ATM II RPG

[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."

[littlemanpoet]

Panakeia burst through the doors to the balcony.

"What is happening?" she cried.

She seemed frenetic and not at all herself. In fact, she was laughable, with big, expressive cow eyes and gobs of concern oozing from every pour. It was actually repulsive to Anakron; how at odds with the jealous hauteure of their recent confrontation.

Anakron grinned coldly, for she was ridiculous. "The Mountain is moving."

"I know that!" she answered in consternation. "What has happened to you?"

A cold knife of accusation slid its way into his heart, for he knew precisely what she meant. Were he to answer with the truth, he knew that he would unravel from his precarious perch of self-respect, and turn into puddy in her hands; he refused the humiliation and chose to avoid the question.

"I have konveyed the Dweomer, and this orc has as a result become the worshipper and prophet of his new god, Mount Doom, Womb of the Ring."

Lûgnût rose, looking at them fiercely. His androgyneity had disappeared. "Then you understand, Grand Anakronist!"

"I do. Go and spread the word!"

"I shall!" Lûgnût roared, his pathetic pig face turning fierce with the fanatcism of unbridled belief.

"What are you doing?" Panakeia half yelled, her voice hinged on the brink of seeming panik.

"What I was meant to do," Anakron answered with chilling calm.

[Diamond18]

When the Mountain lurched to a stop, Skittles ran to a window to see where they had landed. She looked out and saw the sparkling waves lapping the sandy beaches of Lost Angles, and this she did exclaim:

"Sick!"

Smilog, Tollin, and Roggie exchanged puzzled glances.

"Be back later, boss," Skittles said to the smouldering King of Mordor. "I've got a wave to catch!"

With a cheerful wave she bounded away. Smilog, Tollin, and Roggie exchanged puzzled glances, then Smilog said, "I have the strangest feeling of deja vu..."

Skittles bounded to her room and rifled through her trunk once more, flinging gingham, tweed, and argyle to the four corners of her room. She emerged minutes later in an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini which she wore for the first time that day. Under one arm she carried a matching yellow polka dot surfboard, which was neither itsy nor bitsy, teenie, or weenie.

It was truly a pity that the majority of the Gondorian contingent was back at Mount Doom's usual residing point, since this was a sight that surely would have boggled their minds right down to the ground... and the yellow polka dot flip-flops on Skittles' feet. Luckily for their collective sanity, they were not there to witness Skittles or the rest of the anakronistic wonderland that was Lost Angles.

She did, however, pass the Mordorian contingent in the halls. They stood rooted to the spot, eyebrows raised (except for Lola who uttered a delighted laugh). Igör noted the stylish new itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot iPond Mini which Skittles held in one hand, as the itsy bitsy teenie weenie earbuds delivered a rousing chorus of Jerk It Out to her ears. (And yes, she danced to it as she walked.) She blew a startled Dracomir a kiss and rounded a corner, disappearing from sight.

After she had passed, Maika remarked, "You're sure that's Roggie's warlordess, eh?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

So they were then left in the middle of the corridor leading from the main Casino area. Smilog scratched his head as Skittles dashed away wither unusual outfit and even more unusual wooden contraption. "It'll never catch on," muttered Smilog, "where are we anyway?"

"Its a horror worse than even the deepest pits of Mordor!" cried Roggie, as he leant out of the window and screamed, "worse even than staring into the depths of the great eye itself!"

"Speak sense, man!" cried Tollin, "where in Middle Earth are we?" the Minotaur looked out of the window for himself. He stepped back, "I don't see what’s so bad."

"Its..." shivered Roggie, "s-s-s"

"You sound like Tollin with his lisp," mocked Smilog, "speak with words not nonsense. This isn't the house of Tom Bombadill." The Balrogian figure burst into a torrent of fire and shadow, filling the corridor with flame. All about him the shadow gathered and then he drew himself up and the shadow about him seemed to stretch forth like two great wings.

"Mock me not!" bellowed Roggie, his voice becoming as deep as the abysses and as terrible as the wroth of Sauron himself, "Foul smelling bearded creature! I am Roggie! Master of the Casino!" then the fire seemed to dye and he returned to his abnormal self, still scowling at the Dwarf. "A beach!" he said plainly.

"What?" Smilog said with a start, "Never heard of it."

"Its terrible!" cried Roggie, "at least, if the stories are true."

"Oh, be quiet," said Tollin, "you know as well as I do that they are. But it doesn’t look so bad. See, there’s an ice cream stand!"

"What's ice cream?" queried Smilog,

"No idea," replied the Minotaur, "but it looks tasty. Lets go and explore."

"I've got a better idea!" shouted the Dwarf, "lets find out who is driving this mountain first! We need to get to the crack of Doom as quick as possible. Who knows if the Mountain might drive off again while we're all outside drinking..." he peered out and read the firs sign he saw, "Nike shoes? Besides, it shouldn't take long. I have the blue prints here..."