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Old 05-11-2006, 02:55 PM   #1
piosenniel
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The Eye ATM II RPG

-- Assigned to Mordor II --


“You’ll never prove anything.” He spat in her face, his thin, pale lips parting to reveal yellowed teeth. His sour breath made her stomach turn, but outwardly she was serene, her bright grey eyes unusually cold and calculating. Wiping the saliva from her cheek, she patted him condescendingly on the head with her wet hand.

“You’ve forgotten where we are. I don't need to prove anything to anybody. This is Mordor. Habeas corpus doesn’t apply.” Alli Umfuil, escaped prisoner of Mordor and newly instated spymaster of the king looked down at her desk and the heaps of paper thereupon as the sounds of desperate screams echoed down the dark and foreboding hall through which the unlucky prisoner was now being dragged. She was not about to explain to the man that, as spymaster of the king and confidante of Illamatar, she had access to the sort of information that he’d never in his wildest dreams imagine. With one night’s unsettled sleep, she’d spotted the felon even as he lurked in the shadows of his favorite haunt. The king was unhappy with the rate of unsolved murders in the back allies behind his palace… bad for the tourist industry, as it were. Alli had found the killer and sent her own team of guards to capture him before he could strike again. She knew that criminals must be watched, preferably stopped, but she’d inspected the dungeons of Mount Doom Palace and Casino and found herself pitying those trapped therein.

She poured a basin of water, scrubbing the remnants of spit from her pale hand. She kept her stomach muscles tight, willing herself not to gag as she splashed cold water upon her face as well. Patting her pearly skin dry, she answered the light knock on the extremely large set of double doors into her office. The torchlight cut through the darkness to illuminate shackles on the walls… the former spymaster had had a flair for the dramatic before his yet unsolved death.

“Yeah!” she called by way of invitation. The doors opened and the king entered, his peg-leg clicking on the flagstones. He ducked through the doors, standing fully once inside, the cathedral ceiling accommodating his bulk.

“Roggie,” she greeted with a tired smile and a bow. “What can I do for you?”

“I see you’ve captured the killer.” She nodded, sitting down behind her desk and absent-mindedly sorting papers that her secretary had forwarded to her into ‘look at immediately,’ ‘consider taking a peek at later,’ and ‘conveniently lose in the fireplace.’

“He wasn’t much trouble… injured one of my men, but it wasn’t much… certainly not enough to send him to be checked out by incompetent nurses. I told him to stay off that leg for a few days. Sent him on vacation. I owed him a few days for the extra time he put in to help me set up my contacts. He knows a lot… I’m not sure how comfortable I am with his knowledge of my network. I mean, he only knows the contacts I chose to be my findables… If they’re caught, no biggie. They’ll be helpful in the mean time, you know?”

Roggie sat on the floor, his legs stretched before him, his body comfortably heating the otherwise cold room, his faint burning glow illuminating the chamber with soft red light. It was imprudent to have a wooden castle with a balrogic king, but Alli got cold easily with the inescapable stonework. She was always happy to have Roggie of Morgoth in her presence, both for physical warmth and the ability to share that which plagued her mind.

“I’m not over-working you, am I, Alli?” he growled concernedly. He looked menacing with his patched-eye and combustible body. Alli reached casually behind her and pushed her window open to let the early summer breeze come through; the room was getting a little smoky and her eyes were beginning to water. She glanced around the area outside her office before continuing, trusting in her privacy precautions to keep their conversation away from the ears of strangers.

“Of course not, Rogs. It’s just… well… I’ve not seen Aimè in weeks and I know that there are at least two werewolves still out there, and the wizards have been causing all kinds of trouble…”

“Actually, you’ve just named why I stopped.”

“Aww, not just to visit with your best pal?” she teased lightly.

“You know I like to visit with you but-“ he stopped, seeing her laugh. “Anyhow… I received a letter from the wizards today. The gist of it was that if I can’t get Mardil to stop being such an arrogant” Alli laughed at Roggie’s impolite phrasing of Mardil II of Gondor’s personality. “Basically, if I can’t work out some sort of something getting Mardil to agree to a few concessions, they’re going to rework the Dweomer into something, to quote them, “far more ominous than mere words can describe!!!!”. Yeah, Alli… they actually used four exclamation points. The darndest thing, really.”

“So what are you going to do?” Her papers were forgotten. She looked across her desk at her friend, their eyes nearly level with him seated on the floor.

“Nothing.” he said.

“So you’re going to let the wizards… do whatever it is they’re going to do?”

“I’m not groveling to that egotist. If it weren’t for him, I’d have both legs still. If it weren't for him, this country would be a lot easier to run and you know it. Just because he felt the need to seize control of Gondor doesn’t mean he has control of Mordor.”

“Oh, Rog, I… I meant to tell you… the King’s Law is weakening ever since Mardil seized power. Every border guard I’ve got’s been sending reports on it. Mardil actually… well… he really kind of does have control. The more power he gets, the less power the spells have to keep your borders closed and your people here.”

“I spotted that illegal emigration is at an all-time high…”

“Yeah, well… it’s Mardil’s fault. If he’d just work something out with the wizards, but he’ll never do it. You know how he is with people telling him what to do.”

Roggie sighed, laying back on the formerly cool stone floor. “Alli, how am I supposed to run this place with my people leaving and a pair of crackpot old Istari changing the rules any time we get them figured out? They’re pressuring me to treat with Mardil and quite frankly, I don’t want to.”

“I’ll do it.”

“What?” Roggie sat up, shocked. “But… even after—“

“Roggie, it’s been a year and he's married now anyhow. And I’m your top advisor. Surely I ought to be living up to my job by doing the things that you can't and telling you when to let me?

"You sure as heck can’t travel to Gondor and work out negotiations with Mardil. Even if you could just up and leave your responsibilities, the Dweomer still has you and nearly every one of your staff members trapped here. I’m better suited for the travel, I’ve got contacts in his palace as well… If you’ll lend me some ambassadors, I can get this worked out in no time flat. Just give me permission, Roggie, and I'll go to Gondor.

"I've been granted the right to freely come and go. I can ride out, convince Mardil to send some diplomats, and we'll all treat here. It will be easy enough for me to do and downright impossible for almost anybody else.”

The king stood, bowing low to his friend. His good eye looked teary, but Alli ignored it politely as good friends sometimes must.

After a short time of visiting, Roggie left, the enormous doors closing behind him with a tiny click disproportionate to their size. Alli looked at her desk again, tears now in her eyes. Why had she offered? She’d never particularly wanted to see Mardil again… now she would be forced to deal with him and knowing his mind for strategy, he'd invite his wife along for the discussions.

Yes, she loved her job… she loved to know things, and having the best job in the kingdom for somebody that likes to find things out kept her content. But negotiating a treaty with Mardil?

She pitied the ambassadors that got between them all.

Unwilling to get out of the comfortable chair it had taken her seven days of combing Roggie’s castle for, Alli called loudly for her secretary. The woman stepped from the shadows near the door, looking severe with her half-moon spectacles and neat chignon.

“Ms. Martinet,” Alli said. “You listened? Of course… I needn’t ask. I did a good day’s work when I recruited you for this job.

"The king will provide you with a list of names shortly. They are the ambassadors he'll have chosen. I’m riding out this afternoon to treat with King Mardil; no need for you to worry about anything on that end. I’ll get names and information on everybody that he picks to accompany me back and brief you on my return.

"We’ll need suites for them, of course, and private chambers for them all to work in… all of the amenities. And every second they’re in Mordor, I want to know who is doing what, when, and with whom. You know the drill. I'll want logistics taken care of while I'm gone. You'll have about a week before I'm back with Mardil's cronies and we can get this mess fixed.”

“Yes, Miss Umfuil.” Ms. Martinet finished scratching the details of her orders on a yellow legal pad and disappeared once more.

Reflecting, if she’d known it, King Theoden of Rohan (may he rest in peace) upon the brink of battle so long ago, Alli, with her head cradled in her long fingers, muttered softly to herself… “So it begins.”



--- Feanor of the Peredhil

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Old 05-13-2006, 03:22 PM   #2
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Alli sat in her office with her booted feet propped upon her desk, ignoring all demands to the contrary that her parents had spent her childhood drilling into her. With her arms crossed behind her head and her eyes gently closed, she reflected over the past week.

It had not taken long to reach Minas Anor. She traveled lightly with a small guard. She’d have preferred to ride alone, but knowing that she would be returning with important guests, she knew that she would never manage it. Also, Ms. Martinet would have sent a troop to meet her at the border and accompany her if Alli had tried to escape alone. Her secretary let nothing pass without notice.

She’d reached the seventh level of the city a little tired, but unwilling to let the world notice. Dismounting proudly at the gate, she let her horse be taken away and released her men from duty giving them a veritable holiday in Gondor’s capital with their only orders being “You know the drill.” As long as they didn’t speak of things with any connection to Mordor’s power structure, they could talk to anything with anyone.

She was shown to her room where she deposited her single bag and changed into more formal garb. A grey silk shirt was complimented by a black sleeveless tunic that laced fittedly down to her waist before flaring slightly. Full breeches of soft dark grey cloth rustled lightly as she walked and black shoes made barely more than a whisper on the floor. She pulled her ebony hair back and pinned stray locks away from her face before gathering her papers and tying them into a neat scroll.

She was led to Mardil’s audience chamber and she held in her emotions, denying herself an annoyed sniff. She’d been assigned to Mordor in the first place due to her political convictions. Yes, she had hated the policies of the former king, but she was utterly uncertain as to just how much she preferred Mardil to be in his position. She would have preferred that this meeting take place in private, yet she knew that it was a matter of state and therefore a matter to be presented before council.

Alli had been announced and groaned inwardly at the mispronunciation of her name. Al-uh-min, she thought, not Al-oo-min-ee. She suspected Mardil’s influence, but let it pass. She stepped into the coldly intimidating room, nodding to those she passed. The room was filled with grey-haired men glaring austerely at her. It was perhaps only the fact that she had pinned it up that kept Alli from flipping her straight, smooth black cascade of hair away from her pretty face as she walked. No attitude, she told herself. This is too important to mess with people.

It had taken several hours of straight persuasion, but she had done it. Convinced both Mardil and his council to treat with Roggie and his. She sat now in her office after a grueling trip home. Riding alone, she was used to silence. With four diplomats, none of whom she particularly liked, the stiff lack of conversation grated. She had wanted to sing rude songs learned in Mordorian taverns with her men to break the mood, but this was a diplomatic mission. She had to keep in form. She led the train of riders in silence, arguing with the border patrol over short-term visas, carefully threatening their lives just out of sight of the diplomats if they did not let the group pass in peace.

“Ms. Martinet!” she yelled from her desk. The door opened and her secretary slipped in. “Have the diplomats been shown to their quarters and what can you tell me about each of them?”

Ms. Martinet leaned on the door, a sardonic expression on her face as she concentrated on an imperceptible burr on her fingernail. Yep, she thought with satisfaction. Looks like it's time for another manicure. "They all know where their quarters are, Alli. I've got men following them all if they wander off. Unless you want me to just lock them in and spare us the trouble..." An eyebrow raised as she glanced at her employer for permission, and was awarded with a firm "No."

"As for what I can tell you...I'm going to assume you've read the dossiers? So you really want my impressions." She thought a moment.

"On our side, the usual mix of freaks and maniacs. Odd crew, the lot of them. Nancy MacFarlewyn the most so, of course, and Maikaelwen the least. The other two are just...odd.

"And for the Gondorians, well, my favorite is Malfoidacil. You sure he isn't one of ours? Beauregard's a spoiled twit, Tupsë is dangerous, and the old guy, Hyarmanwë, is probably the one who got us all assigned here in the first place. We'll definitely have our work cut out for us...any fun plans?"
“I wish.” Alli took her feet down and spun slightly so that she was both seated straight and facing Ms. Martinet. “But this whole thing is on the up and up. They’ll have enough trouble without me having fun. Eru above, I’ve got to try to keep them on the straight and narrow and that’s enough work without driving them off of it.

“You’re right though… Malfoidacil used to be one of ours. I worked with him. I know stories about him that would make even you shiver. He’s my special project. If you really feel the need to check in, he went by Tom Felton when he was here. Mardil knew him then too… that’s how they ended up in league. And I fully agree about Hyarmanwë.” Alli didn’t share her thoughts on him, but when she had been arguing, he’d been most vocal against her. Called her a foolish youngster and sneered aristocratically at her gender. Alli could nearly read his mind, simply by the look in his eyes: he didn’t think she should be taken at all seriously and couldn’t believe that Mardil would hold an audience over this “issue.” She’d ignored him and hoped against hope that Mardil wouldn’t choose him to accompany her back. She should have known better.

Alli smacked her hands on the table decisively, if a bit more violently than normal. Ms. Martinet waited for a further response without batting an eyelash.

“Gather the ambassadors. Put them somewhere depressing enough to make them work faster to get out sooner. Let’s get this started so we can get it finished.”

Lola Martinet rolled her eyes, taking in Alli's spare furnishings and dark decor. "Someplace depressing? You mean you want to hold the talks here?" She left the room before the irritable Alli could answer, mentally running through the list of available conference rooms in her head.

~<*>~

The delegates were easy enough to find. They had, of course, all wandered, and they'd all ended up where wanderers in this labyrinthine palace always did--the Cracks. Ms. Martinet noticed with an irritated growl that Hyarmanwë still looked chilly. The Gondorians stood on one side of the hall she found them in, staring at the Mordorians on the other. They, being Mordorians, were doing nothing of the sort. Smilog was scowling at Igor, who was shuffling his feet. Maika was looking depressed, and MacFarlewyn, startled by the appearance of so many people, had frozen stiff in the middle of the hall.

"I'm Ms. Martinet, Miss Umfuil's secretary, and I'll be leading you all to your first meeting," she announced glaring at them all over the top of her glasses. She turned abruptly and strode down the hall, remembering Skittles at the last minute. "Miss MacFarlewyn," she called over her shoulder. "If you don't practice being a tree on your own time I'll go get an axe." Rapid footsteps behind her let her know her threat was effective.

Calmly she led them on a roundabout course through the palace, trying maliciously to make sure they were thoroughly confused before leading them all into a cold room with a large stone table and a number of chairs, closing the door. "If you will all take a seat, Miss Umfuil will be with you in just a moment."

She sat primly in the one chair in the room with a seat cushion, producing a blue ballpoint pen and a notebook, seemingly from nowhere. With a malicious smile, she began humming the same line over and over to herself, drawing it almost to an end but never humming the last note.

Alli waited outside the door with an amused grin, listening to Ms. Martinet irritate the Gondorians. She knocked once, briskly, on the door before coming in, her presence cool and calculated. Hyarmanwë stood and nodded politely, stiffly, until she motioned for him to be seated. The rest of the delegates sat around waiting to hear what they’d been dragged here for.

Alli abused them with silence for a moment, waiting just long enough for it to feel oppressive. She’d ordered that the lights be just lower than usual so that the flickering torchlight would make her long black hair shimmer. She’d developed the ability to have A Presence. When she wanted to cast An Impression, she did it. Aluminè Umfuil stood before the delegates, long black hair shining in the low light, cold features stern. The inexperience that her slender figure and young age exuded was brought to question by her cold grey eyes. In seconds, the room was paying close attention; even the Mordorians that had seen her before. They usually weren’t favored with her official side.

“A rift has come between our lands. Illegal emigration is at an all time high. Our peoples seem unable to unite." Alli glared at the Gondorians trying to ignore the Mordorians. "That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say. though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered by Mardil and Roggie and perhaps even a power Higher, that you, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of our countries."

She had practiced this speech and it effectively carried the weight she wanted.

"Your first task," she continued, "is to meet and greet. Yes... an ice-breaker. While I am certain that the Gondorians are unfamiliar with this approach, those in Mordor are surely aware of it. I want, from each diplomat, two truths and a lie. Interact. Discuss. You have one day to get to know each other. After that, negotiations will truly begin, for we know that no work can be completed without bureaucratic nonsense. It is a custom that must be dealt with. Gondorians, know that the terms of your arrival and stay cover this. It will not be considered Anakronistic, but rather diplomatic, for you to take part in this custom of another country. At least in this particular matter."

She glanced around, taking in various faces, enjoying the look of horror on that of Hyarmanwë.

"Ms. Martinet will observe. I will return soon."
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Old 05-14-2006, 06:59 AM   #3
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A lie! Igör was shocked. Alli knew he couldn’t, yet still she asked him to do it. Just this once, Alli needs you to, just a little exaggeration. The voices clamoured inside his head, trying to persuade him to give in to the temptation and break the oath he made all those years ago, to always be truthful. Why was it that his past caught up with him at the most inopportune moments? Shuddering at the thought Igör shoved the traitorous voices aside, and tried to concentrate on thinking of a way around this problem.

As he did his eyes ran over the diplomats from Gondor. Well, one eye ran over them, the other rolled itself and generally misbehaved, trying to make the foreigners uncomfortable. From the looks on their faces it seemed to be succeeding. The oldest one looked particularly disgusted, but then he hadn’t looked anything but for the past half an hour so this was nothing to be particularly proud of. Igör grinned at him to try and put him at ease, but the stitching around his mouth stretched as he did so, and he remembered too late that this tended to cause fear and nausea rather than the intended effect.

Sighing quietly he went back to his musings. Two truths and a lie, two truths and a lie. No, there was just no way he could do this by the rules and still remain true to himself. Therefore, the rules would just have to be bent a little. Alli called this an ice-breaker, and all that meant was getting the diplomats to actually talk to each other. Well if this little ruse worked then they should be talking alright.

Standing up he flipped his hair back over his shoulder, gaining him puzzled glances from the two male diplomats and spoke.

“I live in Mordor.”
“I never tell lies.”
“Not one part of my body was originally mine.”

He sat down again and waited. Of course they all knew the first statement was true, and it would be hard to believe that the third wasn’t, so . . .

“Well.” Came a confident voice. “Of course the lie is that you never tell lies.”

Igör carefully smiled, making sure the result looked friendly rather than carnivorous this time, and shook his head.

“No, sir. That is a truth.”

“But if you never tell lies then how can you be playing this game?”

“Yes!” Came another voice. “That woman said one statement must be a lie, but if that one is not then – ”

She never did get to finish, as one of the Mordorian ambassadors interrupted.

That woman happens to be Alli Umfuil! You’ll speak of her with more respect if you know what’ good for you!”

“The, thing, is obviously lying. No one can live without ever telling a lie.”

“Well then how do you explain – ”

And so the argument continued. Mordorians were speaking to Gondorians. Ok so it was via argument, but whoever said they were going to get on? To be fair, in some places around the room opposite sides were arguing the same point, with Gondorians arguing against their fellow diplomats. Perhaps it wasn’t quite how Alli had intended it to go, but it was working!

Sitting back, Igör waited for Ms. Martinet to decide that she’d had enough. There was no point in him trying to stop this now, but a few sharp words from her and everyone would settle back down.
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Old 05-14-2006, 12:00 PM   #4
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Skittles squeezed her eyes shut and stuck her fingers in her eyes. Oh, the noise! Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise! That’s one thing she hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!

Not having the patience to wait for that crazy Martinet woman to do something, she took matters into her own hands, leaping up onto a table and removing her fingers from her ears only to place them in her mouth. She uttered a whistle so shrill and painful that the entire room fell into a stunned silence. Someone whimpered.

“That’s better,” said Skittles, and sat down on the table, crossing her legs underneath her.

“Thank you, Nancy,” said Martinet, wincing. “Maybe you want to go next?”

Skittles looked around expectantly. No one made a sound, and they were all staring at her, the freaks. “Well fine, if Nancy’s not going to say anything, I’ll go next,” she volunteered, finding the silence boring and the scrutiny annoying. “Knock, knock. Who’s there? Alli. Alli who? Alluminé Umnfuíl! Ha ha ha ha!” She slapped a knee and doubled over with laughter.

Only after a moment did she realize that no one else was laughing.

“Two truths and a lie, MacFarlewyn.” Martinet seemed to be speaking through gritted teeth, now. What a prune.

Skittles shrugged.

“The world is flat.
I’m a bat.
For lunch I ate a cat.”

“How perfectly dreadful,” said the old Gondorian, Heimlichmaneuver or whatever his name was.

“Ain’t it though?” Skittles replied proudly.

“You are obviously not a bat,” said a younger Gondorian man with long black hair. What was his name again...? Barrowgod. “So that must be the lie. The truths, therefore, are that the world is flat and you ate a cat for lunch.”

“Ha ha ha ha! No,” Skittles gloated. “I didn’t eat anything for lunch! Try again, Barrowgod.”

The man visibly twitched. “Bearugard. My name is Bearugard.”

“Meh. Same diff.” She looked at the other diplomats. “Well?”

“But you are not a bat,” insisted a young blonde boy with an angelically evil face. “So that’s two lies.”

“Also, I fail to see what the shape of the world has to do with yourself, and our instructions were to tell two truths and a lie about ourselves,” said Bearugard.

Skittles shrugged. “Bored now.” She hopped down from the table, then crawled underneath it. She then amused herself by pinching the ankles of those seated as they tried to continue on.

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Old 05-14-2006, 12:11 PM   #5
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Angawen Tupsë was not finding Mordor agreeable. She had thought that the name "The Black Land" was purely metaphorical, and had been surprised at the blasted landscape she found within those borders she had been so unwilling to cross. Compared to the thought of Minas Tirith glowing in pleasant summer evening sunlight, it was almost unbearable. Characteristically, her face belied none of her thoughts, remaining as stonily constant as usual.

Upon entering the forbidding Mordorian building - the Spymaster's official building, Angawen thought darkly - she had been directed straight to her quarters. Those rooms were to be her own for however long this mission would take. Lady Martinet, apparently Lady Umfuil's second in command, had shown her the sparse, dank lodgings. The rooms had not impressed, though Angawen had been impressed by the apparent high position of women in Mordor. "Perhaps," she thought, "this is not such a fell place after all." She amused herself by thinking what Hyarmenwë's response to powerful women would be.

"There is no need to keep your bodyguards here," Miss Martinet had said, indicating the two burly men posted outside Angawen's room. "You are here under diplomatic protection. No harm will come to you in this building, we have our own men for that."

Angawen had smiled coldly. "Thank you, Lady, but old habits are not easy to shake. I should feel more secure with my men here."

"This is most unorthodox," the woman had replied, but she did not seem willing to press the issue.

****

As the room erupted around her, Lady Angawen did not even flinch. She sat upright, trademarkly expressionless, in her chair. Her husband had been rather fond of riddles in his time, and she knew this trick - Igör was merely teasing. She allowed her mind to wander as the others, excluding Igör, who now looked rather worried, and Miss Martinet, watching silently from one side, explored Igör's statement.

The conversation seemed to focus on Hyarmenwë repeating that it was impossible to live without lying, the other Gondorians vaguely supporting him, and the Mordorian diplomats supporting the creature, except for one who claimed Igör lied to her often about her own arboreal nature. Angawen wondered briefly why Mardil had sent such an ostentatious fool on this mission. But of course, it was for his loyalty. He was presumably meant to keep her own intuititive side in check.

Her musings were interrupted by a high-pitched whistle from Skittles. The diplomats from both sides quietened down (though Hyarmenwë persisted in muttering to himself a little longer).

Angawen decided to ignore Skittles and the conversation surrounding her. Such a woman was a disgrace to humanity and to be in the same room as her pained Angawen. She continued sitting and musing.

As soon as the woman had finished making a complete idiot of herself (in Angawen's eyes, in any case), Miss Martinet asked for another diplomat to go next. Nobody volunteered. Her eyes stalked around the room and settled on Angawen. "Lady Tupsë, you have been silent throughout this game. Would you please state two facts and a lie?"

Angawen blinked and licked her lips, but her face otherwise remained as stony as ever, before replying, "May I enquire as to the reason why we are performing this activity? It does not appear to be productive to our diplomatic mission."

All eyes turned to Miss Martinet, who simply replied, "It is an icebreaker."

"Be that as it may, our mission here is not to make acquaintances but to discuss and solve the problem of illicit emigration from Mordor into the Kingdom of Gondor. I do not see how sharing details about our personal lives could result in such, unless, of course, the minds of Mordor work in ways too deep for me to comprehend." She pulled her mouth into a smug smile.

Her soft tirade did not, however, have the desired effect on Miss Martinet, who replied in a rather bored manner "Miss Umfuil said we were here to break ice. Get breaking, lady."

"Is this a game? We are not here to be your toys, nor for your amusement, Lady Martinet," she replied coldly. "We are here to solve-"

But she was cut off before she could continue. "I am perfectly aware as to why you are here. Now please, participate fully or we can arrange for your return to Gondor."

Angawen was incensed. Though she kept her face carefully neutral, she was aware that blood must be rushing to it, colouring her face. "Is that a threat?" she questionned almost levelly, but with a hint of aggression.

"Yes," Miss Martinet replied simply, to Angawen's utter annoyance. She was unused to dealing with other women of power, and not best pleased to be mocked and bullied by this foreigner.

"Igör did not perform the task appropriately. What is to be his punishment?" she responded with a little twitch of the mouth.

Miss Martinet rolled her eyes, sighed, looked at Igör and said something that sounded like a reprimand in English that Angawen did not understand. "In Gondor, we consider it rude to speak a foreign tongue in the company of others who do not comprehend it."

"You're in Mordor, honey. Gondor's customs don't apply here."

"Oh, is that so?" Angawen replied, now thoroughly annoyed. She was aware that she was probably visibly showing her rage now, and this further fuelled her anger. Jumping up and turning to Bearugard, she insulted the Mordorians in Quenya. "This rabble is a joke," she indicated the Mordorian ambassadors.

Before he could reply, however, Miss Martinet had replied, in perfect Quenya, "You really are a pompous idiot. You know that?"

Angawen ignored the insult in her startledness. Her anger seemed to fade all at once and was replaced by a deep shame in being baited by this woman, in being subservient to her, in discovering that she was far sharper than she at first appeared. She sat back down quietly, defeated.

"Now," Miss Martinet returned to Westron, "I shall not ask you another time. Say two truths and a lie, or I shall arrange your demission."

Angawen wasn't sure how much authority Miss Martinet held, but decided it was safer not to retort angrily. Instead, she tried once again to be clever, and replied somewhat drily, "My name is Angawen Tupsë. I live in Gondor. I have, thus far, been much impressed by the calibre of the Mordorian intellect. In particular, I believe Miss MacFarlewyn to be a fine example of intelligent feminity and sanity, and Igör to be a delightful, worthy and most witty... man."

Instead of the laughs she expected from her fellow Gondorians, her comment was met with an embarrassing silence. She felt a little remorse seeing the downcast look on Igör's face. She was on the verge of an apology when Skittles broke the silence.

"AHA! I get it! The last one is a lie because Igör isn't actually a man."

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Old 05-14-2006, 02:29 PM   #6
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White Tree

Bearugard stood there oblivious to everything going around him, for he was still fuming over not having his own private bath. Just wait until the King hears of this foolishness, he won't put up with this. You'd think if they were serious about negotiations they would treat us with a tad-bit of dignity and actually be negotiating. How proposterous, thought Bearugard.

The very next thing he hears is this Skittles saying she's a bat.

"You are obviously not a bat. You don't look like a bat, you don't speak like a bat, and you don't smell like a bat, therefor you must not be a bat." He replied. “So that must be the lie. The truths, therefore, are that the world is flat and you ate a cat for lunch.”

“Ha ha ha ha! No,” Skittles gloated. “I didn’t eat anything for lunch! Try again, Barrowgod.”

"Bearugard. My name is Bearugard." He snapped, now unable to keep his rage concealed. "How would you like it if I just went around calling you Snickers? And I think that is the first time a person dare say I was wrong!"

After some more quibbling of bats, lies, and icebreakers Skittles retreated under the table and Bearugard stood there with his arms folded across his chest in defiance.

Angawen had whispered something into his ear, but he had no idea what she had said to him. Angawen to no avail protested the "game," and she too soon gave in.

Miss Martinet asked who would go next, and to that, Bearugard unleashed his rage. "I object, this is absolutely proposterous! I fail to see how this has anything to do with our duty. And even if it did, the terms have been violated and I therefor reserve the right to not participate. I have not been convinced of a single truth out of these Mordorian scums yet! Wait, I take that back, the world is flat, but that has nothing to do with yourself. At most it should only be counted as a half-truth, and that still violates the terms. As far as I'm concerned this game is finished."

"Overruled," replied Miss Martinet. "have a seat." Bearugard quickly obeyed. "For that outburst, you shall have the honor of going next."

Bearugard grumbled to himself some more, but found it useless to refuse, "At home I have servants who clothe me, I find this to be the most proposterous game ever, and today I ate chicken. Good luck with this one." Bearugard, for the first time today smiled. He was sure no one would be able to figure out this one.

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Old 05-14-2006, 04:54 PM   #7
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"I know!" Skittles poked her head out from under the table. "It's the middle one. Because this isn't the most preposterous game ever -- Calvinball is! Am I right?"
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Old 05-14-2006, 10:20 PM   #8
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Hyarmenwë son of Hyarmendil had entered Mordor determined not to like it. Well, more accurately, he had entered Mordor knowing that he would not like it. When you are as old and experienced as the Keeper of the Keys of Minas Tirith was, some things were predictable.

As it was, Hyarmenwë would have preferred to have avoided Mordor altogether, but one must face certain unpleasantries in one's life. In Hyarmenwë's case, travelling to Mordor as a part of a rather odd group of diplomats to deal with the rejects of civilized society was one of them.

Were the truth to be told, Mordor had not disappointed Hyarmenwë in the slightest. He loathed the place, and the many anakronisms that it contained. It wasn't hard in the slightest to pretend that the horrid things didn't exist, because he found them extremely distasteful. The sooner this particular task was over, and he could retire to the safety and peace of Minas Tirith, the better. Hyarmenwë was an old man, if hale, and cared little for adventures of any kind.

So it was that he had grumbled and fussed and done his best to act the perfect Gondorian nobleman and gentleman, and now found himself somewhere in the heart of Mordor, sitting around, and participating in... something... known as an "icebreaker".

Currently, it was Bearugard's turn to tell two truths and one lie about himself. Hyarmenwë, realizing that his turn must come soon enough, was paying but little heed to his fellow Gondorian's questions, and was concentrating on what his truths and lie ought to be. One must follow the rules of the game, of course. One must follow them rigidly. Whatever Angawen might seem to think, it was the part of a true Gondorian diplomat to show by his very example precisely how a real diplomat acts.

The lie, Hyarmenwë thought to himself, in Bearugard's trio, was undoubtedly that he had chicken for lunch. Not bothering to say that aloud, he began to ponder what he should say of himself. His clues ought to be trifles, of course, for one does not give his opponents valuable information without cause. By the same token, they must be related to him personally, so as to obey the rules. They ought also, and here Hyarmenwë cast a baleful glare at Bearugard, not disparage the negotiations. As worthy of being disparaged as the Mordorians were, the negotiations were also condoned by Gondor, and disparagement thereof meant disparagement of Gondor- and of its King.

Therein lay his problem, Hyarmenwë realised. All his life he had loyally and faithfully served the House of Telcontar, the Heirs of Elessar Aragorn. And he had remained loyal to it's right and eldest line through thick and thin. Alas, but these days were the days of thin, and not of thick.

Mardil II, of the noble House of Húrin though he may have been, and a great Steward history may have been destined to remember him as, was, in Hyarmenwë's book, an usurper. Unfortunately, he was a usurper with a great deal of power and influence. And, with his marriage to the Princess Morwen, likely to someday be the rightful Lord of Gondor. A troubling situation indeed, since Hyarmenwë would then be his loyal retainer- but a loyal retainer that Mardil would probably remember best as having opposed him.

It was a mess of a situation, and was likely responsible for his being sent on this mission, Hyarmenwë thought. Mardil would likely not be saddened at all were he to slip on an anakronism and land himself a permanent assignment to Mordor. On the other hand, Mardil trusted his loyalty to Gondor- even above his loyalty to his King- to see that a good job was done. And, Hyarmenwë had to grudgingly admit, he would do as best a job as he might, and so aid Gondor as best he could.

It would be an easier task had he been given some decent companions, Hyarmenwë sniffed to himself. Bearugard, currently at the centre of the group's talking, was a self-centred spoiled child. Hyarmenwë wished it were otherwise, but so many of Gondor's younger noblemen were that way. They did not have the backbone and moral fortitude that had been the hallmarks of past generations- including his own.

The Lady Angawen was somewhat better. She was not, it was true, someone he needed to worry about being lazy. She would, at least, keep focussed on the discussions. Nevertheless, she seemed exceedingly blunt for a diplomat- and a woman at that!- and she had a history that troubled Hyarmenwë ever so slightly. Rumour had it that she had killed her husband, and the bodyguards who accompanied her did nothing to dispel the myth. She might have been harder, more focussed than Bearugard, Hyarmenwë thought, but she did not seem a true servant of the Realm.

And then there was Malfoidacil... Hyarmenwë did not know what to think of him. He seemed very nearly a Mordorian in some respects- though what those respects were Hyarmenwë couldn't quite place his finger on. At the same time, though, he seemed very much what he seemed to be: an arrogant, blue-blooded son of Gondor. Hyarmenwë had hopes that he could be moulded into a fine Man of Gondor, but in the meantime he was so... YOUNG!

Which simply hammered back to Hyarmenwë the point that he had long since decided was correct: if this mission was to succeed for the greater good of Gondor, then it was going to fall to him to see it through.

With this encouraging though, Hyarmenwë's mind snapped back to the "icebreaker" game. Possibly half a minute had passed, thought being faster than sound, and Bearugard was still the one being questioned. Everything had gone somewhat silent. Apparently one of the Mordorian diplomats (Scitls, was it?) had just made a rather out-of-place comment.
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Old 05-15-2006, 01:45 PM   #9
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The Lord Dracomir Malfoidacil, of all the Gondorian envoys, seemed the most at his ease. He knew this place and reacted to it with mild disdain, not psychological bafflement. He was here to carry out his mission to slay Dumbledore...er...get that Potter boy expelled...er, deal with this amusing diplomacy, and he intended to see it through as Malfoy...a Malfoidacil, rather...should, effortlessly and contemptuously.

The moment the ambassadorial party was within Mordor, he had begun to annoy his fellow counsellors by showing off his perfect knowledge of Modern English-as well as the Royal Dispensation he had received to speak it. He made a habit of muttering snide jokes about the other Gondorians to passing Mordorians in a faux-proletarian British Public School accent. He relished the situation to the full-the others, forbidden to consider the language of English, could not lift a finger to stop him lest terrible punishments fall upon them. So he grinned maliciously and swept a hand through his immaculate curtains of white-blond hair as he remarked:

"The old man won't last long, of course. Father always says the King should introduce a policy of euthanasia."

Or:

"Look at that ridiculous Mudblood woman with her bodyguards. Why, at home Crabbe and Goyle would waste them..."

Or:

"That Beauregard thinks he's awfully haute-classe, doesn't he? I'd like to see how he'd react to a quick Confundus Charm..."

...always capping his mot-juste with a glance at the Gondorian in question. However, he was shrewd enough to cultivate the Gondorians too, regarding a mutual loathing of the Mordorians.

"Reeerrly, I say," he said to Beauregard in fine court Sindarin, "is that woman pretending to be some kind of plant? If you ask me, she looks like a gallows."

"Lady Angawen," he'd murmured, with deep concern in his voice, "what is that frightful mish-mash over there? It looks like the leftovers from the last Regal Banquet."

Ah, this was the way the House of Malfoy worked. Sans fois, sans lois. And the Lord Dracomir enjoyed every second of it. He only wished his proud parents, the Lord Luciamir and the Lady Narcissowen could see him at work...

As for the admittedly rather intimidating Ms Martinet, the Lord Dracomir was rather impressed that such an efficient and obstacle-creating civil servant could be born out of the chaotic slum of Mordor that he knew so well. Draco Malfoy quite liked authority figures. And somewhere the repressed soul of Tom Felton developed a small crush.

***

But this aside, there was a challenge to be taken on. Two truths and a lie-a game Tom Felton remembered from his Kensington prep school, and Draco Malfoy from the larks in the Slytherin common room. But he assumed a cold, serious Gondorian exterior to the topic, listening to the other Mordorians and Gondorians, largely in dignified taciturnity, occasionally breaking in to inquisit.

It was Beauregard's turn and he had just stated his three, anodyne choices. The Lord Dracomir decided the most fun course of action would be to completely upstage him. So he coughed, quietly but prominently, and recited, as if it were a solemn poem about broken swords and halflings from some wack dream:

I am the Scion of a Pure Line.
I am the most dangerous entity here.
My hair and my skin are pale.
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Old 05-15-2006, 08:40 PM   #10
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What is wrong with me? Maika thought to herself, with a bit of panic.

She sat there quietly, once again utilizing her perfected practice of pretending to listen as her mind traveled elsewhere. But she was still listening, mind, listening without seeming to, with the rest not noticing her pretense. A hard tightrope to walk on, but Maika glides atop it with ease. But that is not the point here.

Her mind did not have too far to go this time; it just hovered over the faces right in front of her, visually taking in as much of each Gondorian without making it look like she was totally obsessed with them. She could still not comprehend why those emotions came with the ambassadors from Gondor. Needless to say, the overwhelming majority was of that which said "Business as usual." But she could not deny the faint vestiges of excitement at the thought of working with (or, perhaps more accurately, against) them, and the sheer wonder that "Ooooooh...so that's what people from Gondor are like!"

And it disturbed her. How does this differ from your normal duties? her voice of reason scolded her, yet for her own life she could not help but ignore it as she continued to observe the curious visitors.

Here's someone obviously of my age group. I hope not all Gondorians are like this stuck-up bear person. Now this is someone I can be proud of being associated with! Though I'm sure Skittles would immensely enjoy picking on him. Maika let her eyes linger, inconspicuously of course, at Hyarmenwë, but the sight of Angawen in her peripheral vision distracted her. I'm sure this is one lady I don't have to learn to hate.

The Dracomir fellow had just given his three statements when his face suddenly turned whiter than the wind-driven snow, if that was even possible - though none could tell why. Ms. Martinet took advantage of this distraction to further shame the poor individual. "How about you, Maikaelwen? What do you have to say?"

That you can go take a dip in Mount Doom, Maika thought. She turned politely to her. "Maika, Ms. Martinet, Maika. I'm in Mordor, anyway, so we would do well to make full use of that which brought me here."

"Alright then, Maika," she responded, saying the last word more loudly than necessary. Just then, as all the Mordorians expected, a resounding "Yes?" echoed along the corridor outside. The visitors jumped in their seats and looked around them with a confused frown. Ms. Martinet smirked, and Maika resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead she looked at each ambassador to call for their attention.

"I'm in my mid-thirties, I have a literal killer smile, and I sincerely welcome the presence of our Gondoria-"

"Lie!" the three Mordorians interjected as if on cue. The Gondorians scowled in response, likewise.

"Truth be told," Hyarmenwë said after quickly regaining his composure, "I would certainly not deny that the last could be a lie. But then, so is the second. A smile that literally kills? That's impossible."

"You're in Mordor, honey," Skittles countered. "Anything is possible."

"The only way that could be true," said Bearugard smugly, "is if dental hygiene does not exist here. Then again, I would not wonder at that."

"Hey, stop insulting us!" cried Igör, with a tear falling from his left eye and a manic glint on his right.

"Another chronic liar." It was Angawen Tupsë, still reeling from her recent embarrassment. "We have to be really careful in dealing with these people."

Maika's eyes flashed at the woman. Angawen quickly faced her and was about to hold her gaze, but Maika started to address the whole group.

"Speculate your entire lives. You will know the truth over my dead petite thirty-something body." She allowed herself a chuckle within.

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Old 05-18-2006, 02:57 PM   #11
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"I'm in my mid-thirties, I have a literal killer smile, and I sincerely welcome the presence of our Gondoria-"

The normallest-seeming of the Mordorian diplomats spoke in turn, only to be interrupted by the other Mordorians:

"Lie!" Hyarmenwë scowled, as did the other Gondorian diplomats, they were willing enough to believe it was true, as Hyarmenwë said aloud:

"Truth be told, I would certainly not deny that the last could be a lie. But then, so is the second. A smile that literally kills? That's impossible."

"You're in Mordor, honey," Skittles had countered him. "Anything is possible."

There was more of the characteristic confusion and kerfuffle, ending in Maikaelwen's improbable, or so thought Hyarmenwë anyway, statement:

"Speculate your entire lives. You will know the truth over my dead petite thirty-something body."

No one was quite sure how to respond to that. Ms. Martinet decided to move things on.

"Hyarmenwë, why don't you next?"

The elderly Gondorian scowled somewhat at the absence of his noble title, but responded quickly enough with his two truth and a lie. He had, after all, spent a few minutes in thought on the matter.

"I was born in Minas Tirith, I have three daughters, and my wife was named Lalwen."

The questions didn't go over too well.

"How are we supposed to have the faintest clue?" asked Maikaelwen. "None of us know anything about your life at all!"

"A bit jealous that a Gondorian outdid you?" Angawen egged her on.

"Outdid me? He's practically cheating! How are we supposed to know."

"I think that guessing the right answer is probably the thing you OUGHT to be doing," said Malfoidacil with an air of someone extremely bored.

"I guess that it's the last one!" said Skittles. "I don't think this old fogey EVER had a wife!"

"Then that would make my second statement a falsehood as well, since I would not have three daughters then, now would I?" pointed out Hyarmenwë.

"You don't have to marry to have kids!" said Igor, almost earnestly. "Common-law relationships are responsible for over half the families in the greater Gorgoroth area, I've heard."

"Such things are reason for being Assigned to Mordor," said Hyarmenwë coldly. "And not only is it CLEARLY beneath my dignity, but one can see that I have not been Assigned."

"But you're here, aren't you?" pointed out Skittles. "Weren't you assigned to come here?"

Hyarmenwë sighed.

"It could still be the last question," Maika noted. "His wife could have a different name."

"You are correct," Hyarmenwë nodded as graciously as he might to a Mordorian. "Who's turn is it now?"
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Old 05-18-2006, 04:26 PM   #12
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"It is mine." Alli stepped forward from shadows that nobody had seen her slip into. The noise died down once more as the diplomats awaited instruction.

Or at least it did for a split second.

"What is this travesty of a diplomatic mission?" demanded Angawen coldly. "We were informed that we would be negotiating a treaty pertaining to immigration laws. I do not know why are you wasting our time with such trivial matters as these."

Alli met the woman's glare calmly, smiling at her with infuriating politeness.

"Lady Tupsè, I assure you that these matters are of the utmost importance. Just because you are ignorant of their cruciality to these proceedings means nothing of the truth of it. Have you ever seen oxygen, and yet do you breathe it? I suspect that if our world were comprised of only what you know, it would fit within this room and perhaps need to wear a helmet lest it hurt itself."

Alli stood straight, an amused glint dancing in her eyes. She shouldn't have said it, but she couldn't resist. She'd just received news that shook her calm. How could she expect these talented, if often disagreeable, people to do their job when they were still uncertain of what it was? And more importantly, how could Alli do the same?

Roggie had come to her moments ago in a rage, ranting over the latest group of Mordorians to escape. They had been spotted crossing the border and when followed, they were seen joining an armed guard of Gondorian soldiers. Short-staffed, Roggie's guardians of Cirith Ungol had been unable to pursue and reclaim the illegals. Roggie had recieved the message only this morning. Sixty-seven escapees. Sixty-seven. Intolerable, and that Mardil was helping them!

He'd come to Alli, telling her to call off the discussions that had only just begun, informing her harshly that her new assignment was to augment her Gondorian spy network, imprison the delegates, and perhaps torture them, though not necessarily in that order. She was at a loss for what to do. Yet she must do something, and so she had slipped quietly through a back entrance to the deliberating chambers and listened to each person speak, holding back laughter over Skittles's antics.

Now... now something must be done to calm Roggie.

"It is my turn." she repeated. "There has been a new development. Discussion that, I will admit, has not exactly begun, has been stalled. Gondorian delegates are as of right now confined to their quarters with the exception of Malfoidacil." She continued loudly, interrupting several cries of outrage. "He has already been allowed free passage between countries. He is not a visiter, he is a dual citizen. Ergo, he is well suited for the favor I am about to ask him; one that I am certain none of you will feel any jealousy over.

"It is for your own safety that you have been restricted to the level of the castle in which your suites are located. You may freely move between them, however you will be met by guards should you try to leave the general area. I do not suggest it. Malfoidacil, please stay. Skittles, Maika, and of course Ms. Martinet, please stay as well. Everyone else is dismissed. Mordorians, go on your way; have adventures should you feel the need. You will be summoned when you are needed. Gondorians, you will be escorted upstairs to your rooms. Talk, complain, interact... do what you will. But do not stray far."

Alli watched several angry diplomats stand and gather their belongings. The door opened and an armed guard stood to escort them. When they were gone, the Mordorians also dispersed, presumably to have a good time somewhere. When Alli turned back from the door, Dracomir, Maika, and Skittles looked at her curiously and even Ms. Martinet seemed slightly less austere than usual. Alli cut to the clichèd chase.

"Roggie just got word of a large number of escapees. He is not happy. He's called off negotiations and forbade me from trying to convince him to restart them. However he did not remember to forbid me from getting other people to talk to him. I want the three of you to talk him around. You are free to refuse. Ms. Martinet will preside to guarantee safety and to take notes. What say you all?"
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Old 05-19-2006, 12:27 AM   #13
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Skittles titled her head to the side, much like a dog, and gave the idea some thought. Then, as a strange gleam came into her eyes, she responded, “Personally, Allamee, I’d rather torture the Gondorians. Roggie wants ’em interrogated, right?”

Alli reluctantly nodded, but added, “Roggie’s in a foul temper, I’d like to see cooler heads prevail.”

“Then why is she even here?” Maika asked, jerking her head toward Skittles.

Alli sighed wearily, “Roggie likes her, I thought maybe, someone he’s friendly with--”

“Torture is fun,” Skittles interrupted glibly. In a deft movement, she extracted four switchblades from her clothing and began to juggle them. As she juggled, she snapped them open one by one, and smiled in what was undeniably a terrifying manner. Her audience was mesmerized for a moment by the circus act, then Skittles twisted quickly and made three of the switchblades spear the floor in a triangle around Malfodacil. The fourth one she held glinting at his throat, and his eyes bugged out as he went still.

“Skittles!” Alli said sternly.

Skittles smiled and cut off a lock of Malfodacil’s hair as she swept the blade away from him. He let out a breath of relief, but gave her such a look of darkness that it cannot be described with anything remotely Tolkien-spirited. So Mordorian and anakronistic was this look -- and from a Gondorian diplomat, no less!

“So, can I interrogate the other Gondorians?” she asked, turning large puppy dog eyes towards Alli. “Please?”

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Old 05-19-2006, 05:42 AM   #14
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Ms. Martinet sighed and rolled her eyes at her employer, then turned to Skittles with exasperated logic.

"You're a tree, dear. You're above that sort of thing, aren't you?" Skittles immediately froze, and Martinet turned back to Alli with a sigh. "That's too easy, really.

"Meanwhile, why on earth should you pick me for this? Roggie doesn't like me; I make him nervous." This statement was accompanied by a disarming smile, as she clicked a blue-inked ballpoint pen in and out, in and out.

"You make him nervous on purpose," Alli accused, but her eyes sparkled.

"Exactly. You think I want to hang around in the presence of a calm, rational balrog who might remember people taste better toasted? Besides, it's fun. You don't think I'm going to stop, do you?"
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Old 05-19-2006, 12:49 PM   #15
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Angawen sat penseively in her quarters. She still could not believe she had let such emotion overcome her. For years she had been mineral-like in her lack of emotion, her ability to keep her head in all situations. Just one international crossing and her ability to control herself seemed to have vanished.

It was the people in Mordor, that was the problem. She had not experienced such people before; quite rightly, for they were indeed abominations. Skittles... She forced herself not to linger on that woman. But even Lady Alli... yes, she admired Lady Alli. Here was a fierce woman of an iron will, much akin to herself. She could not help feel respect as well as the natural dislike that should arise from such an encounter. And yet, even in her, one found the mannerisms of Mordor seeping through. Tupsè, indeed. Tup-seh... She turned her mind from mispronunciation, for she knew what could happen if she indulged herself in faux-indignation.

One thing, in any case, was clear. Mordor was a place unlike any other, a place that had baited her when no land in Gondor could. But she had merely been caught off her guard. She knew now what she faced, and resolved to toughen her defence, to be always on guard, and to show no more anger, nor any hint of feeling whatsoever, in this land. She had not spent years becoming a woman of importance to become a lowly emotive creature upon stepping into Mordor.

****
A muffled "come in."

Angawen turned to her bodyguards. "You are to remain at this door. Nobody, Mordorian or Gondorian, is to enter this room until I come out." She did not bother waiting for a response, and opening the oak door, marched into Hyarmenwë's quarters.

He was sitting at his table, bare save a candle and a manuscript opened before him. He looked at her, and neither his mouth nor his eyes softened as he greeted her. "Hail, Lady Angawen of Gondor. A pleasant surprise to see you here."

"It is most pleasurable," she replied in Quenya, "to meet with you here, Lord Hyarmenwë. May I take a seat?" She indicated the only other chair in the room, hewn of rough wood, opposite his.

"Of course, Lady," he replied, still speaking in Westron. "May I inquire wherefore you use the High tongue? There is no need of such ceremony here."

Angawen seated herself opposite him and smiled to herself. To hear Hyarmenwë seem to belittle ceremony was worth at least fifty Skittles running amok. She continued in Quenya, "I feel the urge to speak with you, Lord. I have worries I feel only you may deal with," she noticed him sit up a little at this, though she knew he didn't trust a word of it, "and felt that it would be beneficial to make full use of our mutual knowledge of the High Tongue to minimise the thread of being overheard and understood by undesirable parties."

He succumbed and turned the conversation into a purely Quenyan phenomenon. "You have such little faith in the citizens of Mordor? We are under diplomatic protection and I'm sure you have two sturdy men guarding the door. What chance is there of being spied upon?"

"You have reason concerning my guards," she replied, "but I am not sure we are any longer protected by diplomatic immunity. I remind you that our mission had been - cancelled. In any case, these people are most unlike us, and I would not trust to their manners nor to their goodwill. Lady Alli is a cunning woman. I do not see her passing up a chance to listen in on all we say for her own motives."

Hyarmenwë nodded curtly. "That may be; but have we not found that these Mordorians speak Quenya as well as we?"

"No," she replied abruptly. "I do not believe all of them do. That Dwarf, he did not understand our words. Nor did the girl. The madwoman I can be no judge of."

He nodded once more. "Then it is fair that we should speak in Quenya. What counsel may I give?"

Angawen did not reply straight away. She gathered her thoughts before putting him the question "Why, Hyarmenwë, do you believe you were sent on this assignment?"

"I am a great statesman and most loyal to the Kingdom," he answered without a second thought.

"Yes. And I?"

"You have a cunning and cold mind. The mind of a ruthless man, not a soft woman."

She ignored the swipe. "And Bearugard and Malfoidacil?"

"I do not claim to understand the mind of our - Lord - Mardil."

"Hyarmenwë, I come to you because I know you can be trusted to hold yourself to the will of Gondor. I, too, hold myself accountable to Gondor, through the Lord Mardil. I know you, Lord, and you know me. But I do not know Malfoidacil, and I fear what will holds him to it."

"You worry about his loyalty? Mardil would not have selected Malfoidacil if he were not fully assured of his loyalty."

"And yet, do you not find it strange that all we three should be expulsed so rudely from a gathering of states, whereas he should be admitted to the council of Lady Alli?"

Hyarmenwë remained quiet.

"He knows Lady Alli. They are old friends from this land - this land whence he came. I shall be blunt, Hyarmenwë. I do not trust him."

Hyarmenwë replied slowly. "I cannot claim to share your distrust, Lady, for I have faith in Mardil. But I agree that he is something of an anomaly. I am not at ease around him."

"If you were to leave your life in his hands, would you trust him?"

"Nay, Lady, nor you," he replied with something of a smile on his old face. "But," he continued, "you have given me cause to think. Perhaps one can be loyal to Mardil and yet to Mordor at once. I have more confidence in Bearugard."

"And I less. Good blood does not a good statesman make. I think he is not yet mature enough for these negotiations."

"He has more years than you."

"He has all he wants, that much is true. He will not make Lady Alli agree to terms by demanding them bluntly of her. I do not see he understands the ways of negotiation. He is young, still, at heart. In that his father committed him an unkindness."

Again, her words were met with a silence from the Lord, who was staring intently but blankly at the manuscript in front of him. After thirty seconds, he looked up. "You come here to complain of our companions. Malfoidacil is, you say, a traitor - do not interrupt me," he said, for she had tried to object. "In so many words, this is what you said. And Bearugard is a fool. What then am I? A conservative imbecile, no doubt? What is your point?"

Angawen smiled at him entirely unconvincingly. "Lord, our thoughts have not always been at accord. You have not always approved of me, nor I of you. However, as ambassadors, we must push these insignificant personal details aside. I have utmost respect for your powers of speech, persuasion, and duty. Some of these qualities I find worryingly lacking in our comrades."

He waited for her to go on.

"Lord, we must not allow personal factors to come between us. I shall be blunt. I feel Malfoidacil and Bearugard are incompetent for this task. I see that you share my thoughts on Malfoidacil, at least, though you are unwilling to admit it. Therefore, I say to you, that we two should work as closely together as we may. We must not keep secrets nor even thoughts from one another. To succeed in this harsh land, we must work together, as if we were one. We must," she finished passionately, "work together for the good of Gondor!"

"If I understand you, you would have me share my thoughts with you - this is fair, for you are correct, it is necessary in these circumstances - and to cut off my thoughts from Malfoidacil and Bearugard. Lady, I too shall be blunt. I do not trust Malfoidacil, though my distrust does not come close to yours. However, I smell no ill-will in Bearugard. Therefore, I accept your proposition to forget our petty dislikes for a greater cause and to coalesce, on condition that Beaurgard be admitted to our party."

The conversation had not gone as Angawen had anticipated. But still - it was of little import if that immature child, as she thought him, should be admitted to the group, as long as he kept his mouth shut. The important thing was that this task required a degree of unity she had not hitherto anticipated, and that it was absolutely necessary to counter the threat of treachery in Malfoidacil.

"Lord, I accept."

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Old 05-19-2006, 01:33 PM   #16
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White Tree

Bearugard began pacing, back and forth, in his room; unable to rest or calm down. His thoughts kept focusing on the strange surroundings and of the events earlier in the day. He began muttering to himself, "Absolutely ridiculous, their treatment, the icebreaker, everything...ridiculous. You'd think they have never been through negotiations, because they certainly don't know how to negotiate."

Bearugard stopped his mindless rambling as he thought he heard faint whispering. "Sounds like it's coming from Hyarmenwe's room." he said to himself. What he thought sounded like Angaewen's voice, he made out the words, "Lord, I accept."

Then the talking stopped, he heard a door open, then close, and footsteps came approaching to his door. Bearugard quickly sat at his desk and straightened himself up. Before there was a knock, he said "The door's open." There was a pause, as if it took a while for the Gondorians on the other side to comprehend. The door opened and first stepped in Hyarmenwe followed by Angaewen.

"Just what is it you accepted, Lady Angaewen," Bearugard smirked.

Rather appalled Angaewen said "You were eavesdropping on our conversation?"

Of course, Bearugard only heard that one part, but he continued to play along.
"You know you should also practice lowering your voices, these walls here are super-ultra-mega thin. You don't know what unfriendly ears may be listening."

His smirk went away as a strange silence entered the room and Hyarmenwe and Angaewen simply stared at him. Breaking the silence, Bearugard got up from his seat, and began to pace around the room again, he now spoke in a hushed tone, "Well, since we are all Gondorians here, I guess I need to get this off my chest, as I'm sure I'm not the only one. Today's activities were exceedingly strange, you know what I speak of. There's no doubt in my mind it was a ploy to try to get information out of us. Whilst the Mordorians threw around their musings and lies, we were forced into an uncomfortable situation in hopes that one of us would break. I need not say that I did not fall to such obvious tricks. My outburst was to not get anyone to spill the beans, or give any useful information, to these Mordorians. Now it seems like she will take us individually to try to break us. But we must hold together, after all - in this place - I am all you have and you are all I have."

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Old 05-19-2006, 01:50 PM   #17
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Ms. Martinet had remained silent through the dwarf's offer of help and Malfoidacil's declamation. Everything that man says is a declamation, though. He's almost as bad as Hyarmanwe.

"I wonder..." she mused aloud. Alli turned toward her curiously. "Roggie hates me, we all know this. But..."

"But what?"

"I wonder if Lola would help. He likes Lola. Everybody likes Lola."

Alli looked at her in disbelief. "You want Lola to do it?"

Ms. Martinet shrugged. "It might work. I haven't got a chance, you know that."

"But then you won't be around to help me."

Ms. Martinet shrugged, a small smile playing on her thinly pursed lips. "I daresay, the way these negotiations are going, that Lola's skills might be more use after all."

"If you're sure...," Alli said.

"Of course I am. I'll go...um...get her. Give me an hour or so." Ms. Martinet stalked out of the room, heading purposefully down the hall.

Malfoidacil cleared his throat. "Lola?"

"Mmm-hmm." Alli seemed amused by something.

"Who is that? And will Ms. Martinet be back soon; I'd like to get this over with."

"She's a friend of mine. Quite a character. And no, Ms. Martinet will not be back."

"Does she not like this Lola?"

Alli grinned. "I'm not sure if she likes Lola or not...but the two are never together. Their personalities are...hmm...'mutually exclusive' is the best I can do."
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Old 05-19-2006, 03:47 PM   #18
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Hyarmenwë had returned to his room in an ill mood. The "icebreaker" had been pointless, the negotiations had not even started, and now they were cut off pre-emptively. He was also ever so slightly afraid that Mardil would abandon the diplomats to the tender mercies of Mordor, if the negotiations were not reopened. And such a life held nothing but horror for him.

There was a knock on his door.

"Come in," he intoned, straigtening in his seat. The Lady Angawen entered. He hailed her politely.

She addressed him in Quenya. He replied in Westron. There was a brief discussion about the appropriateness of the High Tongue. He ended agreeing that it was appropriate. Then they got down to the real reason Angawen was there.

"Why, Hyarmanwë, do you believe you were sent on this assignment?"

"I am a great statesman and most loyal to the Kingdom," he answered without a second thought- or so it appeared to Angawen. It was not entirely true. There was still the nagging fear that he had been sent to Mordor to get him out from under Mardil's feet. His loyalties to the old King were well known indeed.

Angawen asked him what he thought about the inclusion of herself, Bearugard, and Malfoidacil in the party.

"I do not claim to understand the mind of our - Lord - Mardil," he had replied politely enough. In truth, though, if Mardil had sent him to Mordor in hopes of being rid of him, then the same held true for Angawen. She could also be a dangerous opponent. As for Bearugard, he was a useless twit, and Hyarmenwë couldn't blame Mardil if it was the case that he wanted to be rid of him. And then there was Malfoidacil. Hyarmenwë didn't trust him. He seemed, at first, to be merely a spoiled, arrogant child, not unlike Bearugard. But since arriving in Mordor, another facet of Malfoidacil had started showing through. Hyarmenwë was sure that he didn't like it.

It appeared that Angawen had the same feelings. Though Hyarmenwë did his best to present a balanced, and possibly sympathetic view of Malfoidacil, for the sake of argument, he was admittedly in agreement with her. One argument in particular struck him:

"He knows Lady Alli. They are old friends from this land - this land whence he came. I shall be blunt, Hyarmanwë. I do not trust him."

While still attempting to maintain a balanced disposition, the thought occured to him: Malfoidacil holds dual citizenship. To which realm does his loyalty truly lie? It was a forboding thought.

And so conversation turned to Bearugard. Angawen trusted his abilities not at all. Hyarmenwë wasn't so sure that he did, either, but he did think there was a bit more depth to the man than appeared on first sight. Surely, with a father such as his, there must be a man of great power somewhere inside him. On the face of it, though, Hyarmenwë doubted it.

What a life it was, he pondered, surrounded here in a dangerous land by people on whom he ought to be able to depend, yet not one of the three could he rely on. Not Malfoidacil, not Bearugard, and not Angawen. Even as he pondered though, Angawen proposed an alliance. He agreed -on one condition- that Bearugard be included.

Angawen was not pleased with this, but she accepted it. It appeared that her main concern was with Malfoidacil. And Hyarmenwë agreed. Indeed, that was why he proposed Bearugard's inclusion. Until such time as any of them were found wanting, the three Gondorians who were at a loss in Mordor should stick together. Bearugard, though an insipid fool, was their natural ally, and ought to be cultivated, lest they lose him altogether. And allies in Mordor would be few and far between.

"Lord, I accept."

The deal made, Hyarmenwë and Angawen departed his room to seek out their-partner to be. He was not hard to find. He was in his room, and appeared to have an inkling of what they were up to. Whatever the case, there he stood, and he was as self-centred an idiot as ever.

"Well, since we are all Gondorians here, I guess I need to get this off my chest, as I'm sure I'm not the only one. Today's activities were exceedingly strange, you know what I speak of. There's no doubt in my mind it was a ploy to try to get information out of us. Whilst the Mordorians threw around their musings and lies, we were forced into an uncomfortable situation in hopes that one of us would break. I need not say that I did not fall to such obvious tricks. My outburst was to not get anyone to spill the beans, or give any useful information, to these Mordorians. Now it seems like she will take us individually to try to break us. But we must hold together, after all - in this place - I am all you have and you are all I have."

"I think you and the Lady Angawen alike have taken a touch too much offence to the proceedings thus far," Hyarmenwë said, raising a hand and taking a seat at the table. When Angawen sat also, the two chairs belonging to it were taken, and only a rather bare-looking footstool remained. Bearugard sniffed at it disdainfully, and refused it. Hyarmenwë ignored him and continued.

"Certainly, they were highly irregular, and without a point other than to set us ill at ease, but to respond to them in the manner in which you did was rather foolish. To let them know that they were getting to you was inadvisable. It signalled to them that they hold the upper hand, and it suggests that we are easily upset- and so easily manipulated. A diplomat must never appear manipulable." Hyarmenwë was looking not so much at Bearugard as at Angawen.

"All right," she admitted. "Letting loose a volley of fury wasn't the best way to act, but it did clarify one thing immediately: we are not dealing with easily manipulable amateurs either, as might have been suspected seeing how we ARE in Mordor, after all. But it should also be quite clear, to both of you, that I have my limits on how far I can be pushed and nobody, including Mardil himself, can push me over them without a fight."

"Quite," said Bearugard sniffily. "One has one's limits."

"One has to bend with the wind, at times," said Hyarmenwë with a half-frown. "And on that note, one has to wonder what will happen if the negotiations do remain stalled. How many of us would Mardil truly mourn to lose in Mordor? If it cost him concessions to Roggie, would he attempt to extradite us?"

"My dear Hyarmenwë," said Bearugard haughtily. "In my case, he could simply not afford not to."

"I think you underestimate Mardil," said Angawen. "He would not willingly waste talent such as ours-" something in the way Angawen said it suggested that she meant just herself and Hyarmenwë- "but you have a point. But there's nothing we can do about it until we know one way or another if the negotiations are still on. The big issue right now is Malfoidacil. The boy is a dual citizen. What is to stop him from siding with the Mordorians in the negotiations? And I've seen no indications that he feels any particular loyalty to any of us- or to Mardil. That boy looks out for himself."

"He has a certain appreciation for noble blood," noted Bearugard. "A commendable taste, if you ask me."

"His appreciation for noble blood won't get him to help us, not if it's not in Malfoidacil's best interests," pressed on Angawen. "What we need is some leverage- something that we can use to control him. I don't suppose you have any ideas?"

"The Malfoidacils have played both sides of every political game in Gondor for their own advantage for years," said Hyarmenwë. "If we could dig up some dirt on him here in Mordor, it might be possible, but there's nothing from Gondor that will easily control him. And I don't forsee us being able to to do much digging, confined to the palace and endangered by the anakronisms as we are."

"He's very well connected too," said Bearugard. "Related to many of the best families in Gondor. I believe he's a distant cousin on my mother's father's side of the family."

"There must be something!" Angawen pressed on. "If we can't rely on him in council, then we've no way of knowing if we can hope to accomplish Lord Mardil's aims. And, as Hyarmenwë has already said, we need to present a strong front. Holding the negotiations in Mordor might have been all very well from Mardil's point of view, but it puts us at a disadvantage."

"I wonder..." Hyarmenwë mused. "What tales of his son, if spread abroad in the right circles in Minas Tirith, would scandalize Lord Luciamir the most?"

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Old 05-19-2006, 07:19 PM   #19
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"I would not normally deign to speak with a mere mudblood King of Mordor..."

These words brought Skittles back from a contented state, swaying majestically above a bird filled meadow. One of the birds, a pale little thing that sounded more like a blue jay than a songbird, spoke ill of King Roggie, and Tree-Skittles let out an angry:

"Haroom! A Mudblood! The King of Mordor is a Balrog, you milky little sop! A Maia, you skinny twaddle headed pie-faced pookabunny! How dare you label him as anything less than the magnificent specimen of magical beastliness that he is!?"

In Entish.

Since it takes a very long time to say anything in Entish, while she was working up this indignant schpeil an entire conversation and a half had taken place. And everyone just thought she was muttering to herself.

Suddenly, she turned on her heel and headed for the door.

"Now where are you going?" asked Ms. Martinet.

"I must change my clothes!" responded Skittles, in high dudgeon. "This calls for leather!"
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Old 05-20-2006, 05:11 AM   #20
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Igör had wandered off after being dismissed. He was still smarting a little from the comments made in the negotiation room but as he thought of them he recalled Skittles’ accidental relieving of the tension and couldn’t help but smile. He was glad she was involved in this, if anything would confuse and bewilder the Gondorians enough to persuade them to sort things out she would.

Speak of the devil, Igör thought to himself as he walked past Hyarmenwë’s quarters. Angawen’s guards were outside it, and Igör wondered just what she was so afraid of that she needed them to accompany her everywhere. He caught a small portion of their conversation as he walked past. Though his ears did not match, both had excellent hearing, and while he did not mean to eavesdrop it was sometimes simply impossible not to. Fortunate enough to be skilled in the Elven languages Igör understood their words, though he despaired at their formal tone. How did they ever get a point across when it had to be buried under layers of compliments, hastily backtracked insults and general wordiness? But, it seemed that there was dissention within the opposition’s ranks. Igör smiled to himself, making a mental note to inform Alli of this next time he saw her, though he thought it likely that she would already know. Her spy network was one of if not the best, and she was probably listening to this conversation as it occurred.

He continued on down the corridor with his awkward limp still in place, feeling the eyes of Angawen’s guards following him. His ears picked up their whispered conversation about how odd he looked and grinned. He didn’t mind the insults when he was putting his little act on. Suddenly though the guards stopped talking and there was a slight commotion behind him. Turning he saw various Gondorians entering the others rooms, with what sounded like a lot of anger and consternation. By the time he had thought up a reasonable excuse for walking back past the rooms again however (by removing an eye and rolling it down the corridor, to the disgust of the guards) there seemed to be agreement within. Troubled now, Igör decided to share his recent findings with Alli as soon as possible.

Returning to the negotiation room he knocked before entering, knowing his ability to move without noise sometimes gave people such a scare they were unable to do anything but gape like a fish for quite a long time after, which would probably not be helpful at this point in time, especially when there was already someone behaving as a tree in the room. Just as he thought this Skittles desisted from that activity and raced past his, yelling something about needing to change her clothes.

Leaving her to her madness Igör moved toward Alli, and motioned her to one side. Malfoidacil was still in the room and it would not be wise to let him know what the other Gondorians thought of him. Alli joined him over away from the others and listened to what Igör told her with an expression ever he couldn’t read. Finishing his story, Igör waited to hear whether this was useful information, and whether she wished him to do anything with or about it.
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Old 05-20-2006, 05:54 AM   #21
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Maika was quite disappointed that Alli had to arrive and ruin all the fun. It was not a regular occurence to have fun with Gondorians - probably because this was the first time she ever met at least one - and she wanted to enjoy this icebreaker as much as she can. But looking at the Spymaster's face she could tell something was up. Yep, something was definitely up.

She patiently waited for Skittles, Ms. Martinet, and the young Gondorian to have their say in this new assignment, seemingly weighing their words with care. But as they talked and juggled knives and talked more and acted like a tree, Maika's thoughts were still on Hyarmenwë's three statements. Particularly on the "three daughters" part. For some unexplainable reason her heart raced when she heard that, and she tried to hide it through participation. And she got the lie right. Hmm. Maika instantly snapped back to the conversation around her.

As Skittles sped off for leather, Maika took her turn to respond to Alli. "I'm sure my skin will be reacting violently against this in no time, but I'll do it. At least I'll do what I can. For Mordor."

For Mordor? Somehow it didn't quite sound right to her. She shrugged it off.

"But one favor, please. Will you tell him to have his broken airconditioning system repaired?"

Maika had barely picked up Alli's response - if she had responded at all - when she raised a hand to excuse herself and walked towards a concerned-looking Igör. Maika sighed. For her sake, or her skin's rather, she hoped it could be done.
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Old 05-29-2006, 03:55 AM   #22
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Smilog walked alongside his new associate, although he still eyed him with some suspicion and disliking. He smiled too much for a man in Mordor, and still too much for a man in general. The Dwarf stayed quiet though, the prospect of a never-ending mountain of gold was something he couldn't just let pass by.

They soon found the stairs and climbed them. They were dark and wet, covered in slime and smelling of something that was... well... urgh! At every opportunity, Smilog leant out of a window to draw breath; the stench nearly knocked him down with his nose held. Andvarri seemed to bare it quite well, although his smile had now disappeared and a stern look had appeared.

"Not long to go now," said the man, "I do wish they would clean these stairs every now and again."

"They do," came a voice from below, they looked and saw a small Orc with an apron and a mop, he continued, "I'm doing the annual cleaning of the stairs. I forgot about it last year, but hay, I'm a busy Orc! Now, be off with you!"

Hurriedly, they dashed up to the top of the stairs, taking care not to slip on the slime, which is what the Orc appeared to be 'cleaning' with. Once out of the stairwell, the two of them went to a large door that had Roggie's name written in many languages on the front.

"I'd better knock," said Smilog, "I am one of his advisers, anyway. The lazy good for nothing pile of Orc vomit!" A small pile of Orc vomit that was near by was quite upset by this statement and squelched off to cry in a corner.

"I'd better be out of sight," said Andvarri, "Roggie isn't used to new faces."

"Oh yeah? He's had at least three face lifts!"

"You know what I mean. Anyway. This could be difficult." Andvarri slipped behind a pillar as Smilog knocked on the door.

"No thank-you!" came the cry from within, "We don't want anymore visitors, well wishers or distant relations!"

"And what about very angry Dwarves?" retorted Smilog with his hands on his hips and his eyes like green fire. There was a silent pause, then the sound of some moving behind the door, and finally it opened. A huge red boxing glove flew out and hit Smilog square on the chin and he fell back into the opposite wall.

"Ow!" he said as the door closed, "Have you got any bright ideas?" he asked Andvarri.
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Old 05-30-2006, 03:28 AM   #23
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Hookbill the Goomba is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Hookbill the Goomba is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Hookbill the Goomba is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Hookbill the Goomba is lost in the dark paths of Moria.
Smilog sat on the floor, nursing his bruised chin. His voice now slured and he drooled uncontrollably. "Cruss that drated creaturr!" he slured, "I'll gif him what forr!"

"You talk but do nothing," said Andvarri, "We need to get in there as soon as possible and get the... the thing."

"I've been meaning to assssk," said Smilog as he rose, "whath isss the thhing thhat Roggie holdsss? Jussst ssso I know whatt tto look for."

"Well," Andvarri began, but he soon grew silent and scratched his chin, "its not so much 'what' as ... 'who'."

"You're going to kidnap him?" spat Smilog, his chin healing a little.

"No, no, no!" cried Andvarri folding his arms. Their eyes met, like two armies that collide in a violent fray that causes far much more blood shed than there is blood in the soldiers. "Okay, we are. But-"

"I don’t want to hear it!" Smilog stomped around, "I'm not getting thrown into a Mordor jail! Do you know what they do to you in those things?"

"Call me old fashioned, but I had planned on not getting caught." Andvarri smirked and walked towards the door of Roggie. "Now, are you going to help me?" Smilog thought about it for a moment, and soon all the memories of Roggies past orders to him came flooding back. If two short memories can be classed as a flood, for Roggie had only ever asked him for two things in the past; to pass him the salt once and to hurry up when walking towards the black Jim table in the casino (Black Jack hadn’t been invented yet).

"What choice do I have?" mumbled Smilog with a frown, "Alright, I'll help you. But if we get caught, I will dinie ever knowing you or anything to do with you! got that?" Andvarri nodded and opened the door. Before Smilog could follow him in, the door slammed shut and Andvarri was heard inside talking to someone.

"Now! Roggie, the time has come to-" began the man,

"Who are you? How dare you! Go away!" cried the obvious voice of Roggie, "Guards!"

"The guards won't help you! I'll-" Andvarri began, yet before his sentence was even two syllables old there was the sound of banging and crashing. Smilog shoved the door open and all he saw was Andvarri face down in a shopping trolley full of ham hurtling along a grease-covered track into a wall under a window. Andvarri flew out of the trolley when it hit the wall and smashed out of the newly placed stained glass picture of Roggie holding a large cricket bat.

The gold promising man plummeted out of the window and down, down into deep dark. "No!" cried Smilog, "The map! The Gold!"

"Who are you?" said Roggie, "And what do you want?"

"What do you mean, 'who am I'?" said Smilog, turning quickly to the stumpy little man, "I'm Smilog, one of your advisors! I passed you the salt once."

"Oh! Yes! I remember you! So what? Go away! Unless you like ham..." he pointed over to the shopping trolley with and impatient look in his eyes.

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Old 05-30-2006, 08:39 PM   #24
Celuien
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Sniffling and rubbing her nose with a piece of disintegrating Kleenex, Panakeia watched Skittles scurry and backflip out of the billiards room. Panakeia had come to accept that oddity reigned in Mordor, but this insane child was the oddest thing she had encountered yet. Except for her own placement under a pool table. Panakeia couldn't remember entering the room, much less huddling under furniture. Of course, in her distraction over Anakron, anything was possible. She couldn't really remember anything clearly between Anakron's last words to her and Skittles' dangling over the edge of the table.

Panakeia burst anew into tears at the memory of Anakron's harshness. She knew that some of the fault was her own. Her insinuations about the blonde were entirely unjustified, and not even relevant to her visit. Not in the least. She only wanted to speak with Anakron and to hear an explanation for his cancellations. But in her weariness and frustration, she foolishly had allowed the words to be spoken. And words were dangerous, perhaps even more dangerous than the switchblade she had spotted on her bizarre visitor.

But maybe, just maybe, it had all been for the best. Anakron clearly no longer cared for her. Better to know now than to wait through another year of dates and games, pleasant though the meetings would have been. They always were. Her lip quivered.

Of a sudden, Panakeia noted that the world looked as though she viewed it through the swirling waters of a fishbowl. A sound like that of a pipe-organ faintly echoed in her ears, and her gaze seemed to search far away. In other words, she was having a flashback.

~*~

Panakeia stood in a green field watching her father jump his horse as the horse jumped a hedge. He missed.

"Ouch!"

"Oh, father. You shouldn't be jumping horses."

"I'll not have me own daughter telling me what I shall jump and not jump. It's my own neck, so it is."

"Whatever."

"If anyone's to do the telling here, it's me that'll do it."

"Whatever."

"Just remember, Miss Panakeia O'Harad. Taräê - land - is the only thing worth fighting for - worth dying for! Except for prime-time advertising slots, which make an entirely different category altogether. D'ye understand me?"

"Whatever."

~*~

The music faded, and Panakeia stood glassy-eyed in its aftermath. Yes, that was the answer. Though her father's lectures often rambled and made little sense, particularly after a missed saddle left his wits scattered, sometimes he did make a good point. She would go back to Taräê. The tests to allow her egress from Mordor were passed a year ago. There was nothing to stop her from leaving. She would tell Anakron of her decision, and say her farewells to him. For the last time. The thought made her nose and eyes twitch. But tomorrow was another day. Anakron could hate her, but she would always care for him. And perhaps, when enough tomorrows had passed, he would regret leaving her. Then he would come to her. But he would be too late. She didn't need him. She didn't need anyone. She would survive, even if she used every box of Kleenex in Mordor, which was a distinct possibility; her tears were pouring again at the image of an aged, pitiable Anakron seeking his long lost love.

She would tell Anakron after the conference ended for the day. She would tell him, and then go home.
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Old 05-31-2006, 07:33 AM   #25
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Maika had sat back down on her pre-Alli's intrusion seat after Igör - whatever he was doing there - announed the return of Skittles...who just sped off again. She gently scratched her head, narrowly missing one of the chopsticks. It was getting increasingly difficult for her to keep her annoyance in check, and the awkward silence that followed the exchange between the Grand Anakronist and his girlfriend did not help matters. Maika exasperatedly threw both her hands up in the air and let gravity bring them down, which it did - towards the tabletop. The loud "Bang!" that ensued earned the surprised attention of everyone in the room.

The little young lady pushed her chair away from the table, silently cursing the gravity that reddened her knuckles without any help from Roggie, but from an innocent table, and stood up without bending in one fluid motion.

"Do you realize what we're doing?" She fought to keep her voice even, and walked towards the space between her two fellow ambassadors. Every step she took generated a soft tapping sound that was amplified by the silence in the room, lending her an aura of authority. Remember the moments before your terror of a mathematics or some other creepy class teacher distributed the exam papers? It was something like that.

"You mean aside from sitting around and waiting for Skittles to happen?" came a mutter from Anakron's direction. Maika threw a sideway glance at him, and continued.

"We're wasting our time, wasting our presence here, momentarily disobeying Alli, and procrastinating. No wonder we're all in Mordor."

Dracomir opened his mouth to protest but Maika cut him off, seeing the disapproving look on Lola's face - given by her slightly, seductively pouted lips.

"I like you, Lola," she sighed, effectively hiding her rolling eyes, "but can't you do...whatever it is you're doing...some other time? We have work to do."

With that she spun on her cigarette-thin heels and strode purposefully towards the door, letting them follow if they will. And if they won't, she felt quite confident that she and Skittles can handle it. If only she felt even just half as confident that she can find her. Maika wondered if it will help her to do cartwheels along the way.

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Old 06-16-2006, 03:37 AM   #26
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The anything but jolly Santar stepped forwards, shaking the stairs as he went, but not really caring, it would seem. Smilog held desperately onto the railings and began to wail, "Hay, you'll knock us all off!"

"I don't care," said Santar, "You, Smilog, deserve death! But as for Roggie, here!" Santar roared a loud and terrible roar, shaking from head to tow. "You don't know who I was, do you?"

"Of course not," said Roggie, eying up the stairs and wondering weather he could out run the shockwaves created by Santar's footsteps. "But, we must be going. We have a Middle Earth to save, you see."

"I worked in your casino!" cried Santar, bashing his staff against the stairs as hard as he could and making them shake terribly. Smilog was almost sick. "I was one of the first to work at your casino! Yet one day you came up to me and said, 'sorry, you, I'm afraid you're too fat to work here' and you cast me out. Well, ever since then, I've been plotting my revenge."

"And eating chocolate," noted Smilog and immediately wished he hadn’t as Santar hit him across the face with his staff and then advanced towards the group. The manic man's face was growing as red as his cloak and he stared down at Smilog with terrible eyes.

Wondering what to do, Tollin quickly raised his morning star and prepared to strike the man if he came any nearer. But Santar stopped and laughed, "You fools!" he cried, "I cannot be stricken down with mortal weapon!" Tollin did not believe this and struck him anyway, the head of the morning star got stuck in Santar's fat and began to get sucked in. Panicking, Tollin tried to wrench the weapon free, but like quicksand, the more he struggled, the more it got sucked in. Eventually, he let go and Santar took up the morning star and removed it, before casting it back at Tollin. It missed and nearly fell over the edge of the stairs if it had not hit Smilog in the chest as he tried to escape.

"You used to work for me, Dwarf," continued Santar, "after I left the casino, I started up my own place and you served drinks. But one day you got a letter and up and left just when the police discovered I'd put those toxins in the drinks. I was put in prison for twenty years!"

"Twenty years?" cried Smilog in horror, then confusing, "wait, twenty years? I've not been gone that long."

"Erm..." said Santar, "I think there was a time vortex involved in there somewhere... but it matters not! I am here to destroy you! You too Tollin! I know of you!"

"I have no time for this," said Roggie as he threw a metal bar from the stairs at the face of Santar and ran for it. Tollin and Smilog followed on as quick as they could, but thye soon heard the roar of Santar as he thundered after them with unquenchable fury. Solom galloped alongside Smilog and waved at him before leaping onto his face and trying to rip his beard off.

"Hay! You!" cried Smilog, taking the creature off his face, "go away!" Solom saluted and dashed off and began to hug Santar's arms very tightly. The three vagabonds bounded up the stairs at full tilt, as the stairs rapidly began to fall apart behind them. Santar called out in a loud cry,

"Elves, attack them!" and all of a sudden, a cloud of goblins poured out of secret caverns and hollows in the walls and began climbing onto the stairs. Before Smilog could point out that these were not elves, but goblins wearing silly green outfits, Tollin grabbed him and dragged him up the stairs. The goblins were getting closer, but the travellers were nearing the top of the stairs. There was a rock platform and a long thin bridge. The bridge of Kazad Zoom. It was suspended right across the centre of the now dark chasm, the depths of wich were uncknown. It was a slender bridge without kerb or rail that spanned the chasm with one curving spring of fifty feet.

Tollin stood his ground on the stone platform as Smilog dashed across the bridge followed closely by Roggie. When he got to the other side, Smilog saw that Tollin was grossly outnumbered, so he dashed back and drew his axe and began mercilessly hacking away at the goblins. They kept coming thick and fast, arrows flying over their heads and swords clanging and bones shattering as Tollin's morning star (which he had picked up after it hit Smilog) swooped through the ranks.

Suddenly, the Goblins stopped fighting and began to retreat in fear, something had spooked them and they were afraid. Roggie crept behind Tollin and looked at the goblins as the fled in the wake of something that was slowly coming up the stirs. The thunderous noise of Santar’s feet was getting closer and he finally came to the platform and stood before them larger than life (almost literally). He raised his staff and a great torrent of lightning issued forth and just missed Smilog's head. "This is a foe beyond any of you," cried Roggie, "Over the bridge, fly!"

Tollin and Smilog ran with all their speed over the bridge and came to a second platform, before them were some stone stairs leading to a great metal door with a large plaque over it saying "Doom". The enemy reached the bridge. Tollin and Smilog turned to see Roggie stood in the middle of the span, leaning on his sword in his left hand but in his right, his whip of fire shone pale red. His enemy halted, facing him and his cloak stretched forth as he removed it menacingly. Santar raised his staff and lightning whined and cracked. But Roggie stood firm.

"You cannot pass," he said.

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Old 06-16-2006, 08:04 AM   #27
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Anakron stared at Panakeia. Strange talk! What in Middle Earth and Mordor had come over her? It hit him like an Unnergrind Train out of control: the Dweomer - she had got religion! A jumble of conflicting emotions battled through him, until one overpowered the rest.

Anakron laughed out loud.

"What's so funny?" Panakeia asked with a smile on her lips but a frown on her brow.

"You've been hit with the dweomer. You believe in a false religion." Anakron couldn't stop chuckling. "Worse yet, yours is from an anakronistic teevee show!" Anakron howled with laughter.

Panakeia scowled, not liking his mockery. "I resent that!"

Anakron tried to stifle his humor and waved off her resentment good naturedly. "No, no, it's okay. You can have your religion, no real harm in it, far as I can see, all about peace throughout the federation and all that. Believe what you will. But I think we can have a little fun with this. I think I'll give Skittles a little religion too, and I ought to see how Lûgnût is coming along. And you can save me from myself while you're at it," he grinned. "Come along!"
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Old 06-16-2006, 09:53 AM   #28
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Roggie drew himself to his incredibly substantial full height and glared down at Santar, for though Santar was tall, he was no match for a fully grown balrog feeling mean.

"You asked me, Santar, if I knew you. I know you. All of Middle Earth knows you! For once you called yourself differently, but Santar, though you may change your name and your shape," Roggie eyed Santar's belly with disdain, "You can never change who you are... or who you once were.

"You call now, Santar, upon goblins; you call them elves. They were elves, once, before your master took them and tortured them beyond recognition. Not only did you take their long lives and good humor, their kindness, and their majesty, but your master took their height and honor! These elves, as you call them, wear jingling bells and red and green tights. They were shoes with buckles and look downright silly, as no elf ever could. You may change their names, as you did yours, Santar, but they will never be elves just as you will never be one loved by the children of this Middle Earth.

"You may call yourself the lord of gifts, Santar, and you may believe yourself to be, but you are, as were you ever, Annatar, and even Sauron, and you are not welcome here."

Santar drew himself up in his rage but Roggie did not let him speak.

"You once seduced the elves of Eregion with your beauty and cunning, yet both attributes have you lost. Now... in all of your flaccid glory, you have sunken to this level: to play the part of an anakronistic travesty and work as a miserable old man in a red suit to cater to the delinquent children in my casino...

"Santar, if that is how you desire to be known, we are of an Age. We were never meant for this time, yet we were here, and we were, of old, matched for strength and wit. Yet you, Lord of Gifts... how you have let yourself go."

Roggie balanced upon his peg leg, looking down his nose at the maia that had formerly run Mordor.

"This land is mine, Santar. You lost your right to it when you let a three foot tall furry creature destroy your jewelry. Does that sound like an entity that deserves power over a kingdom? I think not. You have fallen, Santar, from the most powerful being in this Middle Earth to being an elderly fat man upon whose lap small children sit and beg for goodies they do not deserve. You worked for me, Santar. Does that not make you sad, to have fallen so far from grace?

"I told you before, that you shall not pass, but now, Santar, I will tell you more. You are not welcome in Mordor and you are not welcome in Middle Earth. The world knows that you were destroyed, yet they are blissfully unaware as to what destruction entails. They knew you fell, but they do not know to what.

"Santar, you shall not pass this bridge, though I remember it once having been located many hundred miles from here. Wheresoever it is, you shall not pass it. And nor shall you ever again pass the Door of Doom, lest you meet your own.

"Do you hear what I say, Santar?"

The man in red cowered now before Roggie, shamed before the audience of a dwarf and minotaur.

"I hear what you say, King Roggie."

Roggie glared from above and Santar met his eyes, but reluctantly.

"You realize, Santar, that your powers are all but gone? You have nothing left, not even impressive physical form. You will not try to seek revenge again. You will leave my palace and casino and I will not see you again. Am I understood?"

Santar nodded and slunk, so much as a very large man in jello-red pyjamas can, into the shadows and never bothered, nor was seen by, Roggie again.

"Tollin, Dwarf-whose-name-I-don't-remember... where next?"

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Old 06-20-2006, 02:59 AM   #29
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The side of the Mountain was a little blackened, probably due to the road dirt and lava flows it had experienced over the years. About the base of the mountain, a small crowd had gathered, some were complaining about the vast amount of damage done by Mount Zoom. Smilog looked back and saw the tracks the Mountain had left, along with a long line of destruction and doom. There was also an ambulance that was taking Andvarri to a near by hospital, but it turned out that Mount Zoom was in the way.

Tollin and Roggie walked on a little behind Smilog who was trying to climb as fast as he could, while the other two walked at a sensible pace. "Come along!" cried the Dwarf, "Get a move on!" Tollin threw a rock at Smilog's head, without any real reason. He helped him up and apologised. Roggie sniffed the air and whistled a little tune to himself; Jerusalem to you and me, perhaps, but to the birds it meant that the supper was ready. Thousands of flying creatures flocked to the scene, looking for some food, and all they found was the three odd travellers on the Mountainside.

"Oh goodie," sighed Smilog, "we'd better get under cover!" he looked around and saw that Tollin and Roggie had already done so. In a slightly annoyed way, Smilog dived under a rock and awaited the birds to depart and stop following them. "Blast that Roggie and his whistling!" he cried, a little too loud. A rock flew against his head once again.

All of a sudden, the birds began to disperse as a louder sound began to rise. The three travellers rose from their hiding places and looked around to see what it was. It was defiantly in the air and getting closer, "A dragon?" said Tollin, looking at Roggie who shook his head.

"No," he answered, "too quiet!"

"Quiet!" exclaimed Smilog, "I'd hate to see a Dragon then!" At that moment, a large, blue and white helicopter flew into view and began hovering above the three of them, blowing dust and ash all around and making them feel uncomfortable. A large megaphone was lowered out of the bottom of it and a loud, but not too commanding, voice came out of it.

"Is this your mountain?" it asked.

"Yes!" answered Roggie, "But it's not supposed to have wheels, you see!" Fortunately, his natural Balrogian lungs made his voice loud enough to go over the sound of the helicopter. There was a moment of silence while the people in the helicopter discussed things.

"I am officer Jim," they said at last, "your vehicle is illegally parked across 900 disabled parking spaces!" He paused for effect, "in accordance with police code 9 4 5 6 2 section c-"

"'No officer may be caught wearing an orange toupee?'" said another voice, "I think you mean section b."

"Yes, 'b'" said Jim, "it doesn’t matter. I'm going to have to ask you to move it or it'll be clamped!"

Tollin raised his head and spoke into Roggie's ear. He nodded and shouted, "Do you have a big enough clamp?" there was silence from the police for a few moments.

"Yes?" came the unsure voice of Jim, "And if we don't we will open fire, just for the heck of it!" Smilog didn't like the sound of this and waved to the other two that they should continue on their journey. "Hey!" cried Jim, "don't walk away! I've not finished with you yet!" but they continued on their way, walking towards Sauron's road.
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Old 06-20-2006, 10:55 AM   #30
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Alli dismounted her vehicle, leaving it parked inconveniently in the middle of nowhere, and led the trio away. They walked in silence, Alli slightly ahead and the others trailing behind, for perhaps five minutes.

"How much further is it, pray?" Bearugard voiced. "We are not accustomed to lengthy walks."

"This is hardly lengthy," Alli replied without looking back. "Still... we should have been there by now."

Her voice belied no insecurity, but a small wave of panic rushed over the three Gondorians. What if even their guide were lost in these lands?

"Ah, there it is after all," she said, pointing to a small tavern. The three gazed at it. It seemed like an oasis of rationality in this nation of nonsense. The pub sign showed a small hammer. The roof was low and thatched, the walls wattled, the door solidly wooden of Gondorian stock. This could be a home away from home. Never mind the casino to the left and the school to the right (Gondorian children these days were denied education as a matter of course).

They entered the building. Angawen at least could not help but expect the interior to be horribly perverted in some Mordorian way - such was the nature of Mordor. It could not possibly possess something so Gondorian. But the innards of the building reflected its outer appearance.

Alli smiled at the Gondorians before choosing a seat. Bearugard and Hyarmenwë smiled back, clearly relaxing.

Angawen pursed her lips. Nothing in Mordor could be this normal. She looked around suspiciously. She awaited something - she didn't know what; perhaps an event, or a person, or an object - that would thwart the normalcy around her. But nothing seemed forthcoming.

Reluctantly, she settled into her chair and tuned in to the conversation.

"-want to order?" Alli finished.
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Old 06-20-2006, 12:02 PM   #31
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"Aren't you a bit domineering for a chorus-girl? It doesn't suit you, m'dear. What you need is some old-fashioned patriarchal treatment-someone should, oh, I don't know, carry you off on horseback and imprison you on some desolate farm, guarded by a wise-cracking cynic and a gentle giant. That ought to drill some winsome submission into you..."

Lola lifted an eyebrow delicately in Dracomir's direction as she walked down the dim passage way, heels clicking against the stone floor.

"Aww...," she said, reaching over and pinching his cheek, as one might a child's. "You're such a cutie, baby..."

She let him go, ignoring the look of outraged pride on his thin face, her gaze returning to their path. "And you've been living in Gondor far too long. You're home now! Back in Mordor! Don't you remember rampant feminism?" Or are you too caught up in old-fashioned male chauvinism? she thought.

"Besides," she continued, accompanying this statement with a toss of her honey-blond mane. "I'm not a chorus-girl. I'm a Diva."

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Old 06-20-2006, 12:04 PM   #32
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Hookbill the Goomba is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Hookbill the Goomba is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Hookbill the Goomba is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Hookbill the Goomba is lost in the dark paths of Moria.
"There it is!" cried Smilog, as the helicopter got closer, sending dust and ash flying all around, "Lets get there quick!" they all dashed over the rocks and boulders towards the Road Sauron had made to the Crack of DOOM! Smilog slipped down a small pseudo cliff and scrapped his knee, but Tollin and Roggie leaped over him and almost didn't notice him. Eventually, Tollin picked up the Dwarf and ran towards the road.

The helicopter swooped down and officer Jim hung out of the side holding a large machine gun and proceeded to fire randomly towards the three. Fortunately, the dust cloud had made it almost impossible to be able to aim properly, but he still managed to hit Smilog in the shoulder. Roggie turned to look towards the helicopter, he then stretched forth his shadow in order to further hide them from sight.

At that moment, a large black creature screeched through the air, breaking the glass of the helicopter. It was a great shadow, and it descended like a falling cloud. It was a winged creature: if bird, then greater than all other birds, and it was naked, and neither quill nor feather did it bear, and its vast pinions were as webs of hide between horned fingers; and it stank. A creature of an older world maybe it was, whose kind, lingering in forgotten mountains cold beneath the Moon, outstayed their day, and in hideous eyrie bred this last untimely brood, apt to evil.

It swooped down and picked up Roggie and Tollin (who was holding Smilog) and lifted them up into the sky, just past the police copter. Further and further they went up into the sky, Mount Zoom becoming smaller below them and the Police slowly following. They broke through the clouds and there beheld a sight they thought they would never see.

High and jagged marble walls and a large terrible tower, all seemed illuminated by a strange pale moonlight. Paler indeed than the moon ailing in some slow eclipse, was the light of it, wavering and blowing like a noisesom exhilaration of decay, a corpse-light, a light illuminated by nothing. In the walls and tower windows showed, like countless black holes looking inwards into emptiness; but the topmost course of the tower revolved slowly, first one way, then another, a huge ghostly head, leering into the night. In its four corners were great wires leading up and up towards the nine (or eight at the moment) fell beasts of the Nazgûl

This was Minas Mor-go, in flight and as terrible as ever. Smilog gulped and hid his face from the sight as the ninth beast flew right into the city and set them down. They were in a darkened street, empty and stinking of death and doom. Slowly, Roggie rose and peered around, not looking too pleased with the situation. All of a sudden, "Here," said a voice, deep and cold, which seemed to come out of the ground, "I am waiting for you!"

"Who are you?" asked Tollin, taking his Morning Star in hand, "Where are you? What are you? So on and so forth!" There was no reply at first, only a dead, sleepless silence, like the uncomfortable silence after mistaking your spouse’s grandfather for your grandmother. Then a large, green skinned, rotten figure rose from a hole in the ground. Or, rather, half rose and got stuck in the middle.

"Ah, not again!" it said, "You couldn't give me a hand, could you?" They did and saw that it was a man, but dead and rotten, with armour of the numenorians. "Thank you," he continued when he had dusted himself off, "I am a Barrow Wight!" Smilog walked up to him and examined his golden apparel.

"Smilog the Dwarf," he said, "at your service." The Barrow Wight slapped the dwarf across the face and then drew back.

"Sorry, old chap," said the confused Wight, "I don't know why I did that." Just then, the Police helicopter flew over the city and the Barrow Wight lead them into the tower. They went to the top where there were a series of controls. The Wight took the helm and began to drive the city through the air. The control room had windows looking in every direction. The city zoomed over the clouds while being chased by the Police. Gunshots could be heard and bits of marble chipped off and the Barrow Wight cursed. They flew down towards the beach and the LA Sea. Over the water they flew at inconsolable speed while the police copter still remained hot on their tail.

The Barrow Wight made a violent turn on the controls and the city turned smoothly around and then began to fly back up again. The police were left behind for a moment before they too flew upwards. The city climbed almost vertically and Tollin nearly fell out of a window. The City glided up and down across the LA skyline, twisting and turning between buildings while the Police copter remained on their tale. Swiftly, the Wight moved the controls back, moving the city up and up, getting steeper, they sent so steep that the city went upside down and ended up behind the police copter.

With a wide smirk, the Barrow Wight flipped open a small box to his side and pressed the button it revealed. Small goblins were fired out of catapults toward the copter, smashing through its metal work and sending the blue flying machine into the sea. Moving faster than lighting, the Wight moved the city back above the clouds and turned it around and began to descend back towards Mount Zoom.

"Sorry about that, chaps," said the Wight, "jolly good show, though, don't you think?"

"I think I'm going to be sick," said Smilog.

“Why help us?” asked Roggie, “and what are you doing in Minas Mor-go? Isn’t it the Witch King’s vehicle?”

“Well, my dear old thing,” coughed the Wight, “the Witch King was destroyed at Pelenor. After the war of the Ring, Morgul was left mostly ignored by the Gondorians. Yes, they occasionally came for visits, but in the end they forgot about its full power! But we Barrow Wights, while on a holiday, came across it and tried to see if the legends were true, that this marvellous thing could be used as a racing machine. We got together some fell beasts, some wire and tally ho! We were off! But we wanted to use the Mor-go machine for good.”

“Do you know of project zoom?” asked Smilog,

“Of course, old bean! That’s why we were following it. We wanted to destroy all the Zoom projects around Middle Earth (ending with this thing, obviously) in case they fell into the wrong hands. Already we have gotten rid of Minas Tax, Medel Zoom, Orth Tank and last week we did Barad dash! Mount Zoom was the prise, my dear fellow! We were just getting ready to work on it, when it up and rolled away! We did the only thing we could, we got our Mor go out and chased it all the way here.”

“But why did you rescue us?” asked Roggie, “thank you for that, by the way.”

“Oh, not at all, my dear fellow,” the Wight pored himself some tea, “I knew it was you, Roggie, who was running the casino and that in the Mountain. And you, Smilog, I knew about your father, of course. Poor thing. Anyway, we got here just in time it seems. Who is driving the Zoom project?”

“We do not know,” answered Tollin, “we are trying to find out. We need to get ot the crack of doom before it’s too late!”

“Then you had better take these,” said the Wight, signalling to another who had just entered. He gave them strange packs. “Just pull the little string there and you’ll glide down to the Mountain. Have a jolly, trip! Tally ho!”

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Old 06-27-2006, 02:54 AM   #33
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The Door opened with a creak and Smilog fell forwards into the Audience chamber, his helm fell off and rolled off under a table. He crawled after it and bumped his head on the table; he cursed the table and its entire family. Funnily enough, at that moment, the two trees closes to the tree this table had come from that were becoming entish, won the Fangorn Lottery. They later became great landowners in the west fold and lived in a giant house made of meat.

"Who are you?" said Roggie, looking at the dwarf as he rubbed his head and mumbled curses at the table, to no avail. Skittles stood nearby, ignoring all of this madness, which was odd, one would expect Skittles to revel in the Madness. Smilog put it down to Tollin's lack of showers in the last four hundred years.

"What do you mean?" grumbled Smilog, sitting on the floor, "We were just on a little mis adventure together. To the Crack of DOOM!" Roggie looked blankly at him, "I'm Smilog!" No reaction, "I passed you the salt that one time." he conceded and Roggie smiled.

"Oh, I remember you," he said, "Well, you'd better be leaving now. I don't need any salt. Tollin, take him away would you?"

"You miserable little-" shouted Smilog before a strange fellow on a broomstick flew in and whacked Smilog on the head, smashing him against the wall and knocking him unconscious.

"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," said the mysterious person who had opened the door. Roggie stood a little bemused, then a little amused, and then bemused again.

The Barrow Wight lent against the wall, puffing on his pipe and humming a little tune, to company himself. To many of you, it may have sounded like 'Rule Britania' but it was in actual fact the theme tune to a popular Barrow Downs Palantirvision talk show hosted by Wormtong. The Wight walked over to Roggie and lit his pipe again, using a flame from the Balrog's back. "Tally ho," he said, "I say I think that dwarf fellow is out cold, poor blighter."

"I'd sssay itss hard too getss cold in a volcanosss," said Tollin, "wakesss up missster Sssssmilog! Itsss breakfassst timess!" The Dwarf rose and wobbled around for a minuet.

"What about these negotiations, then?" stuttered the Dwarf.

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Old 06-28-2006, 12:41 PM   #34
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Angawen rounded the corner of the tavern, and halted in her tracks. Speech with the locals here would not be difficult - to preserve their Gondorian mannerisms, the people spoke Westron rather than the official English. But while she could theoretically converse with any of them, she did not much desire conversation with a lot of the crowd. Many of them looked like what would be simpleton peasants in Gondor. She saw only one table in this section of the inn where a presentable-looking man, clothed in respectable Gondorian clothes, though pink, sat by himself.

She walked towards the table, and slid in opposite him, smiling all the time. "Hello," she said, deciding to adopt Sindarin rather than Westron simply to exclude the rest of the inn from the conversation.

"Hail, Lady," said the man, looking up into her eyes. She noticed suddenly that he appeared to be one of the Haradrim. This should not have been shocking; one sporadically saw the shawled Haradwaith wandering the streets of Gondor, but she did not remember seeing any in Mordor.

"You much resemble the noblemen of Gondor in costume," she said to him, conscious of her limited time. "Tell me what brings you to this accursed land."

"Ah, 'tis a great muddle, I assure you, Lady. But allow me to introduce myself. I am Tugwubs."

Angawen was sure she had misheard. Not even the Haradrim had such odd names. "Sorry?" she inquired.

"Tugwubs."

"How does one spell that?"

"Tee, jee, dubbleyoo, bee, ess. Tugwubs, my Lady."
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Old 06-30-2006, 06:30 AM   #35
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That knock on the head had scrambled Smilog's brain a little and he staggered around the room as it slowly got more crowded. "Now," he stuttered, "listen here Reginald,"

"Roggie," said the King,

"That’s it!" Smilog fell over, "we're getting nowhere fast. This mountain here wont be moving until whoever is driving it has some snacks. I say that we re-start those negotiations, seeing as we have little better to do." Tollin sat on a table, but it collapsed under his weight and everyone stared at him, he smiled meekly and slunk into the corner and curled up into a ball.

The Barrow Wight blew a smoke ring over Roggie's head; Skittles stole the pipe and blew a cloud in the shape of a great monster that devoured the Wight's ring. Scowling, The Barrow Wight took the pipe back and blew a cloud that looked like sword that chopped the monster in two. Just as Skittles was about to retaliate, Roggie took the pipe off them and said, "You'll get it back at the end."

"I say," said the Wight, "bad form old chap. can’t a fellow have a lark now and again?" Roggie shook his head; he was too busy to be dealing with the antics of the un-dead, no matter how well spoken they were. "Dash and blast it," moaned The Barrow Wight, "that pipe belonged to my father until I stole it from him."

Smilog sat on a chair and rubbed his head, Tollin was rocking back and forth in the corner of the room singing a little tune. "Look, whoever you are," said Roggie to Smilog, "you're not the only one here, what do the others have to say about this?"

"Not a lot," observed the Barrow Wight, producing another pipe from a pocket in his cloak, "I can't say I know allot about what young Smilog is talking about-"

"Who?" said Roggie,

"Smilog, the Dwarf." The Wight blew another smoke ring, "but it seems to me, that the best thing to do would be to-" The Barrow Wight was stopped as Skittles knocked his head off. "Oh confounded children’s games! You won't be laughing much longer! Not when I bite you're jolly legs off!"
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Old 06-20-2006, 02:21 PM   #36
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Hyarmenwë eased his old bones onto a bench, soaking in the Gondorian feel of the building... The owners may have been Assigned to Mordor, but their establishment felt thoroughly Gondorian. It could easily have passed for an inn in Minas Tirith, or Emyn Arnen, or somewhere in rural Anórien. Even the clientele seemed mostly Gondorian in nature. It seemed that the eatery was a bit of a haven for those Mordorians who attempted to retain their pre-Assignment identities.

While Bearugard sniffed at the peasant-like quality of the food offerings (no pheasant or spit-roasted wild boar, such as he was accustomed to), and Angawen loudly requested drinks, Hyarmenwë's mind was not on food at all- it was on the patrons around him.

So thoroughly Gondorian in nature!

The thought was starting to haunt Hyarmenwë. These people were, or had been, ordinary, common people of Gondor. What unwitting or slight anakronisms had they been involved with to Assign them to Mordor? On the surface, at least, they LOOKED quite normal.

Not that Hyarmenwë had any plan of dwelling too long on thoughts of why people had been Assigned. That came too close to Assigning oneself. But the thought did occur to him that these people were mostly victims on the anakronisms- people who ought to have been good and loyal citizens of Gondor, and it occurred to him that as Keeper of the Keys of Minas Tirith, Ambassador of Gondor, and representative of the King, it was a part of his duty to ascertain that none of these Gondorians had been falsely Assigned. After all, they looked so normal...

But Hyarmenwë had no intention of being Assigned to Mordor himself, so he turned to the expert on all things Mordor.

"Milady Umfuil," he addressed Alli, "if I may ask, does speaking with those Assigned to Mordor- even those who are themselves anakronisms itself constitute grounds for Assignment?"

Angawen looked up from her just-received drink, a look of calculating curiosity on her face. Bearugard seemed not to have noticed.
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Old 06-20-2006, 02:58 PM   #37
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Alli basked in being surrounded by people much like those she had known in her former days. Though she'd been hidden away by her parents for most of her life, she'd made friends easily with those few she met. It was a wonder that she was not more antisocial than she was, given her warped childhood. She ordered hot spiced cider and was well pleased with the sweet zing of it as she pondered Hyarmenwë's question.

"I should think that it would not..." she began, looking around. "My lord, I cannot be certain, but..."

A voice spoke in her ear and she smiled, feeling a peace fall over her in its presence. She continued, now sure.

"My lord, it will not harm you in any way, excepting that occasionally too much knowledge acts as a catalyst for self-harm. But I do not forsee that happening... You should not fear conversing with the locals... at least not those in this establishment. Others... well... they will not get you Assigned, but they might actually harm you. There are many people in Mordor of an unsavory nature, if you catch my meaning."

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Old 06-21-2006, 03:53 AM   #38
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"Wait a moment," said Smilog as he placed the so called 'paros shoot' on his back. "whe you say you 'got rid of' the other zoom projects, what do you mean? Did you detroy Minas Tirith?" They had been walking from the tower to the wall while they spoke.

"Of course not!" laughed the Barrow Wight, "that would be completely unnecessary! We merely removed its engine and axel, filled in the holes it left with concrete, all under cover of darkness, obviously. But Mount Zoom... Well, that’s another story."

Roggie was about to leap towards his casino, when he suddenly got interested and turned to the large, rotting corpse and said, "What do you mean?" his suspicions had grown concerning the ulterior motives of this creature.

"Well," said the Wight with a little cough, "you see, old spice, Mount Zoom was the original! It works differently to the others. Besides, the knowledge and roumer of it go far back and deep into the memories of all evil things. If just one had the will, they could turn it to evil once again."

Tollin and Smilog stood on the high wall, looking down at the ominous mountain on wheels that had left a lot of LA in ruins as it had driven in. The crowd was getting a little too curious and some began to climb the mountain, but they soon stopped, as the engine would 'rev' every time one tried. Roggie looked worried and began to sweat, not a good thing for a creature of fire to do, you might think, and you'd be right. "Project Zoom," said the Wight, "must be destroyed! Mountain and all!"

"I cannot allow that," said Roggie, almost with tears, "I built that casino from nothing! It's my pride and joy! I won't let you destroy it! I'm going to find out who is driving it and stop them! Then," he paused for effect, "then I am going to take the mountain back to where it belongs and deal with Mardil!"

"You are a fool, Rogggie," said another Wight, "a reckless fool!" Several Wights took Roggie by the arms and tried to take him away, "We can't allow Project Zoom to continue, and you are a threat to our mission!" Then, slowly and solemnly, the Wights began to sing...

Cold be hand and heart and bone,
And cold be sleep under stone:
Never more to wake on stony bed,
Never, till the sun fails and the moon is dead.
In the black wind the stairs shall die
And still on gold here let him lie,
Till the Wight Lord lifts his hand
Over peaceful sea and zoom-less land

WHAK! Went Smilog's axe as it took off the head of a Wight. Tollin followed suet and swung his morning star with all his might. They released Roggie and dashed to the wall. Then Roggie had and idea, he took Smilog's axe and ran to the nearest fell beast wire and began to hack away. More and more Wights began to come, crying, "Don't do it! Are you insane?" yet he hacked still more. Eventually, the beast was freed and it flew away. The others got scared and dragged the city, lopsidedly over the sea. Before it got too far, Smilog, Tollin and Roggie all leaped off, releasing their paros shoots and gliding towards the Mountain of Zoom.

The dwarf turned around to see the terrible city sinking into the horizon, yet the calls of the Wights could still be heard. Roggie landed first and removed the 'paros shoot' gladly and threw it away. They were quite near the top of the mountain, and could see the crack of doom below them, no more than a hundred yards away. Tollin landed last and cast off his 'paros shoot', he looked into the horizon and could not see the city of the Wights.

Slowly, they began to climb down once again, trying to get to the fabled crack of DOOM and so put an end to this moving mountain. Yet, none of them saw the skeletal figure that rose out of one of the paros shoots and began following them in a Gollum-like manner. If dramatic music could be included, such a time as now would be appropriate.
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Old 06-22-2006, 12:33 PM   #39
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Panakeia sauntered up to Anakron, with some bit of fight in her she had apparently saved up for him. "Hello, Anakron. What was that about? The Wizards, I mean."

So he had been wrong. He had been hoping that maybe she could keep him from becoming the evil that raged within; instead she seemed to have a score to settle. He was not prepared for this. Far from it.

"Don't. Make. Me. Hurt. You."

There. That had released just enough to take the edge off. He hoped she would not say something that would send him over the brink.

Panakeia's exasperation showed only in a brief sigh. Make him hurt her? How ridiculous.

She told him so, though not in those words. "I can't make you hurt me, Anakron. No one can make you do anything. Only you can choose whether or not to hurt me." She sighed again, this time more pitying than annoyed. "If you don't want to talk about what the Wizards said, then don't. I was just curious. It's not every day that the Blue Istari decide to grant Panakeia of Harad their attention. I wondered why.

"But I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you. Really. Not this 'doomed to evil' business. You're not. You just took back the anakronism, didn't you? I'm not a Trekkie anymore. You must have. And that's encouraging."

Why did Anakron seem so enraged?

She didn't understand. I can't make you do anything, only you can choose. An anakronism from that awful future being spouted at him from her own lips! So glib. So self assured. So in danger. Her prattling was sending him back to the edge. Not evil.

Between clenched teeth he let out an inarticulate scream. Panakeia's eyes widened and she took a step back. Just one.

"Was that supposed to be how you'd hur-"

He threw down the staff and closed the distance between them in two quick strides. Her shoulders rose and she grimaced as he grabbed her by the back of the neck, forcing her head up so that their eyes met: he glared into hers.

"Yes, Panakeia of Harad, I am not evil .... yet," he bit. "The dweomer is!" He inhaled with a hiss. "Poor little Elempi hasn't much left to stave off Anakron and the dweomer. And you're not helping!" He let go of a sudden, the force snapping her head back.

The seething within seemed to drink from his action rather than release anything from him. He turned from her and paced back and forth like a big dog in a too small cage. He was ashamed of his use of force, especially on her, but he could not help it. He turned on her again.

"I do not have a choice in the matter! You have seen for yourself I am at their beck! They care not whether I win or fail, they'll find themselves another Anakron, one who will not stave off the worst of the dweomer. Do you think the false religions were bad? You have not seen forced relocation or scorched earth or genocide. Do you not see? They are not happy with me! They want me to bring destruction down on Mordor!"

He resumed his pacing, afraid to leave the alley, allowing Panakeia to serve as his jailer of sorts.
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Old 06-22-2006, 12:39 PM   #40
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Panakeia stood glaring at Anakron, red-faced, furious, humiliated. For the second time today, he had treated her roughly. He had no right to do so, Grand Anakronist, Servant of the Blue Istari, or whatever else he chose to call himself.

But still, she wanted to scream at him. How could he be so incredibly blind to his own heart? They'll find themselves another Anakron, one who will not stave off the worst of the dweomer. He still cared about what happened. He still cared about doing what was right. That, Panakeia thought, was not not the mark of an evil man, nor yet one who wished to become evil, but rather the sign of one struggling against the dark.

He was so infuriating! Determined to stumble along to evil, mistreating her, and refusing to admit any choice in the matter. But not evil. Not yet, as he said. And everything she did went amiss. She was burning. So she did the only thing a lady in her position could do. Panakeia stepped toward Anakron, cheeks still flaming, her right hand outstretched. Anakron glared down at her, defying her, daring her to act on her thought.

Panakeia dared. In a swift motion, she snatched Anakron's staff from the ground and slapped the inert Sylvester silly.

"Stupid Dweomer! I hate you! I hate you!" She shouted it over and over, until, in a last fit of frustrated rage, she hurled the staff into a pile of garbage in the alley.

She then stared back at Anakron, despairing and unhappy. "You showed me something, Anakron. You showed me something important. If only you would see it yourself. You're right. If you walked away, the Istari would merely find a replacement. But consider this too. If you turn evil, the Istari will also dispose of you. They won't risk the possibility of your attempting to set yourself in their place. As they fear you would. If they didn't why would they have told me to keep you in line? So long as you remain in fear of them, serving their will, but not going too far, they'll keep you. But it won't solve the Dweomer problem. The only way for you to save yourself - and to satisfy that part of your conscience demanding that you keep the Istari in check - is to break the Dweomer. I don't know if it's even possible, Anakron. I don't pretend to understand con...konveyances or the power behind them. But I do understand that it's making you something you aren't. And that it's evil. And that Middle-earth would be better off without it. You should destroy it if you can. I was under the influence of the Dweomer when I said it first, but I believe it still.

"There's something else too. I see now that I'm not helping you. I don't understand why. I've tried. Maybe you can't or won't hear me now. Or when you do listen, it only makes things worse. I wish it weren't so, but I'm afraid it is."

Panakeia bit her lip, repressing the tears that threatened to well up again. Why, after everything he'd done today, after her resolutions to leave, did Anakron still have such a hold over her? But she went on, carefully avoiding Anakron's gaze, hoping he would maintain his stony silence, but hoping even more that he would at last understand and turn from this madness. That he would speak kindly to her at last.

"And so, Anakron, I'm taking your advice. I'm going away. Not to Ithilien, at least not yet. But I think it would be better for the both of us if we had some time apart. I'll be here, in Lost Angles, until the morning. Then I don't know where I'll go. I haven't decided. Think of what I've said, and if you find it in yourself to hear me, come! Please, come!" As a sudden wave of tenderness swept over her, Panakeia reached for Anakron's hand. But, almost as if her touch burnt him, he withdrew it. She bit her lip again, and stared at him, both questioning and sorrowful.

"Good-bye, Anakron."

Her head bent, she turned and walked away. Anakron retrieved his staff and started back to Mount Doom.

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