ATM II RPG

[Formendacil]

"How far is it to the tavern?" Hyarmenwë asked Maika. "I'm afraid I don't know Mordor too well."

"About half an hour, as the Nazgûl flew," said Elrogorn, "more like two hours as a vulture flies, and probably about three or four for these old nags."

"I think he was asking me," said Maika, a bit stiffly.

"Why, so he may have been," said Elrogorn, "but as official Ranger of this company, it falls within my expertise."

"So we're a company now?" Maika looked faintly amused.

"Well, we're getting there," said Elrogorn. "We still need a flatulant Dwarf, a wisecracking Halfing, and an anti-hero. We've already got the noble, dashing hero (that's me), the fair maiden, and the wise old sage."

"Don't you think that's a little... passé?" asked Maika.

"This is Mordor," shrugged Elrogorn. "Passé is the fashion. Well, one of the fashions."

"Surely there aren't halflings here in Mordor," said Hyarmenwë.

"Sure there are!" said Elrogorn. "For some reason, the culture that all these anakronisms come from is fascinated by Hobbits. There's a whole "Little Hobbiton" section in downtown Lûndûn. Some great ethnic food there. Ever been to that decadent little mushroom shop on Bingo Bolger-Bracegirdle-Boffin-Baggins Boulevard, Lady Maika?"

Maika had, and she and Elrogorn reminisced briefly about the delights of the shop, which Hyarmenwë resolutely attempted to ignore. A couple hours later, as the midday sun was rising to its highest point in the sky, they returned to a familiar point in Gorgoroth, the Gondmordorian tavern in sight.

"Ah, the good old culture-in-exile," said Elrogorn nostalgically. Abruptly, Elrogorn slipped from nostalgia to a stiff battle stance.

"Wereducks!" he cried, somersaulting backwards off his horse, ending up standing right side-up, facing the opposite direction, in what must have been an anatomically impossible manuveur, sword already flying to his hand.

"Enter the building and do what you must!" he cried at Maika and Hyarmenwë, who had already begun leaving him. "I shall fight these foul beasts!"

As Hyarmenwë was dismounting and tethering his nag, he happened to glance behind him. Quickly, he averted his eyes and dashed into the inn. For he had seen the immense, orange-billed visage of a towering rubber-duckie waddling into sight.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron left Caer Pairadocks and hied him back to Mount Zoom. From a regal distance (which amounts to the distance between one end from the other of Bugging Ham Ballast) he espied none other than a Dwarf, a Minotaur, and a Barrow Wight ascending the mountain by means of the great road of the former Dark Lord.

He walked across a number of historically ascendant (whatever that means) city blocks of Lûndûn, passing through a Slottish Bank district, a Twee Eight Oor district where moving pictures showed the misadventures of various Not Ready for the Big Screen Players flatulated, vibratedly exhaled, Bronx cheered, and behaved generally badly in an effort to score laughs at the expense of good humor. Anakron quickly passed on, pleased with the Theatrical ExtremISM anakronistically imposed thereon.

He was climbing the mountain, wondering what in Mordor a Dward, Minotaur, and Barrow Wight had to do with the seemingly not-pressing pseudo-negotiations between Gondorian and Mordorian ambassadors.

He approached the threesome, and a passing orc. Anakron absent mindedly konveyed a bit of anakronism on the orc, who immediately donned thick black glasses, began murmuring "heck is other people", and otherwise behaved as an exitentialIST playwrite.

The threesome were commenting on Were-ducks and werewolves.

"What's this," Anakron interrupted, "about lycanthropy?"

[Celuien]

It is written in the annals of Mordor that a group of odd folk was conveyed to the Fourth Age of Middle-earth through the devices of the Anakronism Dweomer. The name given to the strangers (from a stranger land known only as the 60s) was the hippies. The word hippie was a source of puzzlement to those who met them, as they had no particular vastness of hip. Be that as it may, little ill was spoken of them, or inscribed upon the hard drives and data backup systems of the Mordorian networks, and in time, it came to pass that they were accepted, for their knowledge of herb lore was great, and their calls for peace and love, while seeming out of place in the former Land of Shadow, could not be easily protested.

They settled in a valley to the north of Lûndûn, and their happiness was great, for they had much time to plant flowers, and herbs of multitudinous type, and to sing to the accompaniment of guitars and drums. All was well for them, and as the years went on, their long hair began to turn grey, and their hips grew outwards until they did in truth merit their name of hippie. Then too, their middles grew broad and flabby and sagged over their hips, and it was said that their time had ended and they were hippy no more, for their midriffs surpassed their hips. Thus they came to be called the Were-hippies.

Alas for that ill-fated jest! For as it was spoken, both puns and lycanthropy were assigned to Mordor, and through that cruel dual agency, the hippie's happiness was, if not ended, at least diminished. Those who decide such things thought that with the removal of punctuation, the Were-hippies should be Werehippies, doomed to a life of transformation along with other werecreatures. By day, they yet retained their human shape, but in the night, they took on the shape of the dreaded Werehippopotamus, shortened for convenience to Werehippie.

But even as Werehippies, their love of peace could not wholly be undone, and while other creatures wrought great destruction, their attention was turned only to plants of various shape, which they consumed with great hunger until morning, when they again took up their headbands and beads and sang in their gardens. They regretted their fate as much as might be expected, though they had to admit that shapeshifting was rather groovy.

It was said that there would be one who would deliver them from their fate, though it was not known where or how this one should appear. They would know only at the moment of their rescuer's appearance, which would be in the most unexpected fashion. This deliverer was awaited with great expectation, though many despaired of ever being cured of their calamity.

~*~

Panakeia's taxi rolled past miles of countryside until a calm green valley caught her attention. Cottages could be seen in its depths, smoke curling out of their chimneys, and flowers bloomed everywhere. The scene was so un-Mordorian that Panakeia blinked. Could it be real? She resolved to find out.

"Stop here."

The driver hurried helped Panakeia with her baggage and, hardly stopping to collect the fare, fled the scene. As she descended into the valley, Panakeia wondered what could have caused the driver such a fright.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The air was heavy in the Mountain, despite the sounds of mirth mixed with frustration coming from the few remaining casino rooms. Smilog and the others wandered along the corridors seeking any way to bring them back to the conference room. Most of the signposts and maps with "You are Here" written on had been broken or destroyed in the moving of the Mountain. The Dwarf stroked his long beard and hummed with frustration.

"I begin to loathe this mountain," he muttered, "It was once good and a homely place, especially after the Dwarves had carved out the lower halls, but since Roggie turned it to his own uses it has lost its charm."

"Did the dwarves build the labyrintttthhh?" asked Tollin, suddenly getting flashes of his old self, but slapping his own face in order to get rid of it.

"That?" mused Smilog, "No. No I don't think so. It looked Mordorian to me. Orcs, most likely. You remember how easily those walls fell down. If it was Dwarf make, it would take a thousand men a thousand years to crack the walls." He grinned and almost laughed at the thought until, all of a sudden; he was tripped over by a small man with a scowling face.

The man was short, only a little taller than Smilog, with no beard or, indeed, any hair at all, it seemed. He was dressed in a long black robe with red lining and he carried a great halberd in one had while the other gripped a scroll tight. "You!" he cried, "murderer! Wretched Dwarf! I've been searching for you!"

Smilog sat up and shook his head; he examined the man carefully and said, "Do I know you?" The fury that covered the face of the man made even Tollin step back while The Barrow Wight leaped to the floor and covered his face.

"You wretched fool!" the man shouted, "you killed my son! Ten Months ago! When Roggie had you looking after his Orc and Haradrim re-education establishment!"

"I-" stuttered Smilog, "I don't remember any of that. I have no idea of what you're talk- WAIT! It's all coming back to be now!"
...

____

Ten Months earlier...

A rather frustrated and slightly grimmer Smilog sat at a desk in a small office filled with bookshelves and paintings of Roggie that he had tried to tear down but had been unsuccessful. A man with a tremendous locks of hair down to his ankles stepped into the room. He was dressed in the manner of the Haradrim and had a great hat of many colours upon his head. "You wanted to see me?" he said.

"Ah, yes..." grumbled Smilog, "Mr... erm... Palthwait?" The man nodded, "well, I'm afraid it's your son. He's been in a spot of trouble recently."

"Oh dear," sighed Palthwait, sitting down, "if he's in bother, I'd like to nip it in the bud right away." Smilog grunted and put his newspaper down.

"Well, Mr. Palthwait," said Smilog, lighting a pipe, "he's always in trouble. He never joins in the sports and activities. He never enters into the spirit of the establishment and it's been weeks since anyone has seen any work from him." Mr Palthwait shook his head and sighed, "Quite frankly, Mr. Palthwait, if he wasn't dead, I'd have him expelled." Palthwait nodded and then thought for a moment, before the words sunk in.

"I beg your pardon!" He exclaimed.

"Yes," grunted the Dwarf, "Expelled!" He blew a smoke ring over the man's head, "He's lying in the houses of healing now, stiff as a bone. And this is very much typical of his current behaviour. One minuet he flying around like a paper kite, the next he's immovable and starting to smell."

Blinded by rage and confusion, Palthwait stood up and slammed his fist on the table, shouting, "What happened? How did he die?"

Smilog raised an eyebrow, "Is that important?" he asked, Palthwait nodded, "well," he continued, "he was caught eating in the corridor. I administered a beating, during which he died. Now, the reason we have a no eating policy is quite simple. It's taken us ages to get rid of the rats in Mordor and we don't want litter attracting them back. So each student carries a card with which-"

"You beat my son to death?" cried Palthwait, now consumed with fury.

"Yes." said Smilog flatly, "I must say, I find your morbid obsession with your son's death quite disturbing. But anyway," Smilog stood up, "my work here is done. Today is my last day and I'm going off to another project this afternoon." he left the room and walked down the corridor running through, in his head, the list of things he needed to do that evening.

"I’ll get you for this, Dwarf!" cried the man, "You'll pay! £4.50! And more!"

_____

Back in the 'present' day or whatever...

Palthwait stared at Smilog with a confused look, "How did you remember something I said if you weren't even there?" he asked. The Dwarf did not reply, instead he made use of this distraction to run with all his might down the corridor, swiftly followed by Tollin and The Barrow Wight.

"You killed his son?" asked Tollin, "was that necessary?"

"I don't know!" cried the Dwarf as he flew down a flight of stairs they had just found, "It was a long time ago."

[Anguirel]

"...Those Who Must Not Be Named." Bellatrix had intoned in a voice of awe. Her pseudo-nephew raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"What? You mean...the Ithryn Luin?"

Bellatrix's handsome, hooded eyes flashed. "Silence, child!"

"The Jadis routine doesn't work on me, Auntie," Dracomir pointed out. "Now what were we talking about?"

"Boy..." Bellatrix whispered in a feminine sort of growl, her wand bared.

"Morinehtar..." Dracomir suggested,

"Crucio! Blasted worm, only Mudbloods duck! Face me like a Malfoy!"

"...and Romestamo..."

"Their names must not be uttered!"

"What, you mean Alatar and Pallando?"

Tom let out this barb before sidestepping to the left. Slightly to the right of where he had stood, the corridor, struck by a red bolt from Bellatrix's wand, imploded.

"What are you doing, Draco? Anyone could hear you! Or, more to the point, this being a secondary reality and all, read you! Stop blurting out secrets!"

"I'm quitting while I'm ahead," Dracomir replied. "Say Sayonara to your Blue friends from me. I'm well out of their racket. Oh and...Tarantallegra."

The Lord Malfoidacil's hex struck Bellatrix on her pale brow. Helpless in the magic's temporary power, she began to tango with an imaginary dance partner. Tom blew her a kiss and ran for it. She wouldn't break free for a while, but when she did he had no wish to face her...or the wrath of the paymasters he had just turned his back on.

[Lhunardawen]

The pale yet flushed face of the young lady fronting Maika did not seem very happy as she attempted to tame her tangled locks with her left hand, just as Maika did with her right. It was a painful business; Maika could feel some hair strands being pulled from their roots, unable to withstand the force exerted in her annoyance. Out of nowhere Hyarmenwë's voice drifted into her mind...

If I am to reintegrate you into Gondor, you must try to live without anakronisms, Lady Maika. As few as possible, preferably none.

She could not resist a scornful chuckle. Yeah, right. And this was what she got for following that advice, not to mention losing her palm pilot, and her cellphone, too. The last accidentally fell from her pocket when she went about arranging for the horses. Messy hair, no communication, no technology whatsoever. Was that the price she had to pay for wanting to be back where she thought she belonged?

The creaking of the door's hinge checked the angry tear on the verge of falling from Maika's eye. It was Fíriel. The ambassador whispered a greeting, which the woman cheerfully returned.

"I'm sure, my lady," Fíriel said as she stood beside Maika, staring at her own reflection, "that you were surprised to hear that I knew you were Gondorian."

She was, as a matter of fact, but she was not to betray just how much, and so just nodded. Evidently Fíriel took her silence as a hint to continue, which was exactly what Maika wanted her to do.

"It takes one to know one, my lady."

"Hyarmenwë did not think of it."

"He lacks one thing that I have: a woman's instinct. It is rarely, if ever, wrong."

Maika stopped just as she was about to pull more of her own hair to look eyebrows knit at Fíriel's reflection. The said reflection looked softly, with an almost motherly expression, back at her.

"And I want to tell you that you have it, too. Heed it, act on it, my lady, before it's too late."

With that cryptic message and a smile she left Maika to her confused thoughts.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron had waited long enough. He threw up his hands, inadvertently knocking Hissyfit off his staff (which she had been climbing trying to get at Sylvester). Hissyfit .... hissed. And landed on all fours. And hissed again.

"Ack!" said Anakron eloquently. "She's dreaming up werewolf games in her head." He waved a dismissive hand at the catatonic (hee hee haa haa!) Skittles and stalked off in search of other prey.

Prey.

He stopped and turned around. "Just for ignoring me or going meowy in the head, whichever it is, and I do not rule out duck-lycanthropy as a water-tight (certainly not airtight as their feathers let it in) possibility, KONVAY!"

From all around the wind began to hiss and fulminate in what sounded not at all vaguely like "Isssssmmmmmm!" Skittles was apparently the vortex of something nasty that was about to happen. What would it be? Elempi scratched his brains. Which was somewhat painful as he had to cut open the cranium lid and lift gently. Ewww. Mold. How did that get in there. (chuck) Ahem! What was it that had vortexified Skittles? Hmism. Hmmism. Hmmhmmhmmmmmmmm-ismmmmm! Could it be something from the vast leaf-mold of sources Tolkien used to create his consciously-cathartic-in-the-revision, massive tome that certain folk seemed to wish to devour at least annually (what in Mordor was wrong with them?)?

"Stop it," Skittles said. "You are getting quite out of hand. Most inappropriate. You have strayed way too far from anything dimly Tolkienian. And source-hunting no less! Tolkien must be rotating in his grave. You really must stop that."

"Oh no!" Anakron screamed. "What have I done!" He clutched his head in horror, having created perhaps the most egregious monster Mordor could possibly contain, the worst Anakronism the Dweomer could possibly produce. "Tolkien FanaticISM! Auuuuugghh!" Anakron fled in anguish.

"What?" Skittles said. "What's the problem?"

Hissyfit hissed.

Sylvester lisped.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

On their way up the road to the as-yet-unspecified-wink-wink-location, Aimé thought he detected a change in Alli's mood. She seemed quieter and more lost than usual. Maybe he was wrong but no matter — he was going to press her on it even at the risk of making her less happy with him.

"You know Alli, we're probably all going to die at some stage. Think about the chances of me dying in the next minute. They're far greater than you want to admit. To the force in the world I am like a bit of parchment."

Two seconds later, and this really happened, not at all just to illustrate the point, two kids started bombarding him with quite large, white pebble-like objects which, had he thought about it, would have reminded him an awful lot of mint imperials. One caught him right on the knee just as he was putting that foot down, causing his leg to twist and the rest of his body to crumple in a heap on the ground. Climbing back up, with an exasperated grimace on his face, he showed her the pebble (maybe it was some sort of reptile egg) and said: "Look at the size of that! At any given moment you can be seriously damaged by a sort of......I don't even know what this thing is but think about what a person could do to you. Or a gorilla."

With laser precision, Aimé hurled the object back whence it came, hitting one of the kids right on the head, knocking him to the ground. In all probability his death-blow.

Showing remarkable concern, Alli retorted: "You exaggerate things; and you also have no sense of scale..." Then she continued walking.

Following her, Aimé said: "The point is that we're all going to be murdered one way or the other. Why don't we just laugh about it?"

"Because it's a lot easier to laugh when the wolves are content to leave you alone." Alli glared at her more fortunate companion.

There followed a long silence, until Aimé said: "Maybe it's easier because I know my life is forfeit. Protecting you is the only thing that matters now, and in a funny way that gives me greater freedom than I've ever had in Mordor. I don't have another care in the world."

Alli stared at him, the slightest suggestion of a smile and the merest hint of a tear forming.

Aimé smiled back. "Let's get some liqueor. We need an exagerrated sense of self-importance for what we're involved in." Being Mordor, they found a vendor within one minute.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Humphrey the troll sat on a large boulder chewing an old shoe for no particular reason that he could think of. He was just about to get up and do something constructive, 'probably build a house for those ducks' he thought glancing over at a pond full of dead ducks. He breathed deep the mouldy and polluted air and coughed from the very depths of his heart. All of a sudden, a small bundle of clothes, flesh, bone and beard fell from the sky and landed on Humphrey's head.

Smilog's head swam, and, he soon realised, the rest of his body would probably benefit from the same action. The swamp water with its deceased birds floating everywhere, smelt like small room full of fat sweaty men and rotten haddock with no air conditioning. The dwarf gave a panicked cry as soon as his head popped over the surface of the swamp. Humphrey sat on the bank with his head in his hands, sulking.

"Now they're throwing dwarves at me," he muttered, "I don't like this place. First a mountain runs over my house, then a flaming bird lands in my hair," he scratched his burnt head*, "and now this! Makes you sick!" Smilog dragged himself out of the water, coughing and spluttering in an attempt to get his breath back. The troll looked at him vaguely but seemed to interested in his own affairs.

Smilog cautiously approached and said, "Excuse me?"

"What d' you want?" grunted Humphrey, "can't you see I'm busy?"

"Not really, no." admitted the Dwarf, taking a beak out of his beard, "I'm just wondering if you can tell me how to get to the Mountain." he pointed away towards Mount Zoom, its smouldering top belching forth more black smog than a thousand steam trains.

Humphrey sighed and stood up. "I suppose so." he groaned and then took hold of Smilog by the waste and began carrying him at an inhuman speed. Understandable, seeing as he was a troll, not a human.

"Let me go!" cried Smilog in terror, "Oh good grief!"

***

Andvarri led the Barrow Wight and Tollin through several passages in Mount Zoom, insisting that he knew exactly where he was going. Yet The Barrow Wight was not so sure, "We've been here five times in the last half an hour," he said as they passed Roggie's office. Tollin nodded in agreement.

The Barrow Wight pushed the door open curiously, saying, "I wonder if he has any drink left..." slowly he peered in and saw that it was temporarily empty. Grinning and letting some rotten face skin fall down to the floor, The Barrow Wight wandered in, clicking his heels with glee. With a smile that would curdle good mik, he set about relieving Roggie of as much wine as he could. "Blast it," he said at length, "I need a bottle opener."

"Will you hurry up-sss!" cried Tollin, "We're near thhe labyrintttthhhh! You knowsss what thatss doesss to me-sss!" The Barrow Wight waved him off and search on Roggies desk for anything that could help. A paper weight in the shape of a rhino head seemed like the idea ting. Placing the horn in the cork, he pulled it loose and began to drink heartily, although some of it seeped through his stomach and fell to the ground.

Staggering out, The Barrow Wight hiccupped and patted Tollin on the back and waved the paper weight in the air, saying, "I love you, rhino!" He then hit it deep in his robes and began to follow Andvarri down the corridor.


*It is a common misconception among many people that Trolls cannot grow hair. They can, but under Sauron they were not encouraged to as it weighed them down and he needed them to march quickly.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Not that he hated the Troll or anything like that. Nor did Smilog really have any particular hating of swampland. But having his head dragged through the latter by the former was not an experience he did not enjoy very much. The troll's thick arms gripped Smilog’s legs with the strength of a thousand snakes and two oxes. "Put me down!" he begged whenever his head was lifted up for long enough for him to do more than breathe.

The troll skipped and hopped through the marshes towards Mount Zoom with such speed that Smilog assumed that the rushing winds were blocking out his cries. The troll sung an odd song to himself, the words to which Smilog could not catch, nor did he really want to.

Miserable and weary, Smilog was set down on the side of the mountain after about an hour of travel. The Troll belched loudly and then patted him on the head, saying, "Now, off you go. If anything else happens today, then I shall hold you to account."

"I'll keep that in mind," said the Dwarf.

All of a sudden, the mountain roared and the top burst into flames with such violence that all the creatures for miles around drew their gaze towards it. A great lump of rock flew straight out of the crater and soared through the air. Smilog looked down at the Troll, about whom, a large shadow was appearing and getting larger. With a roll of the eyes, the troll said, "What are you looking a-" before the boulder fell upon him. Squashing him to jelly.

"Ah," remarked Smilog, "I wonder if he's okay." but then an even more important thought entered his mind, "What if there are more boulders?" swiftly, he gathered himself up and trotted up the mountain towards Sauron's road as fast as he could.

***

"All I shaying isss-" spluttered the Barrow Wight, "Thiss wrawl wassn't ere last year!"

"You weren't here last year." pointed out Tollin, his morning star dragging along the now ruined carpet. The Barrow Wight made vague waves and slurred more than Tollin ever did while in the Labyrinths. Andvarri's eyes darted all around the place, looking for some kind of clue.

"Come along you two," he demanded, "we need to find something that will-" he was cut off by the rumbling of the mountain. A section of the floor fell though, right under Andvarri's feet. With a howl, the man disappeared through the floor and landed on a casino card table, which also broke. A roulette wheel flew off it's axel and struck a chandelier which fell onto bench, catapulting a cake into the face of an old, fat, Orc who ran into a wall, knocking a painting off the wall.

"How dare you!" cried an Orc in a tuxedo, "that was my best painting!"

"How dare yourself!" came a cry from the other end of the room and soon there was nothing but a mad melee of fighting Mordorians.

Tollin peered down at the mess and then hummed to himself before walking off down the corridor, followed, slowly and clumsily, by The Barrow Wight. A door to the left appeared to be very interesting, for it had 'keep out' signs in every language available. "Should we investigate?" said Tollin, looking sideways at The Barrow Wight who was singing a song about 'that old room with a broom'.

"In that old- what?" stuttered the Wight, "oh. Yes, yes. Jolly good. We'd better find out how long we'd have to wait." he coughed and shook himself, "ah, sorry about that, old bean. Now, yes. A door with a 'keep out' sign is interesting enough, but with so many, why I might say it was the most interesting thing for a while."

"Agreed." laughed Tollin, before pushing open the door. There before them was a long staircase that went down, down into the dark.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli skipped. In a billowing cloak and a lot of black, with heavy eyeliner and long black hair, the spymaster of the king, close personal friend of the monotheistic diety of the universe, and extremely drunken consort of a Hunter that may or may not have been faithful (or sober) in their time apart... skipped.

Aimè didn't skip: he was having a bit of trouble with his average walking ability. But he caught her when she tripped and she kissed him on the cheek and they sang songs about their adventure. Alli's voice, with a charming amount of slur, danced over words even as the cobblestones met her feet with alarming speed: each step seemed to come sooner than the last, resulting in a half stumble per each one or two second interval.

As we walk along (along)
We something something
And the wolves will come and eat us all!

And something talk around... something...
We'll fight them with swords!
And they won't eat us
Any
More!!!

And Aimè began to sing also, and their voices blended a bit like oil and vinegar, not clashingly, but certainly not all that well. And he sang:

We're going to the graveyard
To hide Alli from werewolves--

And she interrupted him with a hiccup and said "Aimè! Don't tell them where I'm hiding! They'll find me!"

And they disappeared for a moment into a dark alley and when they reemerged, Aimè had what may or may not have been lipstick smeared on his cheek, and Alli was giggling.

"I'll protect, you darling!" he cried, and she clung to his arm happily, with the thought that her death was imminent a mere afterthought of the situation, made rather amusing by the potency of her most recent liquid meal.

They reached the graveyard, and in all likelihood, the entirety of Mordor watched them go in through the front gate, and Alli perched on a headstone.

The weather turned mysteriously dark and creepy with a certain excellent sense of occasion. Lightening struck and Alli immediately sobered up, if not in actuality, than in thought.

"Oh dear... It is entirely possible that this will be my last night in this world."

Aimè put his arm around her and tried to draw his sword with a flourish. He dropped it. He mumbled something. In the distance, they heard a howl.

[Celuien]

Marmalade skies over Lûndûn greeted the arrival of several brightly colored buses near the famed Mars Built Arch. A close observer might have noted that the skies were gray rather than marmalade, but the Werehippies found it far more poetic to assign a different hue to the sky. For the Werehippies were the arrivals heralded by the buses adding to the usual queues of vehicles near the Arch, and since it was their arrival, they reserved the right to name the atmosphere as they chose.

They poured out of the buses to the sound of excited conversation. A protest! They hadn't known such a thing to have taken place in years. Or at least in one year, since the battle between A Slan and Anakron had taken place. A new protest was long overdue, though the slogans hadn't changed. Indeed, since Anakron was again (in part) the subject of the current protest, many of the same signs appeared again. But new signs had been added, mostly at Panakeia's urging, to cry out against the Blue Istari.

And what of Panakeia? She appeared near the head of the group with an oddly determined face. RadicalISM agreed with her, surprisingly enough. Indeed, whether she was aware of the full import of the fact or not, she seemed to have joined the Werehippies...in every way.

They came to Speakeasy Corner and Panakeia climbed up on a soapbox.

"What do we want?" she cried.

"No Istari!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!"

The chant grew louder. Werehippies at the edges of the group handed out flowers. Many joined the crowd, shouting with the Werehippies gleefully. Panakeia grinned smugly. This demonstration was sure to draw some attention. She hoped it would be soon. The bushes in the park were somehow making her hungry.