside her window. Fenders bent, metal grated, and Panakeia's eyes flew open. Stretching cat-like, she pulled herself to her feet and went to the window, slamming it closed with a glare and a bang.

"Confusticate and bebother these Orcs!" she muttered. Panakeia did not appreciate being awakened. This day was not going well; shares of Àivônë, the cosmetics company she founded after her adventure with the Offending Party, were off their peak price. While this made little difference to her savings, as she sold most of her interest in the company shortly after founding it, what stock she retained for dividend income would suffer. She had come to rely on that income, though she knew Anakron did not approve of her company, even if the products it produced were genuine – by Mordor’s standards. But he couldn’t fault her, she thought. After all, she was barely involved with the corporation following the sale.

Anakron. At least something would go well today. They had a dinner appointment for the evening. It had been cancelled, rescheduled, cancelled, and finally rescheduled for tonight. Things were busy in White-All with all of the non-approved escapes from Mordor, and Anakron's time had been scarce. Too scarce.

A faint smile curved around Panakeia lips. After so much delay, he would make it up to her. Surely he would. Perhaps even with the proposal she so eagerly awaited. Anakron had to know that she was ready for the step. Why else would she constantly speak of celebrity weddings or show him magazines filled with gowns and rings over dinner?

The time for their rendezvous was drawing near. Panakeia hurried to her closet to select a dinner dress. She returned to her divan an hour later, clad in a gown of pale seafoam green and a sparkling necklace of emeralds and diamonds. Makeup was carefully omitted from her toilette. She knew that Anakron disliked it, and though she ordinarily would have used just a smidgeon for her own satisfaction, tonight was different. Nothing must go wrong with her plans for the evening. She had the oddest feeling of now-or-never. Yes, tonight was the night.

A sharp rap at the door caused Panakeia's heart to skip a beat. She jumped to her feet, and with a quick glance to her mirror to check her carefully coiffed hair, opened the door with an expectant smile and greeting to Anakron...only to see Lûgnût, genderless Orc of Caer Pairadocks.

The smile faded from Panakeia’s face more quickly than an ice-cream cone melting in the summer sun.

"What do you want?" she snapped at the officiously simpering Orc.

"Greetings, good evening, and all other well-wishes and salutations to you."

Panakeia tapped her foot impatiently. "Yes, yes. Get on with it," she said. These meddlesome Orcs never ceased to annoy her, particularly if the Orc in question was Lûgnût. She had not forgotten his role in the Offending Party's tasks the year before.

"It is my task to inform and otherwise make you aware that as the presence of Anakron Istkon Vayor, otherwise known as the Grand Anakronist, is required at the negotiations currently transpiring at the Mount Doom Palace and Casino, he will, regretfully, be unable to dine with your most charming self this evening."

A flush of crimson suffused Panakeia's cheek. Had it not been accompanied by a heated glint in her eye and a set jaw, the color could have been called attractive. As it was, the combination showed only fury. How could he do this? Anakron had already cancelled several times. This was the last straw.

A horrifying thought occurred to Panakeia. Was he falling out of love with her? After all they'd been through? Panakeia was determined to find out once and for all.

"Lûgnût! Where did you say Anakron was going?" The words were clipped and short.

"To the Palace of His Highness, King Roggie of Mordor, at which magnificent locale…"

Panakeia cut off the speech. "Get your car," she ordered. "We're taking a little trip."

"To which destination is it your desire to wend?"

Could anyone be more obtuse? Panakeia stared at the Orc. "We, my friend, are going to find Anakron. And we are going now. Any questions?"

Despite the question, the expression on her face was enough to tell that questions would not be entertained.

Lûgnût gulped and led her to a bright orange Hummer, emblazoned with the image of a Siamese cat.

"Are you sure you will not reconsider?" he asked hopefully.

"Be quiet and drive!"

And the Hummer sped off, bearing one worried Orc and one angry woman in the direction of the unsuspecting Grand Anakronist.