ATM II RPG

[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.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli stopped at the sound of footpads following her down the flagstone hall way. She turned and raised her eyebrows at Maika, waiting for the Mordorian on-hiatus-ambassador to state whatever purpose was important enough for her to have followed Alli rather than waited inside the chamber for Lola.

"Alli," she almost whispered, "so, can I give this skin cream a try?"

Alli tilted her head a little, studying Maika with the intensity of a cat observing a dangling string. She half-smiled for a moment before allowing herself to grin.

"Of course, Maika. Would you like it now, or later?"

[Lhunardawen]

A shiver ran up Maika's spine as she looked at Alli grin.

"Maybe now, if you're fine with that. It would probably take some time to apply it, and I have to be prepared before Lola arrives..."

"Of course. Now, shall we?" Alli swept her hand and walked towards the place where the precious face cream lay. Maika fell in step with the Spymaster, her confident stride belying her uncertainty. Bah, whatever. She felt more and more pathetic by the second.

~*~

Maika stared back at the ghostly white face in the washroom mirror. It seemed hesitant to get into this. The Mordorian diplomat looked down at the tube in her hands. It was smooth and milky white, surely not unlike the semi-liquid it contains. "If it works for you, you can have it," Alli had said as she handed her the tube from its hiding place - a drawer in her office desk. Whoever kept face cream in her workplace? Alli did, apparently. Never mind the weirdness of it, but Maika was just thankful that it really was not from Panakeia. She had double-checked it on her way to the washroom, to be sure.

She was about to open the tube when she noticed a few thick hair strands standing on top of her head. It probably explains why Alli looked at her oddly a while ago. That Dracomir! she thought angrily, recalling his crazy wand-waving. The stupid stick must have caught her hair somehow. Dropping the tube, she pulled off the two ebony chopsticks and slightly shook her head, letting her jet black hair cascade down her back. With a powerful grip she took hold of the entire bunch of hair strands with her left hand while gathering the stray ones to it with her right. Then, with a few deft flicks of her wrist, the bunch transformed into a bun, and one by one she replaced the chopsticks. There.

She grabbed the tube again, twisted its cap off, and lightly squeezed its body - then stopped. How was she supposed to know how to apply this thing? She wracked her brains for anything from television that might help her, and the only thing she got was that whatever happens, she must resist the temptation to just smear the cream carelessly all over her face. Those soaps in TV always show that the unlikeliest, most embarrassing things happen in public washrooms. Come on, Maika, think! There must be something from those advertisements!

A few moments later she was back to squeezing the tube. To her surprise, the cream was colored green! Maika almost barfed in disgust. I thought she said this wasn't from Panakeia? But a quick reminder of Lola arriving - from some unexplored area at the back of her head - urged her to get it over with, so she squeezed a little amount of the caterpillar-colored cream onto her ring finger and dotted it on her forehead, both cheeks, the tip of her nose, and chin. Then with both ring fingers, she spread the cream evenly all over her face using tiny circular motions, not at all as expertly as the clause appeared to say. Magically, it seemed, the cream turned from green to colorless...and with a lovely powder smooth finish, too! At least the package did not lie in that respect. She hoped it would do its intended work just as well.

Maika finally stepped out and walked into the corridor, her head held high by the weight of her hair and the chopsticks. She hid the now-closed tube in her palms as she had nothing in which to keep it. Well, no one's bound to notice anyway. Thank goodness its manufacturer knew how to disguise the hideous color of the product.

She quietly sighed in relief upon reentering the room, with Skittles already in leather and Dracomir holding some weird plastic thingy, and no Lola yet in sight.

[JennyHallu]

"Oh, how exciting. New faces!"

The sultry voice from the doorway earned the undivided and immediate attention of all in the room, as was probably intended. Posed seductively in the frame stood a curvaceous, voluptuous young woman, and it seemed natural to scan her from the feet up. Delicate small feet in tall stiletto heels gave way to shapely, toned legs, under a sparkling red dress that accentuated a perfect hourglass figure, and seemed somewhat strained to hold anything other than her tiny waist. Slim arms, a creamy throat, and finally a perfect face with a pouty expression partially obscured by thick, wavy, silky blond hair. Women's eyes narrowed. Men's jaws dropped. The woman smiled slowly, like a cat, vamping into the room to sit on the table, thighs crossed.

A tall, blond man was first to find his voice. "You've got to be--"

She giggled. "Call me Lola, honey."