ATM II RPG

[Anguirel]

Completely unaware of the dire and hopeless fate, encompassing the doom of the entire world, that his parallel self was now undergoing, Tom picked himself up, quite carefully and in some considerable pain. Somehow, he thought following the ghastly Balrog and the dangerously unstable Skittles was not the most prudent course of action, though he needed to get the King to listen to him in some way or other...

The hall in which he found himself was sparce and empty, but though apparently unguarded, it was easy of access, and he could not be sure whether some other guard, or creature, would enter at any moment and interrupt his increasingly hopeless musings. He contented himself with surveying exits and entrances, doors, how easily passable they looked, and whether there were likely to be any traps, in punctilious detail.

Then the whole place shook and he fell flat on his face again, smashing his handsome nose. A hasty Reparo sorted out the fracture but did not staunch the flow of blood, and Dracomir was becoming rather a gruesome sight, covered in red gore not unlike Potter had been after that Petrificus Totallus spell last year. There was another sudden tremor, and though the lack of windows meant Tom had no clue what was going on, in the interests of self-preservation he scrambled through the nearest door, which, thankfully, was open.

The door had a simple but hefty bolt, and Dracomir operated it to lock himself inside for the present. The shaking in the hallway didn't seem to affect this chamber, or rather, this suite, for he was now obviously looking at an antechamber. The furnishings were plush and in green and silver. There was a shelf with what looked like potion ingredients in one room beyond, and a four-poster bed, like the one in his room at Malfoy Manor, in the other. All in all, the Lord Dracomir Malfoidacil felt extremely at home.

Rather too at home. For a cold-eyed portrait of a white-blond man of haughty bearing was hung up opposite him, the words ABRAXAS MALFOY inscribed on the lower part of the frame.

"Took you long enough to get here, you little ingrate," the picture remarked in a proud voice.

"...Grandfather...?" Dracomir murmured nervously...

[Roggie of Morgoth]

"Folly indeed." Roggie growled, trying fruitlessly to find a large red button on the wall that was labelled 'Push me and all of this will stop in a very tidy manner and the world will make sense again.' "Skittles, my chief war advisor, we will finish our discussion as soon as I discover just who is driving my palace without my permission."

Skittles grinned maniacally, flicking her switchblade open and closed in a manner most disconcerting. "Can I fix the problem when we find it?"

"We'll see."

"Ooh, goodie. Can I trim the Dwarf's beard?"

"Go ahead."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog leaped backwards and put his hand on his axe hilt, "Come one step nearer," he warned, "and I'll shove that knife where the sun don't shine!"

"In Mordor," pointed out Tollin, "that could be anywhere." Skittles frowned at the Dwarf and turned to follow Roggie as he wandered off. They walked through the ruined casino while the Mountain hummed along at a pleasant speed not yet showing any signs of stopping, however. The card tables were all broken and scattered all over the place; it was a carnage of cards and a terror of tables! It took a lot to stop Smilog from being sick.

Roggie grumbled in council with Skittles while the Dwarf and his huge companion followed on behind them. Skittles kept looking longingly at the knife and the dwarf's beard while Smilog held his axe tight in his hands. Tollin seemed a little apprehensive and more than a little suspicious of something, "Its not right," he said, "Something is not quite right."

"What do you mean?" asked Smilog, "Of course its not right, there is a mountain driving around!"

"Well, there’s that," Tollin replied, "but it’s been on smooth ground for a while now. I know for a fact that there isn't this much smooth ground in Mordor. Unless it’s going around in circles, it may have stopped!"

[Anguirel]

"Well, you abominable little worm, you haven't achieved that much yet, have you?" the portrait of Abraxas Malfoy went on.

"Well..."

"I thought you were supposed to be," the painted lips gave a very definite smirk, "negotiating with the King of Mordor by now."

"Well..."

"Well what, you lily-livered mealy-mouthed incompetent little leech?"

"Come now, Grandfather," Dracomir cut in, "isn't that slightly excessive?"

"No, it is not, you insufficiently sinuous earthworm! The portrait in the negotiation room told me in good faith you were alone with Mordorian ambassadors at least twice, and yet failed to place them under the Imperius Curse! Neither have you employed Veritaserum in order to unearth compromising secrets! Neither have you..."

The portrait ranted on and on, bringing up stratagems and spells whose very names made Dracomir's blood chill slightly, as in, get cold, not, like, relax. Tom could not help feeling that in his heart of hearts he did not naturally belong to this family. He admired their almost ludicrous capacity for evil, but he could never equal it. He shuddered at Abraxas' latest helpful suggestion. Surely his ancestor hadn't really expected him to be able to summon a Nundu?

"Still," the Malfoy picture said, almost charitably, "you are, after all, a scion of my blood, however undeserving, and I am prepared to aid you to a certain extent."

"I see," Dracomir sneered back, giving as good as he got. "That's a relief. I thought you were going to rant for the next Age of Arda."

"It's a pleasure, insect," Abraxas replied. "Now, proceed to the mahogany table by the Potions shelf. There are some presents for you there."

Sullenly doing as he has told, Tom shuffled to the table in question, feeling Abraxas' eyes swivel to keep trained on him. Arranged on the tabletop were a variety of peculiar objects; what looked like a sheet of parchment, a silvery, insubstantial cloak folded up, and a vial containing a bright purple, fizzing liquid.

"Pick up the parchment," Abraxas barked, "and tap it with your wand, while saying I solemnly swear that I will fill my SAVE in within 48 hours."

The Lord Malfoidacil intoned, just as he had heard, the peculiar phrase.

"I solemnly swear that I will fill my SAVE in within 48 hours."

A blot of ink appeared in the centre of the sheet, spreading out, sticking and congealing. A title formed at the top-

Messrs Minocher, Framroze, Eduljee and Dinshaw present THE MORDORERS' MAP

"A powerful artefact," Abraxas pronounced solemnly. "It shows a complete map of Mordor, including insets of the Castle, Lundun, and Cair Paradocks-and, what's more, everyone within Mordor, and where they are."

"All I can see is a lot of weird smudges moving around the normal map," Dracomir opined.

"Well, there have been some problems with scale. A Great Eagle could read it with ease," Abraxas insisted. "Now try the cloak on."

Dracomir expected slightly better things of the Cloak. Could it be an Invisibility Cloak, like Potter's? He slipped it about himself.

"An Inaudibility Cloak," Abraxas explained. "Marvellous, isn't it?"

"What's the point in being Inaudible?" Dracomir protested.

"Sorry?" Abraxas asked. "Didn't quite catch that." Tom took off the Cloak with a sigh and folded it up for later. Maybe he'd need to get past a crack squad of specially recruited blind guards, or something.

"Ah!" Abraxas exclaimed. "And now the potion! The fabled Infelix Infelicis!"

"Let me guess, it makes me even more unlucky than usual," Dracomir suggested.

"Yup, that's about right."

Dracomir seized the vial, ran past the picture, and hurled the potion at Abraxas' head. It smashed, and apparently being highly flammable, set the picture on fire. The Lord Malfoidacil left the antechamber, Map and Cloak stowed away, with the satisfying sound in his ears of his grandfather being immolated. He could not resist a broad smile as he left. Maybe he deserved to be a Malfoy after all.

[littlemanpoet]

The zooming Mountain gave Anakron an idea as to subtlety. Certain anakronisms there were that were distasteful even in that horrible future. It was time to bring them to bear, regardless of the additional kaos such konveyances of anakronisms kreated. Anakron also decided that he would rather enjoy spelling all those words in his mind and in that infamous role playing game that had kreated the very place he happened to be existing in, with the Greek 'K'. Most exkwizit. He actually giggled. Briefly. Then he raised his staff.

"Konvay!" The kat bawled.

He knew that this partikular konveyance was going to take some time to inkarnate itself in its fulness, but the first stirrings were already beginning to okkur.

It just so happened that Lûgnût the androgynous ork had come to the same balkoney as had Anakron, to observe the moving of the Mountain. Now the ork was on his/her face, bowing down to the Mountain itself in what Anakron took to be worship; the ork was mumbling some strange imprekation in praise of the great Mountain and all its power, based on the Ring which was still at its heart, Dark Lord or no Dark Lord. A malicious grin spread slowly over Anakron's face.

[Celuien]

The mountain's sudden lurch into motion disturbed Panakeia's reverie. An earthquake. We must be having an earthquake, she thought in alarm. It surprised her, never having experienced seismic activity during all her stay in Mordor, but the room was shaking and she could find no other explanation. Noting a swaying chandelier over the billiards table, she ducked back beneath the imposing furniture. Only just in time - a flimsily built plywood wall toppled near her, and would have landed on top of her if not for the table's protection. Mordorian construction, she thought irritably.

The motion was very odd. If not for the room's location in the Mount Doom Palace and Casino, Panakeia would have thought she was in a swaying recreational vehicle, right down to the growing feeling of carsickness in her stomach. Fortunately for her, the room's trembling ceased just as the swirling sensation reached its peak. She emerged unsteadily from her hiding place, pushing aside a pile of debris and brushing dust from her gown.

Wondering how severe the damage had been, Panakeia made her way to a window and looked outside. She gasped. Instead of the Palace gates and signs for the Casino, she looked upon the tiny blue of the Pathetic Ocean. Several surfers and sunbathers were staring blankly at the mountain. Somehow, Mount Doom had arrived at the Mâl-in-Bû section of Lost Angles. Panakeia was flabbergasted. She could think of no possible way for the mountain to have moved. Unless...unless the Dweomer was at work. Anakron! What had happened?

She looked around from her window, and spotted the Grand Anakronist standing on a balcony above her. As she watched, he began to laugh. Just for a moment, but he laughed all the same. And then Lûgnût joined him and bowed to the mountain. Anakron began to laugh again, and though she couldn't see his face clearly from her vantage point, she thought she saw a hint of a cruel grin on his lips.

Her anger forgotten, Panakeia felt a scream rising in her throat. Something was horribly wrong with Anakron, and she, terrified by what she saw, knew that she had to help him if she could. With a nagging fear that she was somehow the cause of whatever evil had taken place, Panakeia made her way over the rubble of the billiards room and searched for a way to the balcony. When she passed the bullet-riddled body of an armored man near a wrecked car, she knew that she was coming close. Before long, she heard the familiar - and yet strange - laughter of her beloved Anakron on the other side of a door. She hurried to the doorway and stepped through to face him, fear, worry, and love all written on her brow.

"What's happening?" she cried.

[Anguirel]

The bizarre earthquake in the castle seemed to have completely ceased by now. Tom advanced to the entrance to the labryrinth whither Roggie and Skittles had repaired. Even after the Balrog-King had advanced far down it long ago, it exuded a certain amount of sulphurous heat. Besides, it was likely to be a contorted route, and Dracomir-though the smudges on the Mordorers' Map gave him a vague idea-couldn't be quite sure where Roggie had gone.

Besides, he wasn't exactly enamoured of the idea of being reunited with the King of Mordor without significant back-up.

He already had enough information to make a certain impression...if directed to the right ears. Roggie had shown absolute proof, of the must robust kind, of his reluctance to negotiate. He was on the contrary marching off with Skittles. Skittles, Lady of Flick-Knives. Hardly a sign of latent pacifism. Dracomir couldn't precisely know their purposes, but he assumed three of them were war, destruction, and barbecuing.

Just wait till those timorous Mordorian "ambasador" wage-slaves of Alli heard that. Yes, this news would have quite an effect.

Just then, the Lord Malfoidacil's reflections were interrupted by a decided feeling that someone without a trace of magical power was attempting to communicate with him. He shook his head. Irresponsible mudbloods, messing up the Legilimency Telecom Network with their untrained burblings. He had better things to worry about. He Apparated back to the Negotiation Hall.

Lola and Maika having apparently gone on ahead, only Igör remained; he seemed to be lagging due to the propensity of his eyes to go wandering off on missions of their own. Due to something more than accident, Tom increasingly suspected. The Shelleyesque aberration had previously shown his practicality, and was probably a loyal and accurate informer for his mistress Alli.

"I just thought you might like to know," the Lord Malfoidacil started coldly in Sindarin, "that King Roggie of Morgoth and Miss Nancy MacFayden are currently involved in planning hostile action against my lord King Mardil's domain."

"Or, in plain English, how are we supposed to get out of this one?"

Igör replied, very loudly, "If you'll excuse me, could you ask someone else? The two halves of my brain are at war with each other, you see..."

Maybe not so efficient then. Tom sighed, but Lola...ah, as irritatingly delectable as ever...and Maika had come back, apparently lost and rather in the Doldrums; or at least, Maika seemed to be. Lola was the model of insouciance.

"What did you say?" Maika gasped, though she had patently already heard, hence the shock.

"I said what I said," Dracomir replied simply. "Roggie and Skittles are building an army...worthy of Morrrrdorrrr. So it begins. There will be no dawn for Men. Or Women, I imagine."