ATM II RPG

[Celuien]

Time washed over Panakeia like the sands of Mâl-in-Bû washing over a beach bum's feet. Filled with angst over her troubled romance, she drifted along the beaches of the Pathetic Ocean, not knowing or caring where she headed. That is, until she tripped over a beach-bum's beach towel and careened head long into a fence. She was then forced to care (well, not really care – she didn't care about anything other than her troubles with Anakron just then) about her location by the angry sunbather whose towel she had disturbed and an Orc guarding the carefully fenced private beach she nearly stumbled onto without proper authorization.

She answered the complaints of neither. Ignoring them, Panakeia turned coolly to a small vacant patch of beach near the tide line and sat on the sand, too absorbed in her unhappiness over Anakron to care that sand was working its way into her gown and making a mess of her shoes. She traced letters into the wet beach with her finger. A-N-A-K-R-O-N. She stopped and looked at her handiwork, even as a wave came up from the ocean and washed it away.

Panakeia broke down. Anakron had been washed away from her, just like his name was washed off the beach. Several passers by stared at the formally dressed, crying woman on the beach, wondering what she was doing there (other than sitting around and sniffling), but she didn't care if they stared or not. If they did, it was a reflection of their ill-breeding, not any error on her part. Let them stare. I hope they enjoy the watching me fall apart. Panakeia felt bitter.

What was she going to do? Anakron was lost to her. The Dweomer - the Wizards, had claimed him at last, despite her best efforts to stop them. There was nothing she could do about it. Poor Anakron was dooming himself and she couldn't stop him. All of her words only served to accelerate his decline. And now he was on his way back to Mount Doom. Back to the evil of the Dweomer. She had asked him to come to her. But though she still hoped he would, she felt certain that he never would. Never.

The only thing she could do, Panakeia decided, was to forget him. Her heart revolted at the idea. Forget Anakron? She could never do that. His image – the hair, the flowing robes, the lines around his eyes and mouth – were burned indelibly into her memory. She would never forget him. But if he truly was lost to her, she had to move on. She couldn't live in self-pity forever. At the same time, she wanted to wait for him to come around – against her better judgment, which still pessimistically insisted that he wouldn't.

So she decided to strike for the middle ground and ignore her problem for the moment in the hope that everything would work itself out eventually. It wasn't in her hands anymore. Only Anakron could decide whether or not to heed her advice and abandon the Istari. Though she would always regret being without him, she couldn't let Anakron's resolve to destroy himself, if indeed, he chose to continue down that path, destroy her too. Panakeia slowly realized that she couldn't force him to save himself, however much she wanted to help.

But where to go? Where to go… Panakeia had friends in Lost Angles. Associates from her cosmetics business who found Lost Angles, as the center of Mordor's entertainment industry, the perfect place to sell their goods. They lived, she seemed to recall, in Beaverly Hills. She would stay with them for a bit. And drown her sorrow with a shopping spree or two along Rode-o Drive.

She walked off the beach, leaving a trail of footprints in the sand. Coming to a road that roared with traffic, Panakeia waved down a passing taxi, and, shaking as much sand from her dress as she could, seated herself behind the driver.

"Where to, lady?"

Ignoring the Orc's faulty grammar, Panakeia replied, "Beaverly Hills, 90210." The taxi whizzed off, passing Mount Doom, at which Panakeia gazed mournfully, and heading into the depths of the City of the Lost Angles.

[JennyHallu]

Lola followed Maika for a few steps before collapsing against a wall, breathless with giggles. "You're *gasp* waving that *gasp* little stick around..." another giggle... "just like *gasp* that silly *gasp* boy!" More giggling. Maika turned around and glared at her in exasperation.

Eventually Lola regained her self control and pointed at the wall at the end of this corridor. A sign posted there read clearly:

<--- Audience Chamber

Restrooms --->

Secret Labyrinth --->

<--- Somewhere Else --->

"Come on!" and she took Maika by the sleeve and started running down the lefthand corridor.

[Anguirel]

Poised in the very midst of the smog of Doom, high, high above the resort of Lost Angles, Tom suddenly felt slightly queasy. Were he to slacken on his broom seat for an instant he would be very dead indeed. It was time to get stone beneath his feet again. Even with the negotiations looming. Especially with the negotiations looming, he corrected himself tersely.

Looking towards the impressive line of the Castle's fortifications, Tom scanned them for a window of suitable size for an elegant Quidditch dive to gain entry to it. There seemed, on reflection, only one suitable option. It had a vast, wide ledge and was of great height. The room within seemed to be ill-lit, and he could only see the dim radiance of flames amid its shadows. Shadow and flame. In retrospect, he really should have been a tad more cautious.

Dracomir leant forward in intense preparation and swooped with leisurely elan into the tower room.

It was then that he became aware of two things. One, some vast, vulgarly golden letters proclaiming the words AUDIENCE CHAMBER. The other, a large throne on which a Balrog, looking simultaneously very weary and very angry, was positioned.

The Lord Malfoidacil's most prudent first action was obvious enough. He fell on his knees and bowed his head before the King of Mordor.

"Melifluous greetings to Your Most Admirable, Balrogic, Courageous, Dashing, Energetic, Famous, Gracious, Honourable, Intelligent, Jocular, Kingly, Liberal, Magnificent, Notable, Omniscient, Powerful, Questioning, Righteous, Serene, Terrific, Universal, Valiant, Wise, Xenial, Ying-Yang-balanced and Zygological Majesty," he said, all in one breath. He dearly hoped the Balrog would hesitate before atomising him, trying to figure out what all the epithets meant...

[Diamond18]

Skittles MacFarlewyn was not happy. She had realized two things simultaneously.

1) She was worshipping a robot.
2) Someone else had forced her to.

These two things were rather upsetting, since:

1) Skittles worships nothing and no one.
2) Not even if it looks like her.
3) Skittles obeys no one nor allows them to control her.
4) Unless they have candy.

In a rage, she fetched a steam roller from the steam roller closet and proceeded to run down the robot while cackling madly and screaming, "Who's the divine one now?"

After RoboSkitt 2000™ had been reduced to a plastic smear on the linolium Skittles turned to thoughts of Anakron Skywalker, the rather whiney Sith Lord in the making who was responsible for her bout of subservient thinking. Gor, he even had the whole billowing cloak and grabbing the neck of his significant other thing down pat! He must be stopped before his eyes glowed red and he slaughtered younglings!

She stomped down the hall in search of Roggie, all the while muttering things about "fixing his little red wagon."

She burst through the door just in time to see Dracomir do a faceplant and begin mumuring a litany of superlatives.

By tinkerbell! she thought in horror, Anakron has gotten ahold of whatisname's mind too, and has brainwashed him into worshipping Roggie!

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli sat up straight, but not unnervingly so. Her posture had improved with her new job: she spent several hours a day playing with weapons and another hour or so learning to dance appropriately in all settings. She was not crazy about the actual diplomatic aspect that her job sometimes entailed, but being able to sit and learn interesting things about human nature was worth a few formal events. And the dance lessons had quickly molded her body into well-toned muscle that didn't slouch in a way that not even her strict schedule of weapons practice and other exercise could.

She looked around consideringly. She would give Angawen five minutes before finding her again. She trusted neither the denizens of Mordor nor the lady's intentions and too long of a time spent away could allow for any number of things occuring.

Bearugard merely ate, ignoring the rest of the world.

Hyarmenwë seemed reluctant, now that he had received permission, to talk with locals. Alli cocked her head slightly and studied him. She waved to a young couple that looked to be newly married. They waved back and she beckoned them over.

"My apologies for bothering you, but my companion is rather new to these parts. He is curious about many things and I can only answer some of his questions. Could you help us?"

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë WAS reluctant to up and engage some of the local "Gondmordorians" in conversation. For one thing, he didn't want Alli to read too much into his desire to speak with them. However, when Alli went so far as to invite a young couple over, he was rather left with no choice.

"My apologies for bothering you, but my companion is rather new to these parts. He is curious about many things and I can only answer some of his questions. Could you help us?"

The young Gondmordorians were polite, and willing, and thoroughly as pleasant as any farmer of the Pelennor.

"My lord," said the lad, "it is has been far too long since we have been able to pay respects to a Lord of the Realm. I am Aleksandur, and this is my betrothed, Fíriel."

Hyarmenwë nodded. "It is a comfort to find those so far from home who remind one so much of it."

"Is it?" said Aleksandur. "That is comforting, Lord Hyarmenwë. For I have not set foot in Gondor. I was Assigned hither at the tender age of ten hours for my apparently anakronistic name. I believe it was then said "Alexander". Consequently, I know not if I am truly Gondorian in my mannerisms, or merely a parody thereof."

"I keep telling him that he's as Gondorian as old Bargon, who was only Assigned for having 'alzheimers'," said Fíriel, gesturing at an old man at the far end of the tavern, staring into space.

"May I ask why the desire to appear Gondorian is so intense?" asked Hyarmenwë. "Surely, since it was the Law of Gondor that saw you sentenced here, it is strange that you desire to be one of its people?"

"Mordor is a strange land, a dangerous land," said Aleksandur slowly. "It is not consistent or coherent. It is no place to raise a family- and such is our intent." He gazed fondly at Fíriel. "And comparing the exiled Gondorians who raised me, and who held as they could to Gondor's culture, to those Mordorians otherwise here, I can say with conviction which I prefer."

"These exiled Gondorians who raised you..." Hyarmenwë's eyes darted ever so slightly to look at Alli as he drew near this subject. "Do they take in many babes? One of the most cruel reasons for Assignment is surely the anakronistic naming of infants. Do many get Assigned?"

"More than you'd think," said Fíriel. "Aleksandur was only one of many 'Alexander's Assigned that we've met. And there are 'Mike's and 'Tom's and 'Dave's, and I haven't a thought how many others."

"You're a diplomat for the King, aren't you?" said Aleksandur. "The newspapers, and thus the rumours, are full of little else. You're here, then, to deal with the illegal emigrations. Tell me, is there a hope that it will someday be possible for people to return to Gondor? Can we purge the anakronistic elements of our being and someday go home? Already I have dropped the hateful name which I was given, and have started to assume a more Númenorean sobriquet. I'm not ready yet to be Gondorian, whatever Fíriel says, but someday, by help of the Valar, maybe I will be. Can I ever go home?"

Hyarmenwë lowered his head somewhat, looking rather torn. He was painfully aware that the tavern had gone silent. The patrons seemed to be hanging on his answer.

"I... don't know..." he said. "Lord Mardil, of all people, should be sympathetic, but in the realm of politics, perversity is oft King. I can only hope that it is a possibility."

The tavern seemed to slump back in its seat. Clearly, this was not the answer that the Gondor-leaning patrons had wanted to hear.

"I can only say that I am also sympathetic to your wishes," Hyarmenwë continued. "I once lost a child, much as you were lost, Aleksandur."

"Did you?" Aleksandur's eyes shone with a glimmer of unmistakeable hope that maybe.... "What name....?"

"I don't know," said Hyarmenwë. "I was on campaign. My wife never spoke of the matter again. I know only that somewhere in this land I have -or once did, for as you say, it is perilous- a daughter."

Alli raised an eyebrow, unseen as no one watched her, then rose.

"As much as I wish I could remain here in this oasis of tranquility, we have a mission to fulfill, and I think we're about done eating now. Bearugard, would you round up Angawen, that we might leave?"