ATM II RPG

[littlemanpoet]

Leave Mordor. Anakron looked at Panakeia's beseeching eyes, stunned. He had never allowed himself to even imagine such a chance for himself, and she was laying it before him as a virtual imperative.

"My only estel, do you think it could be done?"

Her face, already aglow, began to beam with hope. She nodded. "We must!"

"Then we shall."

"Oh Anakron!" Panakeia proceeded to plant labial tissue yet again on Anakron's labio-responsive receptors; which were, according to the most up-to-date anakronistic diagnostics very receptive indeed.

"But first, my star of the morning," Anakron said momentarily, "I want to take you on an excursion to Lûndûn, strictly to see the sites."

"A date?"

"An extended date. Shall we?"

"Let's shall!"

Anakron escorted Panakeia to the black stretch-limo which happened to resemble the black taxis of Lûndûn in all but length. Soon they were on their way down the British law roads, side by side in the back seat, Lûgnût behind the wheel, leering grinningly through the rear view mirror. What the two spoke of to each other, no records say; nor does it say whether they spoke much or not, or whether they were otherwise engaged. Be that as it may, the records do say that they were living in a state of bliss, as if Mordor hardly existed for them.

At least for the time being.

[Anguirel]

The Lord Malfoidacil, having stashed his Map away, strolled into the next room where Angawen was looking daggers at a rather bored seeming Beauregard. Dracomir whistled jovially as he entered their presence.

"Hallo, chums. I do wonder where Hyarmenwe's got to. Most peculiar him going off with some Mordorian ambassador, isn't it? Still, stranger things have happened...as long as his professional dignity isn't compromised..."

He flashed a quick smile and tossed his head so that his scarily pale blonde hair flopped charmingly to one side.

"Still, perhaps we can do without his scruples for a bit. Any news from you lot?" he enquired, unable quite to banish an edge of disdain. "Or any sign of those Mordorian jokes calling themselves envoys?"

"None," Angawen replied almost mournfully. "The afternoon's only amusement has been kicking Beauregard."

"Or being kicked by Angawen, from my point of view," Beauregard pointed out brightly.

Still reeling slightly from the ingenuity of his Hyarmenwe/Maika accusation, Dracomir was quick to wonder...could there be potential for something here? But no, back to the daily grind of negotiating, or non-negotiating...

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Wandering back into the ice-cream parlour, Smilog and The Barrow Wight felt a sudden chill run down their backs. Smilog felt it more potently as the dead man had very little left of his spinal cord. Skittles looked with fire filled eyes at the dwarf, yet due to the vast amounts of ice cream she had forgotten why she had beaten him up and cast him out. However, she assumed it was for a good reason and still regarded the Dwarf with malcontent.

Just as they passed the threshold and saw Tollin licking the inside of yet another bucket of ice cream, there was the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor. Turning, Smilog saw a large number of Orcs and Uruks all carrying crossbows with mounted aiming sights. They all aimed at the Dwarf and a particularly large and smelly Uruk stepped forth and said, "Smilog the dwarf?"

"Who wants to know?" he replied, holding his axe tight in his hands.

"I am chief of police for Old Lordon town, which is where we are now," announced the Uruk a little too loudly, "you are under arrest!"

"On what charge?" demanded Smilog; "I demand to see Roggie of Morgoth about this!"

"Come on sir," said another Uruk, "don't mess us about. We've got a job to do, you know. So just come along quietly and there’ll be no trouble." Tollin got up and went to see what was going on. Unfortunately he tripped over the massive mountain of empty ice cream buckets he had built up, sending several at the Orcs. All eyes turned to him and the leading Uruk sighed.

"Looks like we'll have to take you in as well," he said, taking out some handcuffs. They began mercilessly storming into the room and Skittles couldn't help but laugh to see Smilog being carried away by an Orc only using one hand. Tollin couldn't bare the though of being thrown into that Labyrinth again, so he lifted his morning star and swung it around, knocking several Orcs out of the way. He grabbed Smilog and The Barrow Wight under an arm each and dashed out of the room and up the corridor.

Turning swiftly this way and that, Tollin found his way to a staircase, yet the Orcs and Uruks were right behind him and gaining fast. Not hesitating, the Minotaur leaped up the stairs and then through another door where he found himself in a cupboard. Swiftly he exited the broom-infested space and dashed forth with all his speed. Then he leaped out of the nearest window and fortunately landed on Sauron's Road. He began to run once again until he saw Orcs coming down the road in front of him, so he turned but more Orcs were coming the other way and from down below. He looked up in dismay to see Uruks riding strange birds coming from above and with many cross bows all aimed at them.

Smilog looked around as Tollin put him down. There seemed to be no escape. All their luck had run out. The Barrow Wight whimpered and searched longingly for his pipe. Smilog stood there surrounded by Orcs and Uruks and turned to Tollin, whispering, "Hang on, I've got an idea..."

[the guy who be short]

Angawen's head throbbed.

She realized vaguely that she was horizontal. The ground under her seemed hard - could it be a bed? But she had a pillow.

Perhaps, she thought, I should stop thinking. It seems to make this headache worse. The thought passed through her head suddenly, and she was shamed that a woman of Gondor could display such frailty.

She opened her eyes. Darkness poured in, but it was just enough to see by: the rough, arched roof of a cave. Her face contorted in pain - even this light seemed like torture - but she let no renegade thoughts flow through her mind.

For a long time, it seemed to her, she lay there, gazing absently at the stone ceiling. She had not the energy for anything else. And then, suddenly, she blinked, and the roof was gone, and there was a face.

If she had had the energy, she would have cried out - not screamed, of course, but cried out. For in the pale face burned two eyes of flame, such as she imagined the lord Sauron, or even Morgoth himself must have looked ere his casting into the void. But the nose was flat, with small slits for nostrils.

"Do not move," he said, and his voice was high, like a woman's, and yet all the more chilling for it. "It will be the worse for you." She lay still, not knowing what to expect, but feeling that it would be better to wait and realize her situation before attempting an escape.

"Who are you?" she asked, and her voice was hoarse and stony so that she barely recognized it.

"Questions. I knew you would ask them. So I have kept you here in sleep for many days, hoping to avoid them. I will not suffer questions," and he spoke the last word with a fierce vehemence. And yet Angawen seemed to be getting information out of him: she had lain here for a long time, and he appeared to be a kidnapper. Perhaps she could wheedle more out of him - already her headache was receding.

She was about to reply when he thrust a cup into her hand. "Drink this." She peered into the cup, expecting some sort of hideous brew, but it was simply water. She said so aloud.

"Of course it is water. You have need of hydration, do you not? And food. Here, take this," he replied shrilly, and shoved a stale loaf - it's always a stale loaf - into her face.

"Put that down. I'll eat it myself," she said, annoyed, and sat up. She drank from the cup and ate the loaf as he watched her. She eyed him more thoroughly now. He was dressed all in black, in long robes.

When she had finished, she wiped the crumbs from her bed - for it was a rough bed indeed - and handed the cup back to the man. "It is refreshing," she said, "to sup and to drink, especially if I have lain here for several days as you claim. I am surprised I did not require nourishment before now."

He didn't seem pleased at her talking, for he scowled, but he replied nonetheless. "Fool. I placed you under a spell of sleeping. You had no need of nourishment in such a sleep."

"Then it was kind of you to wake me, good sir...?"

He ignored her question, but stooped to the ground to pick something up, she couldn't see what. "Kind it certainly was not. I am not known for... kindness," he hissed. She could well believe it. "My wand is broken. And so, therefore, is the spell. And so you, whom I wished asleep, have awoken."

"I have many friends. They will search for me."

He smiled, but it was a grimace that made his face appear yet uglier. "No doubt, no doubt," he said. "No doubt their memories are intact. No doubt there are no spells of oblivion upon them. For the Lord Voldemort would not see to that."

She jumped out of the bed, but before she could escape, Voldemort lifted the thing he was holding. It was a vase, and it connected with her head, and everything was darkness again as shards of ceramics fell around her.

Some pierced Voldemort, and he squealed, "buggrit!"

He sat, his hand bleeding, and thought a while. His wand breaking was most inconvenient, but what could you do? He was worried - would the forgetfulness charm he had cast on all the ambassadors wear off? They were different kinds of spells. Still, even if they did wear off, they would not find him here in this cave.

He chuckled to himself. Yes, perhaps it would be better if they remembered Angawen... In fact, if he made himself known to them, that could be all the better. It would cause strife. Strife between Alli and Dracomir, perhaps. Perhaps Dracomir could be drawn to him. And the Anakronist... he would be angered at the Blue Wizards, Voldemort's allies and pedagogues.

Voldemort chuckled to himself again. He would show himself to one of the ambassadors, yes. He needed to pop into town to buy a new vase anyway. Gathering his cloak, he swept out of the cave, giggling all the while about the perfect evil: RPG crossovers.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé's eyes darted around, trying to pierce the darkness. It was an undertaking never likely to succeed: he had poor night-vision at the best of times, but right before they had entered the tomb he had competed in a kind of staring contest with a torch. He knew it was stupid but he couldn't help himself. Flames were so sparkly and dramatic. Ooooh...

Snapping back into focus, Aimé realised that Alli had taken partial leave of her senses, so it was indubitably time to use his best one: touch. Keeping a hold of Alli's hand, he shuffled around the crypt, feeling tentatively.

"Cold, so cold!" as he touched the wall.

"Slimy, so slimy!" as he brushed against what appeared to be a melted gastropod.

"Argh! Moving!" as he found a creature clearly as alive as he. It emitted a low buzzing noise and fluttered away. Aimé thought it was probably the size of a small dog.

"Wha....t'ave we here?" as he came across a hole in the wall. It was the size of a window.

Alli was still unresponsive, and Aimé took the chance of leaving her to her own devices for a few seconds while he explored his discovery. He felt about in the black. It was like a high step, around four feet off the ground. Clambering up swiftly, Aimé found out that the hole was another five feet high, and three feet wide. It extended about—

He paused. There was a chink of light in front of him, probably about six feet into the hole. Stooping down and stumbling over to it, he almost tripped over something. Having kicked the thing over, he saw it clearly, for a ghostly glow was around it.

"Alli! Alli! Come see what I've found!" he said excitedly in a low voice. He climbed out to find her.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

A shiver went down what remained of The Barrow Wight's spine. Flash was walking back from his confrontation with Alatar and Pallando. Tollin lent against a tree, but it collapsed; fortunately, none of the army noticed this and continued to talk amongst themselves. The Orange Wizard stepped up to where Smilog and the others were, his face was down cast and he gripped his staff tightly.

"Well?" said Smilog, "what did they say?" Flash lifted his head and then shrugged.

"The blighters are stubborn," he replied, "said they're going to destroy Mordor and then Gondor and whoever else they feel like having a go at. Pfft. You know what this means?" Smilog shook his head, "It means, I've got to go to Gondor! It looks like I've got a lot of work to do! Woof!" He lifted a hand and a mysterious length of rope dropped out of the sky; Flash took hold of it, saluted and then was off, swinging into the distance.

"I hate him," grumbled Smilog. They looked out over the vast mustering army, the end of it could not be seen; rank upon rank, battalion upon battalion, an immense force. "Could be worse, I suppose." the Dwarf mused, "wait... no it couldn't."

Making their way back to the graveyard, Tollin and The Barrow Wight noticed that a dim white light could be seen in the west. The Wight pointed at it and said, "I say, what do you make of that?" The others shrugged and they marched on. As graveyards go, this one was particular downcast; nothing moved, even the other ATM2 characters that were gathered there. A silence had fallen broken only by the occasional sounding of a distant war-horn, telling all that another battalion had arrived.

Smilog and Khuz noticed a large tomb near to where they stood, "Shall we... erm... investigate it?" suggested Khuz,

"You mean, 'shall we hide in there'?" corrected Smilog, "yes, I think that would be good." The stone door stood open like the gaping mouth of a particular stupid puffer fish. Tollin was taken back by the seeming lack of a stench of death which he usually associated with places like tombs.

"I say, this isn't right old chap," mumbled The Barrow Wight, "I've seen a fair few tombs in my time, and by Jove I was in one for a while, but this one doesn't-" they stopped as the sound of voices came into hearing. Footsteps also and the sound of someone breathing heavily; like an old man with a child's toy in his throat.

"Oh for cryin'-" said a voice, but it was cut off by the sound off battle cries. Smilog had learned to tune it out by now, but the atmosphere of the crypt had the effect of heightening it. Before you could say 'Why, hello thar', a sword was pressed up against Smilog's neck and a collection of figures towered over them in the dim light.

"I say," muttered the Wight, lighting his pipe, "aren't you that wizard fellow? The one who's been involved in all this trouble?"

"Erm..." said Elempi, "sort of, yes... no... a bit. It's complicated."

"Gosh."

[Formendacil]

"Not just any graveyard," said Elrogorn darkly. "This graveyard has a long history of association with forces of evil."

"Do you care to explain that cryptic comment?" asked Maika.

"No," said Elrogorn flatly. "It is a long and depressing tale, and would probably rend Lord Hyarmenwë's flesh from his ears with its anakronistic subtext. Let's just say we should leave post-haste."

"It seems safe enough... if dark and eerie," said Maika.

"I rather must disagree," said Elrogorn. "Especially as the Wereducks seem to be attempting to batter their way out of the tunnel. I give it no more than five minutes."

"What's the best way out?" asked Hyarmenwë, his sword drawn--perhaps a bit foolishly in light of his dwindling stamina.

"There is but one way out," said Elrogorn, "the main gate, over yonder."

Lightning lit up the sky as Elrogorn waved his arm in the direction of an iron-wrought gate several hundred yards away.

"Surely we can just hop the fence," said Maika. "This is just a graveyard, after all."

"A graveyard with an electric fence, electric chair, and guard-electric eels," said Elrogorn, to Maika's disgust. "I told you, it is a place of dark evil."

"Then let's move on to the gate," said Hyarmenwë, already setting in that direction.

"I wouldn't do that, personally," said Maika. "There's quite a number of dark silhouettes over there. Dark silhouettes in a dark graveyard being periodically lit up by eerie lightning is simply dangerous."

"I am ignorant of such anakronistic thoughts, and intend to remain so," said Hyarmenwë resolutely. "And if you ever wish to escape Mordor, I would advise you to not allow yourself to be ruled by such thoughts. They could be perfectly innocent people, or at least better than the... ducks..."

Maika looked at Elrogorn for support, seething somewhat at the old man's insistence that she intended to leave Mordor, but instead of supporting her as Mordor's most clichéd denizen ought to have, he agreed with Hyarmenwë.

"The Wereducks are right behind us," he said. "Lord Hyarmenwë is right-- not even Sauron and a death metal rock band of Balrogs would be worse."

Maika sighed, but followed the two men towards the gates. Lightning crackled overhead.

[Anguirel]

It was really very good to be a werewolf at night, Tom reflected. No one could touch you! Except Hunters, but they were usually sabotaged by the supplies of Seer-attracting crossbow bolts wolves had slipped them at earlier points...

"Sound editing team. You out there?" he growled.

"Yes", a sepulchral voice grinded in reply.

"Have you got Ominous Music Album #2 ready to go?"

"Yeah...wait...that would be Dies Irae, Verdi, then Beethoven's Mighty Fifth, a spot of Prokofiev, Shelter from the Storm, Joni Mitchell's 'River', Godfather, Marcia Religiosa..."

"All good so far."

"And then, maybe, The Two Towers, beginning of track 5, for the heroic moment when you're inevitably slain by some valiant warrior?"

"Er...is that negotiable?"

""Really, you haven't got the first idea of this Werewolf lark, have you, you silly little public-school boy from Kensington?" the voice crackled, in a tone that was not so much sepulchral as plain nasty.

Then it was stopped by a protracted, rather smug, howl, and from behind a convenient bush came a very, very, large wolf, with a funny little white object dangling at its neck.

"Your Night ends here, pretty-boy," it said, its voice deep, mad, and generally indicative of the fact that the wolf in question was none other than Fenrir Greyback, prime lupine nasty of the Harry Potter canon.

"You!" Tom gasped. "You've followed me all this way, eaten my sound crew, and stolen my iPod-nano-mega-hyper-infra-.3 player!"

"Yeaaah. And k'know what, your music's pathetic, boy. When I was a young wolf, I always killed to the sound of punk. Now...prepare to die!"

Tom Felton manouevred to one side as his foe charged past.

"If you attack, we both die, you know," he said hurriedly. "The Werewolf Rules dictate it."

"The Rules are subject to the Dweomer like everything else, boy. The Blue Wizards have sent me. Trust me, I'll be examining your entrails in no time..." and the older wolf pounced again, only for Tom to wriggle out of reach.

"Aunt Bellatrix and Professor Snape will kill you for this!"

"Wrong. They will, actually, kill you if you get out of this one somehow. You are no longer a Malfoy, Felton. You were disowned by a solemn family picnicking gathering yesterday. The vote was unanimous."

"Great," Tom remarked. "The schizophrenia was getting boring. But I'm still a werewolf. We have a common interest in getting the Seer. I know where she is."

"So do I," Fenrir answered. "In a cheesily spooky graveyard. That's perfectly obvious. I intent to eat Seer as plat principal; you, lad, are just the hors-d'oeuvre."

Wondering where Fenrir had learnt French, Tom decided to resort to desperate measures.

"Alright. Um, Illamatar is great, Albus Dumbledore is the greatest wizard ever, Sam Gamgee is pretty brave actually, and, er, I love Harry Potter, and all Muggles. Furthermore...I am a Muggle."

The effect of this wholesale sacrifice of Malfoy principles was instantaneous. Fenrir Greyback was struck by a bolt of lightning which singed off most of his fur and knocked him out, Snape, Bellatrix and all other Harry Potter characters were consigned to the Waste of Narrative Irrelevance, and Tom found himself a wolf no longer.

"Lumos," he said, holding out his wand. As he had suspected, nothing happened. He chucked the stick over his shoulder and ran, as fast as he could, towards the graveyard.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

And so it was that the day had ended, the save had been filled, and the author had been mysteriously logged off between typing and hitting post, and so the post was lost to the depths of cyberspace.

Within it were many puns, one pertaining to the tense of the word 'thought', and it involved Alli Umfuil reading parts of Malfoidacil's slanderous letter aloud.

She and Roggie argued and tabloids wrote about it. Smilog and company disappeared from Alli's radar (well, you know... her Middle Earthian equivilant of a radar... she didn't really have a radar... I was just using that as an example, ya know?) and probably had a bit of cliff-hanging adventure. Maika and Hyarmenwe were officially repremanded and their responses were left ambiguous so that their own writers could fill in the blank spots of the narration.

A few other people did a few other things, and it was written in such a way that if it had actually posted like it should have, the world would be at peace, the ozone would fix itself, teddy bears would go on picnic, turn gummi, and start dancing to various locations that rhyme, and pigs would fly through a chilly underworld.

A week flew by in an amazing narratorial blur and it ended in such a scene that the sky was darkening. It was that shade of evening wherein you can't see the deer no matter if you're using high or low beams, and all you succeed in doing is blinding other drivers that can't really see either, because the air turns opaque, the sky is pinkish, everything is really weird looking, and shadows don't seem to exist, except within your own eyes.

And so the night began...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

It has long been a point of contention among scholars why, exactly, formerly tranquil, pitch-black, stony corridors start echoing to tacky horror-music when something unfriendly is crawling down them. Some hold that it is an evolutionary response developed by castle walls in the Jurassic Period. Others put it down to a quirk of Romanian architecture. But on one fact all are agreed. The path of the Werewolf is always heralded by bastardised Strauss.

So it was on this particular dark watch of the night. Few heard the ominous strains of music in the Castle of Roggie, due to the majestic snoring of the Orc garrison. But there are some who always have ears to here*.

A figure in a grey cloak and hood flung itself to the ground, hollowing a hand round one alert ear. Then the Ranger-for it was he-rose to his feet with a stern expression.

"Gaurhoth," he spat, and drew his sword, a venerable weapon crafted by Petty-Dwarves to be the bane of mosquitoes. A rather suave growl from behind him answered his challenge, and he spun round in a fluid motion.

"Go back to the Shadow!" the Ranger cried. "You cannot take your prey tonight, Hound of Sauron. I am defending her."

"Oh, yes?" the fell spirit replied smoothly. "Think again, Ranger. It is you I have come for this eve."

The valiant Dunadan raised his sword in formal challenge.

"You shall ne'er defeat the grandson of Aradorable and son of Aramazing..."

The wolf sprang, a ray of moonlight illuminating its pale silver fur. The fabled sword of the hero bent and snapped, and the creature of the night lunged for the throat, and feasted.

"The prophecy is fulfilled, Aracannonfodder son of Aramazing," it commented. "You would indeed have tasted better with salt. No matter. The ambassadors are defenceless now!"

Loping to a window, the werewolf cast back its head and began to howl, rhythmically, in tune with the horror music...

*This typo has been left intentionally to suit the whims of the poster, the writer, and everybody that's wondering what the heck is happening.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The ambassadors awoke late the next morning, every last one of them, regardless of regular sleeping habits. Their nightly dreams had been interrupted by screams and howls, and though they attributed these sounds to the assassination of Smilog and Co., they were happily disproved early on when they all reached a comfortable seating area set up for their benefit.

As they sat over tea, coffee, whiskey, and whatever else they could find, nibbling crumpets far before tea time and blinking the sleep from their eyes, conversation (which had amazingly started at all!) turned to the events of the night before.

"Why has Lady Alli not arrived to inform us of last night's happenings?" one diplomat asked irritably. Why indeed.

"Doesn't... isn't... I don't know." another started and ended lamely.

"But what sort of creatures howl with such an incredible musical crescendo to back them?" asked another.

"Shouldn't we be... um... working?" added yet another, tentatively.

"No!" came a resounding reply. "We cannot be expected to work properly with our rest so rudely interrupted, and without even an explanation for it."

"So... we're taking the day off?"

[Formendacil]

"So... we're taking the day off?"

"And good riddance that we are," muttered Hyarmenwë under his breath. He narrowed his glance at his fellow Gondorian diplomats- Dracomir in particular. There had been some harsh words in private council over the past week, and there had been little in the way of unity or working together since, but more of a mutual backstabbing- fortunately paralleled among the Mordorians, who through no fault of their own were completely incapable of presenting a united front on any matter. Hyarmenwë was of the opinion that Gondor and Mordor would probably be more likely if he and Maika sat down and hammered something out, without the "assistance" of their confreres, regardless of what certain loose tongues might make of it.

And, indeed regardless of what certain tongues might make of it, Hyarmenwë had every intention of spending the day with Maikaelwen. Though there was no indication that the Gondorians' visit to Mordor was EVER going to end, it seemed prudent to begin searching for his lost daughter immediately, a free day having presented itself.

According a note delivered quietly to his room late the night before, Maika had been busy with some research, and possibly had a lead or two. Hyarmenwë didn't dwell on what strange manners or devices the research may have entailed, and simply made ready to meet her at their predetermined meeting place: the laundry room.

Asking directions from one of the Orkish staff (a fact Hyarmenwë was reluctantly becoming accustomed to. If nothing else, the Orks were more canonical than most of humans in Mordor), Hyarmenwë found his way to a strange room full of washing machines, driers, ironing boards, and extra-strength bleach. Maika was apparently not so eager to escape the council chambers as he had been (well, he considered, he had pretty much left as soon as it was clear that they weren't going to be negotiating. A bit rude, perhaps- but nothing more than Angawen, Bearugard, and especially Dracomir deserved. As for the Mordorians, he doubted if they noted the difference, other than Maika).

However, it was quite clear that Hyarmenwë was not alone in the room. A tall, almost inhumanly handsome, man stood next to one of the washing machines, unloading a sack of blood- sweat- and dirt-stained cloaks and travelling clothes into it's basin. Hyarmenwë thought that the man might be Elvish, as he was cleanshaven- not to mention the whole handsome bit already noted.

The maybe-Elf had long, flowing black hair, brilliant blue eyes with a steely glint, and well-tanned, well-muscled neck and arms. He appeared like a tightened bowstring, ready to spring into action as soon as needed. Even in a task so mundane as loading a washing machine, the Maybe-Elf looked fluid, and graceful as a cat. The long, silver-hilted sword at his side looked not so much an encumberment as an ornament- and a tool ready to be used.

Even as Hyarmenwë digested the syrupy awesomeness of the stranger, he sensed the older man's presence, and fluidly turned around.

"Hail and well met!" he said, bowing ever so gracefully. "I am Elrogorn, son of Elrohir, and Chief of the Rangers of Mordor."

Hyarmenwë's jaw dropped. He found himself unable to summon even a modicum of his normal dignity.

"By the White Tree..." he breathed. "What level of anakronism are you?

[Boromir88]

This is just what I need Bearugard thought to himself. I just get better from being bed ridden and now I have a whole day off of doing absolutely nothing. It's not like I've been doing anything important anyway. I just sit locked up with Angaewen all day long. I mean no disrespect to her, I mean Angaewen is a fine lady, but for pete's sake I just have to do something.

That's when Bearugard began contemplating what Malfoidacil came in and said last night. And he began bitterly muttering to himself, "I was chosen to come to Mordor too. I was picked. Without me, none of these other diplomats would have gotten anywhere. Sure I've been under the weather and inactive, but it's just this God forsaken place and all it's anakronisms. Hyarmenwe goes on and on about us having to stick together and all we got in this place is eachother, then he goes off with unknown Mordorian dirt. Hmmph, forget about Hyarmenwe."

And suddenly Bearugards tone changed, "But you made a promise, didn't you? Eh, a promise. A promise to one of the most respected diplomats in all of Gondor. If anyone knows what he's doing it's him. Don't worry, Hyarmenwe will look after us, I know he will."

"Is everything allright?" as Angaewen looked at him with a troubled face.

Bearugard rubbed his eyes, and regathered himself, "Yes, I'm fine. I don't think I'm fully recovered from that food poisoning yet. I'll be fine!"

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron and Panakeia had had a week to remember. They had been to every spot in Lûndûn worthy of visiting, and some not so worthy. They had of course taken in Wednester Shabby (in honor of Wednesdays, apparently), Why Chopple (to which every tourist cracked, predictably, 'why not'? - - leaving Anakron and Panakeia with the unenviable ailment of rolling eye syndrome), Traffic Grrr Square (which seemed decidedly aptly named), Sent Pall's Catty Droll (there were a lot of Catty Drolls sprinkled throughout Nurnia, and Anakron had never bothered to wonder why. He did so now, aloud).

"What are these Catty Drolls and what makes them so fascinating to the average tourist?"

"Maybe it has something to do with the Siamese Cat on top of that old staff you used to carry."

"Don't remind me."

Last but not least, they visited the Tar of Lûndûn with its Gollum's Gate and Orc torture devices (torturing orcs was apparently an art form unto itself). They saw the Spleen's Crown Jools, and were in abject wonderment that the Spleen's family of Windsurf could have got off so well. They were told by the dowty Beefeaters that the family did not really windsurf at all, having come by the name because of the Cat's Howl where they lived.

Cat's Howl? Anakron wondered, but gave up trying to understand these blasted anakronisms. None of it mattered with Panakeia on his arm.

[Anguirel]

The moment the "day off" was declared, the diplomats began to disperse, some looking rather thankful for the opportunity of escaping each other's company presented so early. But the Lord Dracomir Malfoidacil was not such a one. He stayed at his seat, watching the unravelling of the party through his chilly eyes, which at last settled on none other than Skittles, Warlordess of Mordor.

"Hello again," he remarked, in almost friendly tones, as he rose from his chair in a languid motion. "Sleep well?"

"A Warlordess should be sleepless," Skittles answered loftily.

"Well, that can't have been very difficult last night. You're King Roggie's Warlordess. Surely you know something of what went on?"

"I could kill you," she said, "but then I'd have to tell you."

"I see," Dracomir murmured. "It would have been a real scandal, after all, if the King of Mordor hadn't told his Warlordess what the cause of the mysterious howling and screaming one dark night was. Particularly if, say, some Gondorian ambassador then marched off and discovered the secret before she did. If she really didn't know what had happened, she'd evidently have to go with him to make sure he didn't sabotage state confidences. But obviously you know already, so the situation doesn't arise. Now I'm off to do some detective work. See you later."

Tom produced his finest trademark thin smile, and started off down one corridor. Some minutes passed before a knife flew through the air and sliced a few of his hairs off above the ear.

"Obviously," a satisfied voice reeled off, "it would be a real scandal if some ignorant know-it-all Gondorian ambassador were allowed to go wandering round a castle interfering with things, when he could be under the close custody of the Warlordess and Oak Tree Paramount of Mordor!"

Dracomir turned and was not that surprised at what he saw. Skittles was coming, she was shadowed by her cat, and she was wearing leather...

[Formendacil]

"By the White Tree..." he breathed. "What level of anakronism are you?"

Elrogorn frowned slightly, and although he was clearly disappointed, it was with an air of resignation and curiosity, and no ill-will borne at all.

"Then you guess something of me?" he asked Hyarmenwë.

"If by 'son of Elrohir', you mean son of THE Elrohir..." said Hyarmenwë, "then I am rather confused as to why you are here in Mordor."

"Ah," said Elrogorn, catching on, "but I am a bit more than just the renowned son of Elrohir."

"Don't you mean the son of the renowned Elrohir?" interjected Hyarmenwë.

"No, no, I am quite renowned myself," replied Elrogorn, but with such a matter-of-factness that it was clear he was not boasting. "At least, I am in Mordor. In Gondor all memory of me has likely been erased. And for good reason! For I was not Assigned to Mordor out of political expediency, as was Mardil II, but out of genuine anakronistic tendencies."

Hyarmenwë must have looked completely baffled, because Elrogorn continued.

"You see, my mother was a half-Elf of Arnor. Her mother was the niece of Glorfindel, and her father was Halbarad of the Rangers' uncle. She was a great warrior princess- the tenth walker of the Fellowship of the Ring- I'm sure you've heard of her. She and my father fell in love when she helped their mutual friend and relative Aragorn through the Paths of the Dead. I was born ten years after the War of the Ring, and was fostered, after my formative years, by Legolas in Ithilien."

Hyarmenwë's mouth was hanging open, with the rest of him completely unaware of the fact. Was Elrogorn mad, he wondered? Surely, such an absurd tale could never have occured! A tenth walker...

But Elrogorn was continuing.

"When Mordor began to receive Assignees... well, my mother and I were among the very first batch Assigned. Perhaps it was deserved. Scholarly research does seem to indicate that we were somewhat uncanonical. And my father, having departed to Valinor in a most peculiar and romantically touching manner- a sundering of all the ages! Well, anyway, my mother was in a 'whatever comes will come' sort of mood, and so didn't use her lethal martial arts skills to prevent her Assignment. I went along as a dutiful son."

Hyarmenwë's only thought was that someone as crazy as this DESERVED to be in Mordor.

"Alas! Among those others in that original Assignment to Mordor was a dreaded pack of Wereducks. The foul fiends are like nothing you Now-Free-From-Wereduck Gondorians can imagine! Vicious enemies and brutal creatures! They'll stop at nothing. Their only goals are death, destruction, and the occasional playing of the Stockmarket.

"To make a long story somewhat less long, they decided on making a light snack of my mother. Though she took down fifteen of their number in her final battle, she succumbed in the end to their attacks, and I arrived only in time to drive them from her mutilated body, and give her proper burial. I have since sworn to kill every Wereduck that I may, and to ensure that none other dies as my mother did. In pursuit of this, I have become, in addition to the greatest warrior of the age, a hardened ranger, capable of reading all tracks, of surviving in all conditions, and have developed the meanest Poker Face you'll ever see."

Hyarmenwë didn't have a clue how to respond to anything the "Half-Elf" was saying. So he changed topics.

"And... erm... what are you doing in here?" he asked, gesturing at the washing machines and the like.

"Well, being a Ranger and Wereduck hunter is dirty work," said Elrogorn, matter of factly. "So I'm here to wash my things. Duck blood gets in everywhere. WAIT!" Elrogorn dashed to beside the door, and swiftly drew his sword. "I hear something!"

The door opened. Elrogorn whirled around to see...

Maika.

Deftly as if he hadn't been about to cut her head off, Elrogorn sheathed his sword, and held the door steady. Maika gave him a weird look- entirely justified, in Hyarmenwë's opinion- and proceeded to ignore him.

"Sorry I'm late," she said. "Unlike you, I tried not to be rude when I left."

[Diamond18]

SAVE

Something to do with Ang's post, I would imagine.

[Celuien]

In which the grand tour of Lûndûn is continued.