Assigned to Mordor RPG

[piosenniel]

A crowd had gathered in the early overcast morning in the courtyard of Caer Pairadocks, the major port on the Nurnien Sea, from which two great docks stretched into the waters of the sea. The people stood in eager anticipation, for from their number would be chosen that day a small group of people who would be given the chance to escape from Mordor ... on condition that they could pass the tests set by the Grand Anakronist .

The land of Mordor held only the memory of the Dark Lord who had once ruled there with a cruel, iron will. The cataclysm that had come hard upon the heels of the Ring's destruction had changed Udûn and the Plateau of Gorgoroth into a string of deep chasms. Roads snaked from chasm to chasm for the sake of the king, who's Assigned Prisoners worked the gravel pits of old Udûn and Gorgoroth, from which stone was quarried for the buildings and roads of the empire. Luckier ones worked in the grain fields and cattle farms of the Nurnien plains, or the fisheries of the sea. The least fortunate worked the mines of the mountains, where it was said nameless evil things still crawled.

At long last, flugel horns flaired, and out from Caer Pairadocks strode the personage they had all been waiting for. Every last member of the crowd strained their necks to catch a glimpse of the august figure in whose staff was held the mystery of the Anakronism Dweomer. His black, wide brimmed hat hid his features, and his black robe shrouded his lanky frame. He came to a stop at the centermost point of the platform. Behind him rose the pinnacles of the Caer; to one side spread the sea, to the other, the town and fields beyond. The man's name was Anakron Istkon Vayor. All knew him by sight. He surveyed the crowd, and addressed them in his austere manner.

"On this auspicious day, a lucky few of you shall be given the chance to overcome the Anakronism Dweomer, to escape from Mordor, and to receive the clemency of the king, may he live forever. As you know, the Anakronism Dweomer has rendered the empire, but especially Mordor, a land cursed with all manner of evils from a terrible future time. It is most distressing to know that a future age of Middle Earth will have fallen to such depths as to be filled with so many degradations as we have seen in this land; but such is the fate of Middle Earth.

"The lucky few shall be known as the Offending Party. Their task, should they choose to accept it, is to confront three/five/seven/ten anakronisms as tests to be passed, trials to endure, or challenges to be overcome ... or all three at once, depending upon the nature of the anakronism. Should the Offending Party succeed, they shall be free to go wherever they will in Middle Earth, perhaps even to Rohan, with the king's and moderators' blessings.

"And now to choose the Offending Party."

At this, Anakron raised the Anakronist Staff, which issued what sounded like a shrill meow followed by a feline hiss, and before the eyes of all gathered, a shiny, many-coloured box rose from the ground, accompanied by oohs and aahs from the crowd. When it had stopped rising, it stood as tall as Anakron himself, and seemed to look out at the crowd with its single, dark, square eye. It was an Anakronism Transaction Mechanism, otherwise known as ATM. Anakron spoke.

"I shall now insert the king's writ, which I hold in my hand, into the slot on the right, and out of the other to the left, will come the names of the Offending Party."

Anakron inserted the card. Runes appeared in white on the dark screen, in a language and lettering formerly unknown, and by some held to be worse than the Black Speech of the Orcs, but which had now become all too familiar in Mordor: Modern English. The screen said: Deposit, Withdrawal, or Transfer? Anakron pressed the button to the right of transfer. The screen produced new runes: Please wait while your transaction is processed. The crowd groaned as one with impatience; they had become familiar with ATMs during their tenure in Mordor. An "aah" went up from the crowd as a card came out of the left hand slot, accompanied by a new message on the screen: Please take the record of your transfer. Anakron took the slip from the slot, after which the screen's message changed to Thank you. Please come again. Anakron read off the names of the soon to be Offending Party: "Alumìn-E Umfuìl." The following transactions in turn produced the following names: "Panakeia of Harad; Fléin son of Fréin of the Ironfists; Wilhelmina Brochenbach; Mardil II; Sai Onara; Valde Delego".

-- littlemanpoet

[piosenniel]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post


Alli stood moping in the back of the crowd gathered at Caer Pairadocks and glared moodily at all those who jostled her. It was not nearly late enough in the morning for this sort of thing, and the fact that she had been all but ordered to attend this... this... this ceremony, as it were... it boiled the blood in her veins. At least she wasn't at work, she thought with disgruntlement. The job of affixing wings to balrogs was a difficult one, trying to work in shadow, and the worst was, all balrog-wingers tended to get burned on a regular basis by the foolish beasts that refused to adopt the reality of the situation with grace. She grimaced at the raw blisters on her hands. They would heal quickly... if the mostly inept physicians that populated Mordor had one thing going for them, it was that they were excellent at treating burns. Suddenly the very flugellic sound of horns met Alli's ears.

It had to be horns, she thought. No hope for any creativity... She glared with renewed passion at the men that shoved past her to reach the front of the crowd. Suddenly there was a hush. An austere voice split the air like lightening, leaving the crowd tingling with anticipation. Even Alli perked up, morning though it was. A chance to get out of Mordor? she thought. An inconsiderate smoker lit up in front of her just as the wind decided to caress Alli's face. She forgot the ceremony as she choked, her eyes beginning to water. Gasping for breath, she was grabbed by a nearby nurse.

"On a scale of one to ten," the woman said, "how much does it hurt?"

Alli ignored her, stumbling her way through the crowd and away from the smoke that burned her lungs. Suddenly she realized that she was standing right beside a tall man, clad entirely in black. As she fell forward, catching herself just before she skinned her knees, the man turned to her with an aristocratic sneer. She gasped as she noticed the Anakronism Dweomer in his grasp. He turned from her, caring little for the antics of a girl barely into womanhood, and addressed the ATM before him. Alli whispered to the kindly looking old woman next to her.

"What are you in for?" she asked, curiously.

"Me? Well, my word. How that's any of your business, I'll never know." Alli looked incredulously at the easily offended woman and turned away from her, looking for an understanding face. She found one in the form of a very good looking young man. He seemed to be stifling laughter.

"Are you laughing at me?" she asked as the ATM took an absurdly long time to continue its processing.

"Sure I am. Are you going to get offended?" he responded. She looked at him in momentary shock and then laughed. "I'll bet you're wondering what this whole ceremony is for."

"How did you know!?" she gasped.

"I'm am a Seer... in the distant future, I will be called "psychic". I tried to explain my foresight and was put here by the King's writ. But this..." he gestured toward the crowd, the man... the ATM. "There's been news. A certain number of Assignees are being given a chance to leave Mordor."

"Wha-" she began, suddenly remembering the voice that had reached even over the bustling crowd. "Oh, yes... I heard that part. How are they chosen?"

He responded with an ironic smile. "The ATM. The ATM handles all transactions in these parts."

"I should have known."

Suddenly the crowd went silent as the proverbial grave. The ATM had spat out a piece of paper. Anakron took it with his abnormally long fingers and glanced at it for a moment.

"The first member of the Offending Party is..." he began. Alli recognized the look in his eye. It was the look that never failed to accompany a mis-pronunciation of her name. She hoped and prayed, and then, remembering that hoping for proper speech had never worked before, merely prayed. She could not bring herself to be excited... she simply murmered over and over the right way... He continued finally. "Alumin--" Don't say it! she thought annoyedly. The letter is superfluous. It's not supposed to go there! You don't need to say it! "Alumìn-E Umfuìl." he finished at last.

"Alli!" she cried, stepping forward. "My name is Alli. If you can't say Alumine Umfoil properly, just," she now paused between words for effect, "say," she paused again, "Alli." Suddenly it struck her properly. "Wait..." she murmered, incredulous. "I can go home? I can see Enaichel play his games again? I can tell my parents that now that I've had a real job, I actually appreciate how well I had it before?"

Anakron looked at her with disdain. "If the ATM says it is true, then it is." He turned from her with a cold swish of his cloak as another name was expelled from the machine.

[piosenniel]

Celuien's post


Near the back of the crowd gathered on Caer Pairadocks, a small disturbance was growing around Panakeia of Harad, Seller of Health and Beauty Products. Her shrill voice rang out over the crowd “Wrinkle-Away Skin Firming Solution! Take ten years off your face instantly! Only two silver pennies. Two silver pennies! Step right up.” A few purchasers hurried up to her stand, but a pair of stern guards swiftly chased them off. There would be no selling on Caer Pairadocks today. At least, not without a properly sanctioned license, sealed in triplicate with official red tape.

Panakeia glared at the officials, a look of annoyance on her face. Coming here was such a misuse of valuable time. There was work to be done, and now she couldn’t even take advantage of the presence of the many assembled Mordor assignees to hawk her wares. But the day hadn’t been a total waste. A smile flitted over Panakeia’s lips as she thought of the Westron to Black Speech dictionaries she managed to sell on the journey to the meeting. Ordinarily, she would never have thought of selling something so far out of her usual line, but being factory rejects for gross mistranslations, she had picked them up for a pittance. And with all of the new people sent to Mordor recently, there had been a large demand for dictionaries in the Black Speech. She made a tidy profit from that transaction, but she hoped that no one would have the opportunity to use the dictionaries until she was safely on her way back to her own hut.

Panakeia closed up her product case and headed over to a bench to sit down. Her feet were killing her. Several people near Panakeia ostentatiously shielded their eyes as she walked past. She was wearing her trademark tangerine and chartreuse robes with plentiful gold jewelry. Panakeia noted the gesture and swept past in her grandest fashion, clinking her bracelets as she strode along. A titter rose in her wake.

“Idiots! Simpletons!” she thought. These people who laughed at her were the same ones she knew would flock to her stand the instant she was able to open for business. She would show them all, selling them potions and poultices as ineffectual as a posted speed limit. But even though she knew the Wrinkle-Away Skin Firming Solution, like most of her other creams, was nothing more than a variation on sawdust mixed with potato starch and a bit of beet juice (just for color), as her 50th birthday approached, Panakeia had started to use the creams too. Despite flattering herself that she really did look the 29 year old she claimed to be, deep down she knew that this was not the truth. Was she really all that different from the customers she despised in her despairing struggle to hold on to her vanishing (some would say vanished) youth?

Fortunately for her composure, Panakeia’s introspective mood vanished as quickly as it had arrived. She turned her attention to the proceedings at hand. She had only been giving half of her attention to Anakron’s grand speeches, and his use of the ATM barely registered on her mind. She tapped her high-heeled foot impatiently. Would this day ever end?

“Alumìn-E Umfuìl,” droned Anakron’s voice. Panakeia watched in amusement as the young girl stepped up to the ATM and corrected The Grand Anakronist’s pronunciation of her name. Then she sighed. It was always the young, pretty ones who were chosen. Panakeia kicked a stray pebble aside. Why would she want to leave anyway? Business was good in Mordor. “There’s a sucker born every minute, and it seems that they’ve all been sent here,” she mused. But somehow, a yearning for freedom to wander Middle-earth was growing in Panakeia’s mind, despite the favorable sales prospects she had found since arriving.

The ATM whirred again. Anakron announced the next name. “Panakeia of Harad.”

Panakeia blinked in astonishment. Here was her chance to leave! At the thought of freedom, the vision of a new sales empire reaching from Harad to the Grey Havens danced in her head. Quickly recovering her usual brashness, she strode up to the ATM and stood beside Alumìne Umfuìl. “Here, Anakron. Glad to see you’ve come to your senses at last and decided to let some of us out of here. All of this fuss and bother over Anakronisms was nonsense in the first place. When’s the first flight out of here?”

Anakron shook his head at the Anakronism in Panakeia’s speech. Without a word, he returned to the ATM screen to select the next member of the Offending Party.

[piosenniel]

Encaitare's post


"Oh, very well, Mr. Swanky. You may have some licorice even if it's not quite lunchtime yet." The old woman unscrewed the cap from the handle of her walking-stick and removed a licorice whip. She broke a little piece off the end and appeared to feed it to her garish hat.

"Daddy, look, that lady is giving her hat lunch!" a small girl noted, tugging on her father's sleeve.

The man took a look and said to his daughter, "Never you mind, hon. That's just old Wilhelmina Brokenback. She's crazy."

Luckily, Wilhelmina was a bit deaf and didn’t hear the exchange; otherwise the man would have gotten a smart whack with her walking-stick for calling her crazy and mispronouncing her name in the same breath. Instead, she slowly chewed the rest of the licorice herself, waiting for the selection of names to begin. If anyone deserved to get out of Mordor, she did. She'd been in the wretched land for more than fifty years, and although she'd gotten used to it, it would be nice to live in a place where speeding drivers didn't try to mow her down on her way to the corner store. Yet she had dwelt there for so long that she felt quite patient to wait for the names to be drawn. What were a few more minutes compared to the years already gone?

Around her, people were chatting excitedly. "The first thing I'm going to do if I get out of here..." was the phrase that was flying about. One shrill voice cut through the din; "Wrinkle-Away Skin Firming Solution! Take ten years off your face instantly!"

"'S that Panakeia loony again," Wilhelmina muttered to herself. "If you ask me, she could use some of that face cream stuff herself. Not that I'm one to talk, of course," she added, as though someone had called her hypocritical.

Suddenly, the crowd hushed as the Grand Anakronist stepped forth and cleared his throat. He announced that it was time to choose the lucky few who would comprise the Offending Party. Hundreds of eyes watched as the ATM rose from the ground, and everyone seemed to hold his (or her) breath as the transactions were completed.

"Alumìn-E Umfuìl," Anakron read. A pretty young girl pushed her way forward, griping about how he’d said her name wrong. "Panakeia of Harad," he continued. The saleswoman joined the first girl at Anakron’s side. The machine spat out a third card. The man squinted at it for a moment, and then read, "Wilhelmina Brochenbach."

Wilhelmina grinned and made her way to the front. "Good man!" she said jovially. "Got the ach-Lauts and everything! Did you hear that, Mr. Swanky? We’re going to get out of here!"

[piosenniel]

the guy who be short's post


Much as Fléin would have liked to have left Mordor, he simply didn't have enough energy to be enthusiastic. Being woken at four ante meridian by twittering songbirds was hardly the best way to start a day, but when said awakening is accompanied by discovering you have conjunctivitis - well, it's hard to deal with. After discovering that he was not, in fact, blind, but merely lacking in eyelid mobility due to a gooey discharge, Fléin had tried to rush blindly to the well. Unfortunately, fate was smiling down in a particularly twisted manner that day, and before he had taken five paces, Fléin was face down on the ground due to excess phlegm coating the floor.

Life in Mordor was never easy, but people have especially bad days even in the Black Land. So far, this appeared to be one of them. He had been in Mordor for only two years, maybe less, but the longing to leave was like a manic kitten in his heart - painful and stingingly noticable.

So it was that Fléin found himself behind a large crowd at Cair Pairadocks, hoping beyond hope that he would be chosen to leave Mordor.

The noise of flugel horns startled Fléin, causing him to blink, or rather, causing him to perform half of the action that is generally thought sufficient to be considered a blink. His eyes stuck shut.

"Blasted Conjunctivitis!" the Dwarf swore. He had visited a nurse just before coming to the docks, but she was a know nothing and hadn't been any help at all. In a way, it was perhaps nicer having ones eyes sealed shut. One didn't have to take into account the blasted landscape, or the even more blasted aspects of civilisation that had made their way into Mordor.

"Excuse me," Fléin intoned into the air at large. I've just gone temporarily blind. Little help, someone?"

"Blindness? How positively bestial. Do stay away from me, be a good fellow," a snotty upperclassman had replied.

The Dwarf sighed. Sometimes it was better to say nothing at all. He stuck his fists into his eyes and forcibly peeled them apart.

By this time, the Grand Anakronist had already declared the name of Alumìne Umfuìl as the first member of the Offending Party. Though he had freed his eyes (albeit they were streaming pus all over his face and into his beard) Fléin couldn't see her through the press of human bodies around him. From what he heard, he instantly disliked the girl. Here she was, given the chance to leave this curséd land - what a chance! - and all she could do was moan about her name.

Panakeia, the next name to be selected, turned out to be a woman who sounded even more annoying than Alumìne. What a buffoon, he thought. Thank goodness I'm not her, even if my eyes are melting.

Wilhelmia Brochenbach was next. What a disgusting name. And yet another woman? Suspicions about the Grand Anakronist's honour whizzed through Fléin's mind. But then again, why would he choose a whiny child, an idiotic saleswoman and an old bat out of all the women in Mordor?

The possibility that he was being bitter about his bad morning and taking it out, completely unjustifiably, on those running into a bit of luck flittered through Fléin's mind. He tried to make it go away.

"Fléin son of Fréin of the Ironfoots" the Grand Anakronist cried, his voice rolling through the courtyard.

"Ironfeet!" injected an annoying English teacher.

Fléin couldn't believe it. What a piece of luck! How wonderfully harmonious the universe seemed, that he should be given the chance to leave with those three fine women! "That's me! That's me!" he screamed. "Out of my way!"

The crowd parted around him, and he made his way up to the ATM and the Grand Anakronist himself. The latter eyed him with disdain. "It is, is it?" he intoned, looking down the length of his nose at the Dwarf.

"Er, yes, sir," Fléin meekly replied, but the Grand Anakronist had already turned to read the next card the machine had just excreted, so he stood there, smiling jovially at the whiner, the nutter and the old bat.

[piosenniel]

Kath's post


Sai opened her eyes and immediately closed them again as the world’s strange new habit of spinning was making her feel sick. Keeping her eyes closed she slowly sat up. As she did so she realised that every part of her body ached, like the time she’d sneezed and fallen off the climbing wall. Wondering what had happened she gingerly opened her eyes, and sighed in relief when she saw that her surroundings were still again. Her sigh was followed by an exclamation of surprise and shock. Where in all of Middle-Earth was she? Looking around she could see hundreds of things that would never be found in the normal world. There were hundreds of ATMs, with the people lining up in front of them all trying to cut the queue at the same time. There were small groups of people all over the place, arguing about language and spellings and the misuse of apostrophes, things Sai had always wished to speak about but was unable to because of their Anakronist status. As she was just thinking that these people would be dragged off to Mordor any minute, she suddenly realised, when she fainted she must have fallen off the cart as they passed through the gates. She must be in Mordor!

Along with this realisation came the fear. She was in Mordor! With all the nasty anakronisms that had been sent there over the years, along with some really nasty people. Speaking of people, she noticed a large group of them all crowded round a man who seemed to be standing on a large platform. Deciding that she wasn’t about to lie on the floor all day and feel sorry for herself Sai jumped up, ignoring the protests from various parts of her body, and began to make her way over. An osteopath, who came towards her with arms outstretched, just ready to try and crush her, immediately interrupted her progress but Sai was already unhappy with her situation, and just kicked him in the shin and carried on.

Reaching the edge of the group she began to squeeze herself through the barely there gaps, suddenly grateful for her slight stature. Still, she was constantly shoved and pushed by intolerant people all the way, and so she felt no guilt about lashing a foot back at the last person to do so as she reached the front. She could now see that there were four other people in the centre with the strange man and sought to satisfy her insatiable curiosity.

“What’s going on?” she whispered to the man standing next to her. He glanced down at her disdainfully and muttered something about teenagers answering back to their elders before turning away and ignoring her completely. Irritated about this since he had not said anything she could answer back to, Sai sidled over to another person and was about to ask them the same question when she heard her name being called.

“Sai Onara is the fifth person to have been chosen by the ATM!”

The voice came from the man in the middle and Sai looked at him in surprise. She half turned, expecting to see another person who happened to have the same name coming forward, but nobody else was moving. The man repeated the name a couple of times, and eventually Sai thought she’d better step forward. As she did so he swivelled round to her.

“You are Sai Onara?” he asked.

“Er, yes but I don’t . . .” she never did finish the question as he interrupted her.

“Go and join the others over there.” He said waving a hand in the general direction of the four people she had seen before and turned back to his machine.

Sai reluctantly did as she was told, hoping that at least this motley crew would give her some answers. The Dwarf didn’t look like he’d be much help, since he had yellow pus from what looked like conjunctivitis pouring from his eyes he probably didn’t even know where he was. Seeing another girl about her own age she finally got the chance to ask what was going on.

“Don’t you know?” she had replied in astonishment. “We’re getting out of Mordor!

[piosenniel]

the phantom's post


A loud knock at his bedroom door spurred Mardil into a state of slight consciousness.

"Wha- whass goin' on...mmm, jusss...go'way...m'sleepin'..." he mumbled, slipping back into slumber as he spoke.

The knock sounded again. Mardil opened his eyes. Annoyed, he grumbled, "Leave me alone," but the knock sounded again, accompanied by a "I have a message for you, Lord Mardil."

Mardil recognized the speaker. "Gundor, I told you I'm trying to sleep. I'll read my message later!"

"But Milord," protested Gundor, "The message is from the Grand Anakronist. The man who delivered it said it was imperative that it be given to you immediately."

Mardil rolled over onto his back and stretched his arms out above his head. "Well, I suppose now that I'm awake I might as well read it. Bring it to me."

The door to the well furnished room opened and a tall man with grey-flecked black hair entered, carrying a parchment in his left hand. He was dressed in finely crafted armor and held a spear in his right hand. "Here it is, Master," he said as he offered Mardil the parchment.

Mardil took the message and unfolded it. It read-

Lord Mardil II,

I know that you never bother to come to gatherings, even if they are declared mandatory, but I would strongly suggest joining the assembly in Caer Pairadocks this morning.

I know what you are thinking. You believe there is no way that your name will be chosen because the King's writ and pardon are involved, but I assure you, the King has no control over which names are picked. The selection is random. The only person that can influence the ATM machine is me- The Grand Anakronist.

And now that I've said that, let me just say that I have a strong feeling your name will be chosen.

If you do not arrive before noon you forfeit your chance of escape.

-The Grand Anakronist

Mardil sighed and handed the letter back to Gundor. "What did it say, Milord?"

"Go ahead and read it if you like, Gundor." Mardil sat for a moment staring at the wall, waiting for Gundor to finish.

After Gundor reached the end of the letter, he looked up. "I assume you are going to go, Lord Mardil?"

"I suppose. My life would certainly be easier back home than it is here, but... it wouldn't be as good as the way I left it. I'm worried that I would constantly compare my life with what it was before Mordor- and that would rob me of all joy. Perhaps it would be best to stay here."

"That may be true," said Gundor, "But if I may say so, Milord, there are more reasons to live than for joy and happiness. What about power, your family's honor and status, and revenge against those that wronged you? Surely those things are worth pursuing. Aren't those reasons good enough to leave Mordor for?"

Mardil smiled grimly. "Yes, Gundor, those are good reasons." After a short pause, Mardil stood to his feet and placed his hand on Gundor's shoulder. "You are a good and faithful servant, Gundor. I can't tell you how glad I am that you and Bregor chose to join me here. If I escape I will find a way to get you out of this place. I promise. Now, go and get Bregor and have him help you pack my things, and then load them onto a cart and deliver them to me in Caer Pairadocks. I will go on ahead to be sure I am there before noon."

----------

Mardil stood upon a balcony overlooking the courtyard of Caer Pairadocks. So far, The Grand Anakronist had called forward an overdressed middle aged lady, a short old lady, a dwarf, a slender girl who looked to be around seventeen, and a young lady who was overly touchy about the pronunciation of her name. I hope she isn't that touchy about everything. If she is, she will be a real pain to have along thought Mardil, though she certainly is easy on the eyes he observed as he looked her up and down for about the twentieth time.

The voice of the Grand Anakronist interrupted Mardil's musings. "Mardil II!"

Mardil waved from the balcony. The Grand Anakronist looked up at him and nodded.

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

From the moment her woke up, Valde knew that this day, of all days, would be different. He knew, the very second he felt his mind being dragged into consciousness, that his life would be changing very soon. It was suddenly as if this was a long day prophesized in a time long forgotten, though the memory had resurfaced in the man’s dreams. Perhaps it came from the remembrance of more pleasant mornings, when he had been wakened gently from a peaceful slumber on top of a fluffy feather mattress. He had been treated like a young prince-ling in Minas Tirith, and he had of course been as handsome as one then, too. The harsh lands of Mordor had worn him down to what he was, a man rejected by his past and constantly tortured by the present, but one who stood boldly in the face of the future. Now he was but a simple man, who yearned for more, and would stop at nothing to reach it.

Or so, at least, it was told to anyone who asked about that day.

The truth was, he had awakened that morning with many groanings and moanings, and had counted on spending his day in sorrowful meditation where of course everyone could see him. His first movement since falling asleep was to reach up and wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth. He then felt the pillow, found it wet, and decided that he must inform anyone who asked that he had cried himself to sleep that night, just in case anyone decided to give his pillow a feel. Stumbling out of his room, he cursed every object on the floor that he stepped on, wishing to give the sea life in the Nurn an impressive collection of ironware, quills, and empty ink pots, along with a large stack consisting of the not-yet-so-famous tragedies of Valde Delego, written for the stage.

Upon knocking down one such stack, Valde noticed a particular piece of parchment. It was larger than the rest, and the letters upon it were to match, glaring at him. It was almost as if he could see their eyebrows slanting and their lips curling, and so he quickly crumpled up the sheet to hide them. Angrily he threw it out his open window, and the falling paper was greeted with an unnaturally high-pitched squeal.

“Do not screech in my window, thee harpy!” he shouted upon rushing to stick his head outside, and then quickly he pulled the shudders shut with a slam. He regretted not saying more to the squealer, but decided that a solemn, silent curse would be enough until they met again. For but a moment he bemoaned his situation, muttering to himself, the only words audible being ‘wretched, poor, stricken, forsaken, maimed, brutal, wound, and ticks.’ Of course, he was obviously relating the Grand Anakronist and the King to parasites, or simply a good poke in the eye. And his reason for this at the moment was plain: gatherings were mandatory, and one was today.

Reluctantly, and pulling his grim cloak of sadness tighter around him (a ratty old thing of black cloth that rippled nicely in the wind, perfect for swirling, and thus perfect for either gloomy or angry brooding, depending on the occasion), Valde made his way to the Anakronist’s gathering. Just look at all these filthy people, he thought upon arriving at Caer Pairadocks, Look at that hideous orange scarf that woman’s wearing. What was she thinking? ‘Tis a Mordorian style, if I ever saw one. No wonder she’s stuck here.

Taking a position at the back of the crowd, huddled in his cloak with the tall neck pulled up so that he stared over with his dark eyes and large eyebrows as he scanned the gathering, his face frozen in what he thought to be frigid. It became obvious to him that he was trying too hard when a passing woman asked him if he needed to relieve himself. She received first a wide-eyed look of pure shock, which quickly turned to fierce resentfulness. “You would so bother a simple man, protected from the elements by only these scraps of cloth, and even less protected from the storms within the heart? There is no wondering, madam, why you are here in Mordor.”

“The same to you, chap.” And with that, the woman moved on, leaving Valde to boil in his anger. So, naturally, he did not notice when the Grand Anakronist began extracting names from the ATM machine. At least, not until he heard his own name, though he naturally wished his ears were lying to him, not knowing why on earth he was called. He quickly smoothed his cloak and gave a tug to the collar, and began to make his way through the crowd, matching every curse at him for pushing with a more iniquitous one.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron led the Offending Party off of the Platform of Caer Pairadocks, his black cloak flowing behind him regally. As they came to a wall in a high building with bad architecture, he looked over his shoulder once, condescendingly, and said, "Single file, please." Immediately, squabbling broke out for pride of place behind the pontifical presence of the Grand Anakronist himself. Anakron rolled his eyes, caring not who was first or last.

They entered the building and walked down a narrow, musty corridor. There was room for one individual going in either direction, and they Offending Party passed by many officiously dressed Orcs, all of whom had halitosis, causing those with health conditions to gag and cough and water profusely from their eyes. Anakron seemed immune to both the smell and its effects upon their bodies.

Finally the corridor led after a while to a huge foyer, knwon as the (what else?) Grand Entrance of Caer Pairadocks, known by all and sundry in that part of town as White-All. Which seemed a gross misapplication, since the building was quite dirty and gray, perhaps with the fumes that were ever in the air in Mordor.

Anakron stopped the Offending Party at a long desk in the Grand Entrance, behind which stood an officious looking Orc dressed in a drab gray uniform covered in badges, bars, and stripes, denoting the Orc's high station in the Mordorian bureaucracy.

Anakron raised his staff and the Siamese Cat sitting atop it opened its mouth and yowled. "Your prepared speech, Lugnut."

Lugnut blinked with a pained expression. "Lûgnût, sir," coughed the Orc. Lûgnût faced the Offending Party officiously.

"Your obstreperous duty," said the genderless one, "is to propend from these premises to Edge-Where, at which location will be transferred to you your next challenge. All currency shall be removed from your persons post haste, and to each of you will be donated ten Trolls for various and sundry expenditures that you will incur whilst on your meandering journey. Oh, and you also shall be invested with these maps for your perusal and potential aid."

Each of the Offending Party handed in their money and received ten Trolls, and were directed to stand where the Grand Anakronist indicated with his Staff.

"Oh, one final detail. No assistance of any nature that you consider your personal possession, be they butlers, servants, men at arms, or what have you, may propound to you whilst on this endeavor. You must attend to your own considerations of the more necessary nature.

"You have one day, that is, a period not less nor more than twenty-four hours, to reach your destination whilst journeying through the metropolitan demesne Lûndûn, using the public transport system[/b], to arrive at Edge-where. Be aware that the maps have erroneous names. Such places as Less-Terse-Square, as you know them, are given names on these maps that read more like Lice-Ester-Square. So use care in finding your way around. And at this moment, you may endeavor to begin."

With that, the Offending Party raced out into the open air and were immediately smitten by the familiar [i]fume and stench of White-All. Litter blew down the walks and streets in a stiff wind, for it was another day of bad weather. The roads were jammed with yellow PT Cruisers or Little French Cars With No Guts, most of them blaring their horns in a horrendous din. Orcs were behind the wheel of every vehicle they saw. Worse, the Offending Party were constantly getting bumped by people, all of whom seemed to be in a rush.

Anakron shouted from the doorway, "Well, don't just stand there, gawking and procrastinating, you fools! Get on with it! Your future depends on it!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli glared down at the map with what could only be called total disdain. Of course there are erroneous names on the maps, she thought, because who in this dratted place ever gets anybody's name right without a good scolding? With hardly a second thought, she binned the map and hoisted her bag on her shoulders. Looking around, she had to stifle a laugh... city life, she thought amusedly... She looked at her boot-clad feet and groaned. Not here too! Painted upon the very stones of the roadway were small images and writing in what looked like a Jamesian dialect of English. What does that say? She knelt, taking a closer look.

"Buyeth thineself one Razr phone? What in the...? Must be an advertisement for some oddly shaped new form of palantir." Laughing at the pitiable state of the road, she walked off down it, oblivious to the many stares she accumulated from young men that thought she was stupid because she was pretty. They took in her slim frame as it appeared clad in her usual outfit: she had come straight to Caer Pairadocks from work, and she looked remarkably good in her uniform. She donned soft flame-retardant leather breeches tucked into sturdy boots with strong leg guards fastened above. There were a few singed spots on the sleeves of her white blouse, but the shirt was mostly protected by the fitted leather jerkin she wore laced over it. Gauntlets kept her forearms protected, and leather gloves protected the tender skin of her burned hands from the chill in the air. Being a balrog-winger was tough and she had to dress for the working hazards. Her pin-straight hair was pulled away from her face and fastened into a messy chignon. A few stray locks had slipped into her face but she ignored them, glancing about Lûndûn.

A few chavs loitered near an almost unidentifiable shop that seemed to carry overpriced smoothies by the looks of the disgruntled public who had waiting for quite some time in an unmoving queue to get them. On the other side of the road stood a marketer shouting his wares. Alli walked over and smoothly purchased one of his magazines, flipping through it as she walked.

Without consideration, Alli sauntered down the center of the road. A rude driver gave her the finger as he drove by yelling something to the point of "Get out of the road! Sidewalks are made so that you don't have to get in my way!" Realizing that there was indeed a sidewalk, also covered in luridly colored advertisements, Alli shifted there and walked a bit more with her nose stuck in the publication.

An article about a hobbit named Màrîo had caught her attention. The illustration showed the small fellow clad in red... a most unhobbitly shade. Apparently he'd been beaten unconscious by an unidentified kilt-clad Scotsman. The culprit was on the loose and the writer of the article passively voiced that Màrîo was on the mend, that if anybody spotted someone tall, dark, handsome, and flanked by screaming fangirls, they should keep their distance and report him to an official. She closed the magazine, disappointed that the other article that had caught her interest, "101 Ways to Escape Mordor", was nothing more than a lot of bologna that added up to nothing more than many variations of the phrase "smooth-talk the bureaucrats".

She wondered if she would have any company on her trip to Edge-Where. That Lord Mardil, perhaps... she could discuss politics with him. After all, surely as a lord, he would have many opinions on the government of Gondor. Or even that girl. What was her name? Sai? She seemed like she'd be a fun travelling companion. Who knew what would happen though. She had to get to Edge-Where before she could think about the rest of the trip out of Mordor. As she'd tossed her map, Alli began to look around in search of a friendly face that she could ask for directions.

[Celuien]

The stench of White-All struck Panakeia's nostrils like the blow of a nagging conscience (if she had ever known the twinges of such a thing in her long years of scamming). She coughed into her bright orange scarf, dropping the ten Trolls she had wrapped in its corner into a puddle of mud on the ground. As she stooped to retrieve the money, Panakeia was nearly run down by an SUV whose driver had been too busy chatting on a cell-phone while eating fast food to notice that his vehicle was now on the sidewalk. As she leapt backward, Trolls securely clenched in her hand, the rude driver blared his horn and shouted something incoherent in her direction. Panakeia would have gestured back in return, had a yellow PT Cruiser not come between her and the first driver, splashing her gown with filthy water from a pothole in the road.

All currency shall be taken from you now. Lûgnût's words passed through Panakeia's head. Robbery plain and simple. Not a tenth of what I turned in given back. At last count, she had managed to save 150 Trolls and one each of a Warg, Crow and Goblin from her sales. The measly 10 Trolls she had been handed in return did little to replace the convenient cache she had created. It all seemed terribly unfair. But she had to swallow her fury. There was a job to be done.

Panakeia forced her way out of the hurrying crowd, stepping on several sets of toes in the process. Huddling in the doorway of a nondescript shop, she unfolded the maps of Lûndûn. A frown passed over her face. After staring at the map for several minutes, she turned it in one direction, then twisted it in another. Disgusted, she crumpled the map into a ball. She started to toss it into the litter already on the street, then thought better of it and stuffed the page into her pocket.

Stupid thing makes no sense at all. But what else should I have expected? There had to be another way to find Edge-Where, or whatever it was called. Perhaps if she followed another member of the Offending Party, at least until she could find her way to a public transport system station to ask directions?

Panakeia realized in a panic that she had become separated from the rest of the group. Her eyes darted about frantically, searching for a familiar face. She had never been quite so relieved in her life as when she spotted Alli's chignon weaving through the crowd ahead. Pushing back into the crowd, she scrambled to catch up, all the while keeping a sharp eye out for other members of the Offending Party.

[Kath]

Sai stood staring in confusion at the map she had been given. The words on it were like a foreign language that she had never learned, and she couldn’t understand a word. She was a little more pleased with the other gift the man named Anakron had given her – 10 Trolls. By the look of their worth she now had more money in her hands than she had ever had in her life! Glancing around warily she made sure no one could see as she put the money into a hidden pocket of her jacket. She knew she was being paranoid but it was still better to be safe than sorry, especially in Mordor! The map she quickly made into a boat to soothe her nerves, and then she looked up to see where the others had got to.

She was a little startled to see that they had all headed off in different directions and that she was now quite alone. Not wanting to try and find her way through this strange place on her own she tried to catch up to the old hag, the only member of the Offending Party she could still see. But she had taken only a few steps when a man leapt out at her from nowhere yelling

“Buy the Small Tissue! Just one left! But it now and I’ll be able to buy a mansion and live in Maì Fàyre!”

Jumping backwards in shock Sai tried to avoid the salesman, but her way was blocked by a group of people who seemed to have simply stopped in the middle of the street. They were all staring up at something and chattering excitedly, though Sai couldn’t make out the words. She joined them for a moment to escape the seller and find out what was going on, but it seemed that they planned to stay this way for a good while, and she couldn’t see the attraction of it, so began to push her way back out again. As she did so there was a sudden flash of light, and for a moment all she could see was yellow spots in front of her eyes. Cursing people who blinded others with their flash cameras, Sai stumbled into a wall and leant against it.

When her vision cleared she found that she now had no idea where she was at all, and couldn’t see anyone from her group. Desperate she grabbed a passing stranger and shakily demanded to know where she was. Unfortunately he turned out to be an English teacher, and simply began to pick apart the holes in the sentences she had just uttered. This at least turned her fear into anger, and she stormed off, purposely going in the opposite direction to everyone else to be irritating.

Not looking where she was going, she suddenly thumped into the back of someone else. Used now to the inconsiderate people here she mumbled a quick apology and made to move on, before realising she’d walked straight into the other girl from the group, Alli. This wasn’t a great comfort, however, as she’d already seen how touchy the girl had been about her name, what would she be like after nearly being shoved over!

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli stood with her hands perched prettily on her hips, taking in the sight of a valley girl talking too loudly on her cellphone.

"Omigod, like... it's so totally not rocket science." she mimicked sarcastically. Suddenly she was hit from behind. She went to turn and sprawled clumsily on the ground, scraping her knee through her breeches. She rolled over and sprang to her feet, ready for a fight. Her brother Enaichel had taught her all about throwing punches after little provocation: it was frowned upon, but it happened... and it got your point across quickly. Seeing Sai, she dropped her hands unhesitantly, pretending sweetly that she hadn't been about to smack the girl.

"Hello." she said with a smile. Now this has to be fate... I was just thinking about her. "Lost?"

The girl nodded with a little hesitation. Had this moody teenager been about to hit her? She looked perfectly sweet now...

"Me too." Alli said with a grimace. "The map didn't help me at all. Confusing thing... must have been created by a bunch of men that never bothered to ask for directions. And the names were all wrong on it. I binned it a few blocks back. What do you say we ask someone if they know how to get to Edge-Where?"

[the guy who be short]

The Dwarf, lingering at the back of the group, waited for the others to rush off. He wasn't feeling very sociable at all, and hardly wanted to get to know six new people at once. Six not-all too-pleasant people, by the looks of them. He slowed his pace, waiting for the others to outstrip him and leave him in peace.

A few moments later, he was alone, except for the hundreds of people milling about him in the crowded, alien city. Well... how hard could it be to find this... Where was he going? The Edge? Where-on-the-Edge, that was it, wasn't it? Or Where... where something.

He stopped at the side of the pavement, and looked down at his map.

He looked up in dismay.

He rushed forwards, trying in vain to see the group in front of him. What were their names? Oh, why was he cursed with such a poor memory?

A scrap of orange! There, in front of him! That old hag... the nutty one... Brokenback! That was her name! The Woman Of The Hideous Scarf... The rest of the group had to be with her... there was no way they'd get to Whereington-upon-Edgehaven individually.

"Brokenback! Brokenback!" he mispronounced, bumping into the crowds of people. "Wilhelmina! Wait!" But the scarf continued onwards, oblivious. Why wasn't she waiting for him? Was she deaf or something?

He started running - she was only a few metres off now - regardless of the rushing traffic around him.

"Wilhelmina!"

No reply.

Finally he caught up with the old woman, patting her on the arm, and turned her around. He had found her! He was alone no longer!

But why weren't the others with her?

[littlemanpoet]

Three yellow vans pulled up to the side of the road, and out came a small horde of people carrying equipment that looked as if it must have been extracted from somebody's paranoid brain. The first van wore a big sign on its side, Blimmin' Barblecashing Corpulation. I man with bad teeth, messy greasy, slicked back hair, and a bulbous device in his hand, came up to Wilhelmina and Fléin and stuck the device to his mouth. Behind him was a one-eyed monster with a glass eye stuck on the shoulder of a Uruk-hai.

"Action, Roll!" said the man with bad teeth. "Welcome to 'Escape from Mordor', the reality program that features the Offending Party attempting to pass the impossible tests to defeat the anakronisms. What is your name?" The man stuck the bulbous thing in Wilhelmina's face; she gave her name, but protested that she had no time to be distracted by a reality show. The man shook his head gravely and produced an official looking document from his inner pocket, and wagged it in front of her face. It bore the seal of Anakron Istkon Vayor. "Sorry, deary, but we've a contract from the guv'ment saying that we have the right to film you. You're our star! Now come this way so we can get better lighting." The man with the bad teeth grabbed her arm and began forcibly escorting her away from the Dwarf.

The second van bore a sign reading Ridiculously Cacophonous Arsininity. From this van issued forth an individual that could only be understood to be a dude who thought more highly of himself than was warranted. He made a bee-line for Lord Mardil II.

"Hey dude, you wit' de chillin' name! Lord Mardil II! We got a contract all lined up for you to be de nex' rap star. You got de name and we got de fame!" The dude produced an official looking document, bearing the seal of Anakron Istkon Vayor. "Dis gives us de right to bring you straight to de studio an' get you goin' to stardom! Follow me!"

The third van, a very large one, with a sign reading Pretentious Blimcasting Corruption, vomited forth a party of menacing Trolls that quickly surrounded Valde Delego. "Greetings, good sir," said the lead Troll. "We are given to understand that thou art amongst those known as the Offending Party. Thou art our choice to take the lead role in our new play, Spamlet, about the tragedy of a failed attempt to escape from Mordor."

Valde tried to protest.

"Tut tut," said the troll in charge. "We are vested with full right and legality to apprehend thy great talent and produce this wonderful play." He produced an official looking document that bore the seal of Anakorn Istkon Vayor. "Thou wilt help us in the writing. Stage hands, apprehend our lead man!"

Valde was picked up by two trolls and deposited onto a fine litter before which was scrawled Lead Tragic Actor, and was carried into the van.

[the phantom]

As Anakron led the Offending Party off the platform, Mardil turned and called an errand boy out onto the balcony on which he was standing. "Two men should be arriving soon. Their names are Bregor and Gundor. You are to give them this." Mardil pressed an envelope into the boy's hands.

"Yessir, I'll give it to them as soon as they arrive!"

Mardil nodded and tossed a rope over the side of the ornate railing rimming the balcony. The end of the rope slapped the platform lightly as Mardil tied the other end around one of the posts on the rail. After making sure his twin swords and assorted knives were securely sheathed and checking the straps holding his bow and quiver to his back, Mardil grabbed the rope firmly with his gloved hands and leaped over the side and then slid down to the platform. Then, the errand boy untied the rope and tossed it down along with Mardil's short spear.

Without further delay, Mardil sprinted off after the Offending Party. He could see them up ahead, entering a building with bad architecture. It looked as if the members of the party were shoving and jostling in order to be next in line after the Grand Anakronist. Mardil rolled his eyes. "What fools," he thought. "The positions of honor are first and last. The first leads the way, but the one in the rear can watch everyone and cannot be watched himself, and he always has early warning about nasty surprises that are ahead."

As Mardil approached the door into which the party had disappeared, two officious looking orcs stepped forward and leveled their spears at him. "What is your business here?" asked one of them.

"I'm with the Offending Party, now move!" said Mardil, who was beginning to lose sight of the party in the corridor up ahead. He watched closely in case they turned to either side.

"I'm going to have to confirm that," said the orc, dropping the point of his spear and reaching for his walkie-talkie. At the same time, the other orc turned towards the door and looked down the corridor to see if he could see whatever it was Mardil was staring at so intently.

Mardil took full advantage of this lapse. He rammed the butt of his spear forcefully into the first orc's jaw, and as the second orc turned around, Mardil winded him with a blow to the gut and then gave him a solid rap on the top of the head with his spear butt. Before the orc hit the ground, Mardil was off down the musty corridor.

"Cheap shot," muttered the second orc after he recovered his breath.

----------

Mardil watched as the Offending Party dispersed into the crowded street, each one going a slightly different direction.

"Well, Mardil, are you ready to get out of Mordor?" asked the Grand Anakronist.

Mardil turned and looked at Anakron's feet. "I guess."

"You're never going to make it out of Mordor with that sort of half-hearted attitude. Now, are there things outside of Mordor that you would like to do? Tasks you wish to complete?"

"Yes," answered Mardil, though not very convincingly.

"You really are pitiful, Mardil. You are afraid of going back because things won't be as nice and rosy as they used to be. That's an immature attitude. Be a man, Mardil! I know you're angry about the way things turned out. Use that anger! You'll be able to make it through this first challenge fairly easily, but you had better find some passion at some point during your escape, for you will need it to go up against the things you will encounter during your escape."

"I will try," said Mardil.

Anakron leaned in close to Mardil. "And if you manage to escape, Mardil, I assume you will not forget a certain person who gave you the opportunity," he whispered.

Mardil smiled and nodded. "I will not forget."

"Good!" said Anakron. "Now, get going! You know how to read a map, so I'm confident I will see you at the next challenge- that is if you can manage to stay out of trouble on your way through the city. It is fraught with many perils, such as Easily Offended People and Stupid People."

Mardil assured Anakron he would stay out of trouble and began weaving his way quickly down the crowded street.

----------

It wasn't long before Mardil spotted Alli and Sai up ahead. "My my, how fortunate. The two young ladies happen to be taking the best route. They must be good with maps. I will join them."

As he approached, he listened to their conversation and discovered that they had only taken the correct way by chance. "They will certainly be glad to be joined by someone who knows precisely where to go."

[Durelin]

The city was always full of orcs, and in his brief scan of his surroundings, Valde of course found nothing to redeem the sordid reputation of the place. There were some very colorful posters with pictures on them that were…interesting, even to him, but he was skilled at finding something wrong with them. They ruined the atmosphere. No, they only added to its horridness. They were too loud, just like everything else. Then, something so terrifying and so revolting hit him that he immediately spun around on his heel and began looking for a way to leave. What if this was the kind of place that he would escape from Mordor to?

But there was Anakron, with his staff, seemingly stroking the ghastly Siamese cat on the top of it, looking at them all pointedly. He seemed amused; Valde scowled. “Well, don't just stand there, gawking and procrastinating, you fools!” he exclaimed, shooing them, “Get on with it! Your future depends on it!”

“I do not have a future,” he muttered in a practical moan, turning back around and beginning to trudge slowly down the side of the street. “The ‘Grand Anakronist’ thinks he knows everything. Then why is he in Mordor?” He bumped into an orc who growled something about the decency and respect. But Valde was in a city, and he knew cities were full of rude people. He would just be another one to add to the mix, and the only one who had a right to be rude. No one had as much reason to dislike people so greatly. Life had treated him very poorly, and people were only worse. So with a very miserable sigh, he all but went out of his way to more than rub shoulders with everyone who walked by him.

Another orc, this one in a car, rode up on the curb and would have hit Valde had he not quickly put down his cell phone and used both hands on the wheel, and possibly his foot. “Don’t walk on the sidewalk!” he shouted in a screechy voice that resembled a knife on slate. Valde cringed, but managed to shout, “Well, don’t drive on the street!”

He was just recovering from his trauma at almost being hit when another vehicle came dangerously close to the curb, though this one stopped beside him. He froze, examining it, which he soon realized was a deadly move. A group of Trolls exploded from the large, obnoxiously yellow van, and hurried over to him. Pretentious Blimcasting Corruption? he barely had time to wonder before they crowded around him and one of the Trolls began speaking. He only half listened, spending more time perfecting a downtrodden but defiant appearance in the face of a looming crowd. But after only a moment he heard something about a ‘lead role,’ and perked up his ears. And after the words ‘failed attempt to escape from Mordor,’ his mouth was hanging open.

“I will nev-” he began with indignation, but he was cut off by the Troll, and left to smolder in anger, considering how such an obviously educated being could be so rude. “We are vested with full right and legality to apprehend thy great talent and produce this wonderful play.” Valde looked smug for a moment, liking the sound of ‘they great talent.’ He even almost forgot that the Troll had ‘tutted’ him. But the sight of the official looking document made him scowl again. “Thou wilt help us in the writing. Stage hands, apprehend our lead man!”

He was smacked in the face by pure shock as the Trolls began bodily placing him on a litter, and though it was quite comfortable, and he was getting a lead role, Valde made a show of struggling. “No! O untimely official looking document, I never once did know thy bitter taste till now!”

“He is good, isn’t he?” the Troll carrying the back of the litter said to the one in front.

“Why thank you,” Valde said before he could think. The next thing he knew, he was tossed with the litter into the back of the van, and with a squeal of tires, the van drove off even before the last Troll could get into it. “It seems we will have to recast Trollonius after all,” one of the litter bearers said as he closed the back doors of the van, blocking the flailing, left behind Troll from Valde’s view. How tragic… He snickered. But such tragedy shall not befall me! I will make it out of Mordor, and I would swear it on my great grandfather’s skull! Realizing what a good scene could be made if they used a skull, he began sharing his ideas with the Trolls. If only he knew who his great grandfather was.

[Celuien]

Panakeia watched from behind as Sai collided with Alli. A stifled laugh escaped her lips as the girl toppled to the ground. Good. That silly child seems a bit full of herself. That'll take some of the wind out of her sails. Panakeia doubled her pace, struggling to make her way through the crowd. She reached an intersection where an Orc, dressed in full crossing guard regalia, stood directing the heavy rush-hour traffic. He held up his clawed hand as a signal to stop. But he unfortunately failed to notice a pick-up truck attempting to turn against traffic while he stopped the pedestrians. It smashed into one of Lûndûn's ubiquitious yellow PT cruisers. The Orcs immediately exited their automobiles and proceeded to scream at each other in a fit of road rage. They were, of course, quickly joined by all of the other drivers in view. The crossing-guard pulled out his whistle began to blow, bringing in several other uniformed guards. Rather than breaking up the chaos that had erupted, they pulled out several copies of the Lûndûn Traffic Manual to find the proper regulation for dealing with accidents complicated by non-involved angry drivers to determine the proper fines to levy.

Panakeia hurried into the now stopped traffic in the street, trying to avoid the fray. Weaving between the abandoned cars, she made her way to the other side of the street. Congratulating herself on escaping the melee, she was about to head off in the direction she had seen Alli and Sai moving toward when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to face an enormous uniformed Orc. His badge read Lûndûn Traffic Safety Division.

"I beg your pardon, madam. It is my most humble obligation to inform you that you are in violation of Section 5.2 of the Lûndûn Traffic Manual. To whit, or perhaps to most, you have crossed the main thoroughfare improperly, and must therefore pay a penalty of 1 Troll. Or, if it does not please you to most graciously comply with my request, I shall be forced to place you under arrest."

Panakeia's face turned bright red. She sputtered. "This is ridiculous!" But she handed over the Troll.

"Thank you." The Orc deposited the Troll in a box marked "Paid" and handed Panakeia a receipt. As he turned and walked back into the crowd, he called out "Have a nice day, and remember, a frown is just a smile turned upside down." Panakeia gaped at the Orc. Could he possibly be any more absurd?

The scene over, Panakeia scanned the crowd ahead for Alli and Sai. But she had lost them. She would have to think of something else.

****

Panakeia wandered the streets of Lûndûn, hoping to find some way of reaching her destination. She was hopelessly lost in the City's endless labyrinth of alleyways, streets and snarling lines of cars. She stumbled over a grating in the sidewalk, breaking off the heel of her shoe. The heel dropped far below into the darkness. A strange roar came from the chasm, followed by the fading blare of a train whistle. At last she had found something! Here was part of the vast BliddyUnnerground, legendary for delayed travel and hopelessly confusing routes that never seemed to end. As bad as the BU was reputed to be, it had to be better than wandering through Lûndûn without a guide. Whirling on her broken shoe, Panakeia searched for the entrance. And there it was, just a few blocks ahead, a set of forbiddingly littered and cracked concrete steps descending far below the pavement. A black sign, hanging crookedly from its post above the steps proclaimed Rût's Lip Garden Station in faded red letters. Doesn't look much like a garden to me, she thought to herself, unless it's trash they're growing.

Taking a deep breath, Panakeia limped off to the station entrance and vanished into the darkness of the gaping portal.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

In the time that it took for Sai to contemplate travelling with her, Alli looked around once again. She spotted the disturbingly phlegmy dwarf chasing after the old woman and laughed at the absurdity of the image. Maybe they knew where they were going... whichever way it was, it was the opposite way that Alli was. If Sai planned to accompany her, she'd have to be all right with the idea of going in entirely the opposite direction as the rest of the group. The only thing that Alli worried about was getting lost in the worse parts of Lûndûn. Though Alli could take care of herself in a pinch, she knew that she would prefer to avoid pinches entirely. Two lovely young women travelling alone seemed to simply ask for trouble... especially as Alli carried no visible weapons to scare off potential trouble-makers.

She spotted Mardil out of the corner of her eye and pretended not to notice. What a snob, she thought. I'm not sure whether or not I really do want to travel with him, politics or not... could I stand his arrogant lordship for more than a millisecond? Will he insist that we call him Lord, Master, Sir, or even... she groaned at the prospect of the last... King? He's certainly not a king, but his ego could very well encourage that sort of adoration. She rolled her eyes and began daydreaming about anarcho-syndicalist communes overtaking Gondor's monarchy. She rather hoped that he wouldn't spot them, but then again... even if he did, she had to admit that he wouldn't be a sore sight on a long journey through this dirty city... and even better... he openly carried weapons and could work quite nicely to discourage ruffians. And besides... perhaps talking governmental policy with him wouldn't be so bad after all... she was always up for a good arguement.

[the phantom]

"Hello there!" said Mardil, thrusting his head between Alli and Sai. Sai jumped in surprise, but Alli had already spotted him and merely said hello back.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation-" he began.

"Yes, yes," interrupted Alli, "I know what you're going to say. We are lost and you are not, so you assume we wouldn't mind you joining us. However, in exchange for leading us correctly to our destination, you are going to demand that we refer to you as 'Lord' all the time, smile prettily at you, and fall down to our knees and thank you at the end of the journey. Am I right?" Alli, very pleased with herself, looked at Mardil and awaited the indignant, flustered, and stuttering response which she was sure her comment had earned.

But Mardil just raised one eyebrow and laughed a bit. "Actually, I wasn't going to offer to lead you to Edge-Where at all, I was just going to give you good directions and mark the route on your map and then leave it to you whether or not you wanted to travel with me or go at your own pace."

[Kath]

Sai had been relieved at the mostly calm actions of her new found companion. When Alli had risen from the ground it had looked as though she was readying herself for a fight, but had dropped her aggressive stance once she'd seen who it was that had hit her. Still, she wasn't sure she wanted to accept the offer of travelling with this volatile tempered girl, even if refusing meant travelling without anyone to help when she got completely lost. Wait who am I kidding? She suddenly thought. I'm already completely lost! And at least I don't have to take all the blame if we end up the opposite side of town!

Just as she had made the decision to accept Alli's over, another member of the Offending Party appeared - Mardil. She was pleased to see Alli's apparently natural rudeness put to good use as she attempted to put the overbearing adult in his place, but he seemed used to such attacks, and was wise enough to merely offer help rather than forced companionship. Not really caring in the least who she travelled with so long as they were going in the right direction, Sai turned to Alli.

"It might be a good idea to at least get directions. I didn't understand the map at all and you didn't even look at it! We were going to go ask for directions anyway, why not let him help?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

It was the eyebrow that did it. Obviously Mardil wasn't one of those easily offended people and that impressed Alli. Of course he didn't need that he'd won so easily... he'd have to try a little harder to get a public display of her approval.

She nodded subtly to Sai and spoke to Mardil with derision. "Good luck marking my map. If you can find it, you're welcome to write on it. And I'll need a good reason to travel with you... after all, I don't even know you."

Alli didn't want to jab too much... she didn't want him to leave... but at the same time, she wanted to make sure he knew that she could handle herself... or at least make sure that he thought that she could. If nothing else, Alli wanted to be seen as tough enough to take out a dozen enemies in one fell swoop. Her first week in Mordor had been horrible... she'd been scared and didn't hide it well enough. First she'd been singled out by a band of bullying orcs that had intimidated her into handing over her money. Then, alone and with no money, she'd had to find a place to sleep in safety. She didn't even want to think of those first few nights...

She was better off now, and not likely to be pushed around due to her very convincing, or so she thought, bravado, but it still didn't hurt to scare people off before they could bother her. If they stuck around, they were either really insistent on messing with her... or worth having around. Her only trouble, really, was differentiating.

"Well?" she prodded. "What do you have to say? Why should we travel with you?"

[the phantom]

"Why should you travel with me?" repeated Mardil. "If you don't see the advantage of having someone with you who knows the way and is well armed, then I don't think you are intelligent enough to deserve my companionship."

Alli glared at Mardil, but said nothing. Sai looked like she wanted to say something to smooth everything over, but Mardil spoke again. "There's no need to look at me like that- my comment was made in jest. The fact is, I know that you know perfectly well the advantage in having me along. That makes me wonder, why would you ask me to answer something that you have already answered in your own mind? It seems to me that you never intended for me to answer, and that the only reason to ask such a question would be to imply that I have nothing to offer and you have everything you need. It was an attempt to insult me and increase your stature in my eyes at the same time... very nice, very nice indeed!" exclaimed Mardil with a grin.

Alli racked her brain, but couldn't think of anything good to say. She very much disliked Mardil's interpretation of her words. It was too accurate.

"Well," said Sai, eager to break the silence, "Just so you know I am not at all opposed to joining forces, and the sooner we reach a decision one way or the other the sooner we can be on our way."

Mardil turned and studied Sai. "Your words show that you are capable of cutting through attitudes and personalities straight to the facts. I like that. You seem to recognize a good arrangement when you hear one and so will be willing to stick with it as long as it is mutually beneficial. As far as I am concerned you have my stamp of approval as a traveling companion- for now. And if I may ask, your face- there's something there that suggests the old, high Numenorean blood. I can't quite put my finger on it. And your garments, though they are dusty and frayed, look like they were once very fine. You come from a wealthy family, yes?"

Then, Mardil turned his attention back to Alli. Mardil immediately recognized that Alli was putting on a bit of a front. He had rubbed shoulders with politicians enough during his early life that he could sniff out a front rather quickly. Now, the trick was figuring out what was truly Alli and what wasn't, and to appeal to her true self. He stood considering for a moment and then spoke. "It is clear you have a grudge against the aristocracy. It seems to me that the only way an intelligent person like yourself could harbor such feelings is if you had had a few actual opinion-forming encounters with the aristocracy. That leads me to believe that you used to live near an area of concentrated wealth and power- Minas Tirith. Also, your speech and bearing make it clear that you received a quality education within the White City's walls, so you certainly were not poor. I'm guessing you come from a middle class merchant family."

Then Mardil leaned in a bit closer and added, "And just in case it makes a difference to you, I, too, have a rather large grudge against the rulers of Minas Tirith."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli wanted to smile. She wanted to laugh and enthusiastically throw her arms around this intuitive man as she would have at home in the old days to an old friend that pointed out when she was dodging questions and being intentionally obtuse. She was very amused by his astute observations... but he didn't need to know that. He was too accurate for her comfort, and that completely neutralized her excitement that she'd be travelling with somebody actually able to give tart responses as easily as he could take them. His accuracy made her wonder how much of her act he saw through. He seemed to have their mutual best interests in order, but if he could find his way through her charade, she wondered who else would be so easily able to tell how relieved she was that she and Sai would have protection on the road back home. If they could sense relief the second aid was offered, they could sense that aid was desired or needed. She didn't want to feel indebted to anybody... especially not a noble, no matter how handsome, amusing, and empathetic he was.

Alli's face now took on an unreadable quality. She spoke more quietly now... more politely, but far less revealingly. "I would welcome your accompaniment, Lord Mardil. Thank you for the offer."

[Kath]

Sai had stood quietly by as Alli and Mardil conversed, knowing that the other girl needed to get her position in relation to the man clear in both her head and his. She intervened a couple of times when Alli seemed a little stuck for words, but became speechless herself as Mardil began to poke into her origins by analysing her features and clothes. He was laughably inaccurate, but because she wanted to avoid being a trouble-maker to try and keep the already tenuous peace she chose not to reply to his words.

She was glad to see though that his interpretation of Alli's words and actions was much closer to the mark. She watched as the girls face closed off a little further after each comment until it was almost unreadable. The poor thing was obviously very confused, but it was clear that she was pleased to have Mardil as a companion. Even so, Sai breathed a sigh of relief when she did eventually agree to travelling with Mardil.

Just as she was beginning to think that, even with her strange companions, the trip out of Mordor might be easier now, a bright yellow van screeched into view and an incredibly up himself man leapt out and headed towards Mardil.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina had set off straight away in what seemed to be a likely direction. In her opinion, it was always better to be going somewhere -- anywhere -- than to be standing still. But in this place, it seemed that everyone was in a rush, and one had to move quickly or risk being run over by the myriad of speeding cars and their nasty drivers. She purposefully hurried along the dirty, chewing gum-spattered sidewalk, wondering how exactly she was supposed to find her way to Edge-where. During her time spent in Mordor, she'd only been to Lûndûn once or twice times, and knew nothing about the city's layout. She found the place wholly distasteful, quite frankly. 'Disgusting,' she thought as an orc spat on the ground not a foot away from her. She moved away from him and found a little alcove where she could get out of the rush of people.

Examining the map, she realized how ridiculously unhelpful it was. Firstly, the city was very crowded, and the tall buildings leaned in on the streets like stuffy bureaucrats. That plus the amount of smog in the air made it next to impossible to even judge direction by the sun. Wilhelmina shook her head in frustration. What good was a map if you couldn't tell North from South? She turned the map around a few times and then craned her neck in search of a street sign. Her hat teetered dangerously on her head, but the small squeak of distress that came from inside it was completely lost in the din of the traffic. All she could see, though, were a couple of lonely-looking poles -- apparently the nearby signs had all been stolen.

"Honestly!" she complained. "Civilization, they say? Ha!" She scanned the sky again and decided that the hazy circle of light behind the smog had to be the sun, however pitiful it appeared. "Alright... it's still morning, so that'll be East." She aligned her map in accordance and stepped back into the street, vowing to give anyone else who spat on the ground near her a smart whack with her walking stick.

She hadn't even gotten to the corner when she felt a tap on her arm. Turning about (and looking slightly downward) she saw that it was the Dwarf. "Oh, hello," she said. "Where did you come from?"

"I've been shouting your name, but you didn't hear," he said. "Do you know where everyone is?"

"No," Wilhelmina told him. "But no matter. I didn't like the look of the others very much. That Panakeia's nothing but a scamming charlatan. And that man looked too mopey, like one of those emo kids... what was his name? Waldo, or something like that..."

The dwarf was about to reply, but they were both distracted by the sheer garishness of the yellow van that pulled up next to them. Blimmin' Barblecashing Corpulation? What in Middle-earth was that?

Before she knew what was happening, a man was shoving an ice-cream-cone-shaped object in her face and asking for her name. "Wilhelmina Brochenbach," she said with some confusion. "What's it to you?"

"You're on our show," the man hissed, showing off his bad teeth.

"A show? I don't have time to be on any kind of reality show! I have somewhere to be!"

"Of course you've got somewhere to be -- on top! You're going to be a star," enthused the host.

"You get away from me, and take that stupid thing out of my face," she ordered in what she hoped was a menacing tone.

"Sorry, deary, but we've a contract from the guv'ment saying that we have the right to film you." He held up a piece of paper which bore the seal of none but Anakron himself. Wilhelmina made a mental note to give him a piece of her mind when next she saw him. But as the man led her away, she began to wonder if that would even happen.

[the phantom]

Mardil was glad the two young ladies had agreed to travel with him, and he also found a bit of pleasure in Alli's reaction to him. She had gone from insulting and derisive to self conscious and tentative in less than a minute. "It's obvious my guesses about her were right," thought Mardil. "And it seems that she never gets close enough to anyone to let them know the real Alli, otherwise she wouldn't have been thrown off so badly by my accuracy. She's put a shell around herself, that much is certain- though I can't guess why."

At that moment a van that said Ridiculously Cacophonous Arsininity pulled up and stopped next to them with a screech. A man wearing a lot of bling-bling hopped out of the passenger side and strutted up to Mardil, using one hand to hold up his overly large and baggy pants. His other hand held a document. Mardil took it and read it when it was offered. It demanded Mardil go with him back to the studio and begin work on a rap album.

Mardil turned to Alli and Sai. "This is great!" he exclaimed.

"Um, yeah it's great to get a record deal and all," said Sai, "But what about the whole getting OUT of MORDOR thing?! Did you forget about that?!"

"No, no- not at all. I've been to Ridiculously Cacophonous Arsininity before. The record company's studios and headquarters are all located just down the Northern Line from Edge-Where- near Entish Town. Look, right up here," he said, pointing to his BU map. "This will save us quite a hike."

"But you don't have time to do an album!" protested Sai.

"You really think I'm going to miss my chance to escape Mordor?" asked Mardil. "That's crazy." Mardil then looked Sai right in the eye. "Don't worry," he said with sincerity, and then he shifted his gaze to Alli. "I'll make sure we make it to Edge-Where on time."

Mardil turned to the man and smiled. "I'd love to sign a record deal with RCA. But, the three of us are a packaged deal. I can't perform without my backup singers."

"Hey, hey, man, that aint no problem. We'll jus' sign them up too. But don't you worry, dog, we dont' haveta do all that paperwork now. Get in the van and we'll take ya right to the studio, turn the mic on, an' let ya do a li'l freestylin' to break you in."

"Sounds good to me," said Mardil with a smile. "Come on, ladies, let's not keep this gentleman waiting."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"You can't be serious." exploded Alli. "If it means getting to Edge-where more quickly, then by all means, we can take the van, but if you think that I'm going to be your backup singer in some lame rap recording, you've got another think coming."

Sai waited calmly for Alli's annoyance to fade; even their short acquaintanceship had taught her that Alli didn't stay angry for long. Mardil simply cocked an eyebrow at her with an expression that seemed to convey amusement at her rash reactions and the slightest annoyance that she didn't yet have full confidence in him. Alli suddenly felt slightly ashamed at her outburst. In the few minutes she'd spent with Mardil, he'd made her feel like an immature and hasty child several times. She had no reason to believe that any sane person, and Mardil seemed sane, would prefer free-style rapping in Mordor to doing anything in the world outside of the place. Surely he knew what he was doing. She just wished he'd clue her in.

Now she wished that she could apologize, but at the same time, she really didn't want to. If she apologized, it meant an embarassing moment of admitting that she was wrong. She'd prefer that a moment like that not come so early in a relationship... talk about starting off on the wrong foot... what sort of impression would it leave of her that first she spoke and then she admitted that what she said wasn't right? No... it would be better to pretend she hadn't acted so foolishly. If she didn't mention it, hopefully they wouldn't... though this was Mordor and Alli had learned early that any possible annoyance that she could even think of, much less experience, was likely to kick her square in the nose before she could see it coming.

[Encaitare]

"So, tell us a few things about yourself, Ms. Brokenback," the host, who had introduced himself as Karís Mâtiktwít said with a grin of dubious sincerity and hue. "How long have you been in Mordor?"

"It's Brochenbach," Wilhelmina told him in indignation.

His expression did not change. "Right, and how long have you been in Mordor?"

"Er... fifty-odd years." She glanced down the street but Fléin was no longer visible: he'd either gone in another direction, or was just too short to be seen in the crowd.

"And what were you assigned here for?" he asked, the preposition dangling like mucus from the nose of a person with a particularly bad cold virus.

"There was an incident involving carbonated beverage terminology, among other things... Look, young man, do you really have to wave that... that ice-cream-cone-shaped thing at me whenever I say anything?"

The host did not acknowledge her question, but rather delved for further information. "Other things?" He turned to look straight into the strange thing on the Uruk-hai's shoulder. "Might our star have some juicy secrets hidden in her past? We'll see if we can get her to divulge them as we follow her around the city. We're going to take a short break, but don't go away! We'll be back with more footage and exclusive interviews that you'll see only on 'Escape from Mordor'! And... cut," he concluded. "Alright, nice shooting. Wilhelmina, if you could be a little more charismatic, that would be just great. Let's take it down the street. Action!"

Karís went down the street, and the Uruk-hai gestured at her to follow him; he in turn walked behind the pair as they fought to get through the crowd.

"Where are we going? I have to get to Edge-Where. You do know that, don't you?"

"Of course," the man said, looking straight ahead. "And we're going to follow you around as you do it."

"Mr. Mâtiktwít," Wilhelmina said, "it would seem to me that I am the one following, not the other way around. Why are we walking down this street, anyway?"

"It's for a certain type of shot," he muttered irritably. "We're going to speed it up after filming. Reality shows do it all the time."

"I wouldn't know," the old woman sniffed. "I've never watched one."

[Celuien]

Panakeia cautiously picked her way down the steps. Walking with one stiletto heeled shoe and one flat shoe was a challenge at any time, more so while attempting to carry a heavy sample case down an unevenly graded, crowded, litter-strewn flight of stairs. Shoved from behind by a large man in a business suit who was in a rush, she was only saved from falling by tipping into a woman ahead of her.

She turned to face Panakeia. Her red, teary eyes were nearly swollen shut from conjunctivitis. Phlegm ran down her face from a raging cold. "Ere, wbbuy duch oo ink oo're goin?" she mumbled through a stuffy nose.

"I beg your pardon?" Panakeia replied.

"Wbbuy duch oo ink ere oo're goin?" the woman repeated in a louder tone. "Oo puched me."

Panakeia thought for a moment, trying to figure out what the woman was saying. "Oh, I see. Sorry about that. It was an accident."

The woman shrugged. Suddenly her face contorted, nose wrinkled, upper lip drawn back, and eyes squeezed even more tightly shut than before. She grabbed at Panakeia's scarf, which was instantly pulled back by a ducking Panakeia, and sneezed, spraying the business-suited man behind with cold virus. He began to yell. Snickering, Panakeia wove through the crowd, now stopped to gawk at the confrontation, and reached the bottom of the steps. A large map of the BilddyUnnergrind stood there, covered in used chewing gum and graffiti. The graffiti puzzled Panakeia. Most of it was the usual stuff of Mordor, illegible scrawls and scribbles. But mixed in with the waving lines were several messages such as "No new fare increases" "Down with the Transit Authority" "Fûmës for Transit Chief" and "Free Willy!" All of the material obscured the map so much that it was impossible to read, other than the words "You" and "here" on a red dot above Rût’s Lip Garden Station. The "are" was covered by a particularly large piece of gum. Panakeia pulled her map out of her pocket. Now that she had a better idea of where she was, the map made more sense. Red line to Potted Ham Court Road, change trains for Edge-Where. Seems simple enough.

Off she went to find a ticket counter. The line stretched back all the way to the stairs and didn't appear to be moving. Panakeia stood her sample case on end and sat down. At least it's good for something. I've lugged it around long enough. She waited. And waited. And waited. Panakeia began to despair. What's taking so long? I'll never make it to Edge-Where on time. But at last, she stood at the head of the line. An Orc stood behind the counter, snapping gum in her mouth. Panakeia thought she recognized the shade of blonde the Orc had dyed her hair. It was the same as Panakeia's, wrought through the wonders of Pearie Ockcide Potion.

"Good morning, afternoon, evening and morning again! Welcome to the Rût’s Lip Garden Station. My name is Tiffany. It is my pleasure to serve you with a smile." Here she smiled, baring a row of yellow, jagged teeth. One was gold, and another had Tiffany's gum on it. "How may I assist you today?"

"I'm going to Edge-Where."

Tiffany nodded. "Yes, indeed. Edge-Where. Edge-Where? Hmm. I'm very sorry, but it's not on this line. Perhaps you would like to visit Chance of Rain instead?" she queried hopefully. "I hear the weather is beautiful there."

Panakeia tapped her foot impatiently. "No. Edge-Where. This line goes to Potted Ham Court Road, true?"

"Indeed it does, madam."

"Well, then you change trains for Edge-Where, can't you?"

Tiffany looked puzzled. "I'll have to ask my supervisor. Please wait." Tiffany hung a "Closed" sign and vanished. 20 minutes passed. Tiffany returned, carrying two tickets in her hand.

"My deepest apologies for the inconvenience. You are correct. Here are your tickets. One to Potted Ham Court Road, and the next to Edge-Where at the end of the Grey Line. The southbound track is to your right, my left. Or is it my right, your left. In any case, the track is that way." Tiffany pointed to the left. "3 Trolls, 75 Maggots, please."

Panakeia stopped. "Wait. The fare is 2 Trolls, 50 Maggots."

Tiffany smiled and nodded. "Yes, that is correct. But we charge half-fare for transfers."

"Oh, alright. Prices always go up. Don't they ever go down?"

The smile faded from Tiffany's face. Her eyes widened and her voice dropped to a raspy whisper. "You aren't one of the Fûmësists, are you?"

"Tiffany, I had never heard of this Fûmës before today, and I wish I never had." Panakeia slammed her fare down on the counter and snatched her tickets. "I just want to get to Edge-Where." She stormed off to the track. At the edge of the platform, three street-musicians, clad in brightly colored striped shirts, stood tuning their instruments. The instruments were odd. One was white and round as a Hobbit's window. The two others looked somewhat more ordinary, shaped similarly to a fiddle, but with a large hole in the center. All three musicians held their instruments in front on them. One of them then stood in front of the rest and began to speak at the top of his voice.

"These are the times that try our souls. In the course of our history, the people of Lûndûn have rallied bravely whenever the rights of men, women, Orcs, or individuals of any gender, nationality or species have been threatened. Today, a new crisis has arisen. The Mordor Transit Authority, better known as the M. T. A., is attempting to levy a burdensome tax on the population in the form of a BilddyUnnergrind fare increase. Citizens, hear me out!" He gave added emphasis to each of his next words, as if in warning. "This could happen to you!"

All three began to pluck their instruments. And the man began to sing.

Well, let me tell you of the story of a man named Willy on a tragic and fateful day.
He put ten Crows in his pocket, kissed his wife and family, went to ride on the M. T. A.

Well, did he ever return? No, he never returned and his fate is still unknown.

Here, the other two performers injected.

What a pity! Poor ole Willy. Shame and scandal. He may ride forever. Just like Earendil.

He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Lûndûn. He's the man who never returned.

Willy handed in his Crows at the Ents Stand Square Station and he changed for Chance Of Rain.
When he got there the conductor told him, one more Warg. Willy couldn't get off of that train.

Well, did he ever return? No, he never returned and his fate is still unknown.
He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Lûndûn. He's the man who never returned.

Now, all night long Willy rides through the station, crying, “What will become of me?!!”
How can I afford to see my sister in Uruk-bridge or my cousin in Queen’s Bury?

Well, did he ever return? No, he never returned and his fate is still unknown.
He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Lûndûn. He's the man who never returned.

Willy's wife goes down to the Rût’s Lip Garden Station every day at quarter past two.
And through the open window she hands Willy a sandwich as the train comes rumblin' through.

Well, did he ever return? No, he never returned and his fate is still unknown.
He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Lûndûn. He's the man who never returned.

Now, you citizens of Lûndûn, don't you think it's a scandal how the people have to pay and pay?
Fight the fare increase! Vote for Eckaust Fûmës! Get poor Willy off the M. T. A.

Well, did he ever return? No, he never returned and his fate is still unknown.
He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Lûndûn. He's the man who never returned.
He's the man who never returned. He's the man who never returned.

The lead singer turned to face the track. “Ain't you Willy?” he wailed.

As if in reply, a train came rushing down the track. A haggard looking man leaned out the window, and the assembled crowd called out “Willy! There’s Willy! We’ll save you. Free Willy!” And a woman hurried up to the still moving train with a brown paper bag. As it stopped, she handed the bag to Willy. A cheer went up, and half of the people in the crowd tossed coins to the musicians, who promised to take it directly to Mr. Eckaust Fûmës to aid his campaign and hopefully, save Willy from his terrible fate.

Panakeia rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Another political campaign stunt. Ridiculous."

A gullible man next to Panakeia stood wiping tears from his eyes. "How can you say that? Poor Willy!"

Panakeia shook her head. "Look at all the money. If they were really trying to help this Willy, don't you think they would just hand him the extra Warg? They have at least 20 Trolls there. My guess is that Willy is in on this too. It's a brilliant plan."

The man's expression changed as he considered Panakeia's words. But he said "No, I don't believe you. No one would ever be so dishonest."

What a fool, Panakeia thought to herself. Seems like a perfect customer. Just as she was preparing to work a sales pitch on him for some Instant Bodybuilder Protein Shakes, the train doors opened and the conductor came out onto the platform.

"All aboard for the southbound red line. All aboard for South Rût’s Lip, Orc Hold, and points south. All aboard."

Panakeia stood up, lifted her sample case, and shuffled toward the train. As she reached the edge of the platform, the doors began to shut. "No!" she cried. With a final effort, Panakeia shoved ahead and slipped onto the train just as the doors closed behind her.

[the guy who be short]

Though he had tried to keep up when she had been rudely snatched away, Fléin had now, to his despair, completely lost sight of Wilhelmina. Perhaps his only chance of company in this forsaken city was lost, in the grasp of reality showism.

Well, maybe now that he was alone (excluding the several million Lûndûners rushing around, of course) he could get some thinking done. What he really needed was somewhere to sit and ponder, or maybe just sit.

He wandered around a little, still slightly dazed, until he found a grimy sign proclaiming his presence at Amon Haradow. He inspected the sign more closely - to the North was North Haradow. West Haradow lay to the West. To the South was Far Haradow. The sign posting to the east was too grimy to read, and his eyes were streaming, but he could warrant a guess as to what lay in that direction.

"Curse this place! Curse Mordor!" he roared to the world at large. A few people glanced at him. He swore again, at a complete loss and still bench-less. What could he possibly do now, save maybe swallow his pride (Pride? What pride is there in this land?, he thought bitterly) and ask somebody where to go.

He approached a singularly odd looking man in a top hat, his arms full of chocolate bars. "Excuse me-" he had began but the man seemed to have no intention of listening to him.

"Want to buy a Wonka bar, eh? Delicious Wonka bars... my own brand, don't you know, and ever so good to eat. See this egg? Try it! Try it! Free!" He thrust a small chocolate egg into Fléin's hand.

"I really don't want to-"

"Eat it! Eat it!" he continued as quickly as before. "Oh, it's new, you know, but don't worry, it's quite safe; or at least, it is for Oompa loompas, not that you know who they are, but my dear Dwarf, don't just stand there, try it and tell me what you think!"

"But I just want to ask you-" the Dwarf tried again, to no avail.

"Oh please, don't make this more suspenseful than it has to-"

"WHERE EDGINGVILLE IS!" Fléin finally managed to scream into the annoying man's face.

"Well, now, there's no need to be quite so rude" said the easily offended amazing chocolatier, walking off in a huff.

Fléin signed. At least the conjunctivitis appeared to be clearing up... his eyes weren't quite so watery anymore. He decided he definitely needed a rest. Once his bottom had a little support, his mind could get on with some thinking. But where was he to find any place to rest in Lûndûn? Should he approach another stranger? Considering how the last one went, it didn't seem a very appealing proposition, but there was little else to do.

Crowds were still speeding past in both directions on the pavement. Fléin walked across, planting himself firmly in front of a man in a suit, presumably one of the many bureaucrats in Mordor, and accosted him. "Excuse me, my good Man, I'm looking for somewhere to rest," he said loudly, "and if you won't be of any assistance, I'm of a mind to use this axe." He indicated the axe on his back.

"Er... well... erm, there is... that is to say... erm, you could... there is Ma Cuddonelds, a fast food place... nearby."

Fléin allowed the man to direct him to the lunching house and left him, much relieved, to go on his way. So it was that the Dwarf came to the notorious Ma Cuddonelds.

[Kath]

Sai grinned as Alli tried to backtrack on her outburst without being seen as admitting to being mistaken. It looked as though Mardil was also trying to stifle a smile, and she was glad to see he had understood that leaving the comment as it stood would be better for all involved. However, Mardil's new empolyer was not so quick on the uptake.

"What you talkin' bout girl?! The best chance you got of gettin' famous is this guy right here." He cried, throwing his arm around Mardil's shoulders in an overly friendly manner, seemingly missing the look of disgust that crossed the other mans face.

Alli's mood headed straight back downhill upon hearing this and she opened her mouth to retort. Not wanting another argument to break out, Sai got in first and began to gabble words as fast as possible as she grabbed Alli's arm and tugged her towards the van, keeping a wary eye out for any flying fists.

"Of course, thank you Mardil we'd love to be on this record with you. Shall we go now? We need to get this done soon so we can get on to Edge-Where. Do you think we'll get any money out of it, we'll need some for the Unnerground."

Reaching the back of the van she pushed Alli inside and followed suit herself, hoping Mardil would hurry up and join them so they could shut the doors before Alli recovered from her shock at being manhandled.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"No, you don't understand," whispered Alli in a faster and more paranoid way than usual. She was looking around the van distractedly, beginning to breathe quickly. "I can't go... please don't make me do this. I'll walk there... please... Please let me walk. I'll walk. I'll get there quickly, just don't make me do this. Please." Alli felt deeply ashamed at what she considered to be weakness in her... her claustrophobia was kicking in. She felt like she was trapped... the walls of the van did not seem to loom, but she was overly-conscious of how small the yellow vehicle was. Once Mardil and the record crew were inside, she would be too close to people... no matter where she sat or how she positioned herself, her personal space was about to get invaded by people that she barely knew.

She shuddered a little bit and looked truly pitiful to Sai before a sound snapped her from her chatter. The door was opening again. The man who had told her that this was her only shot to fame was coming in. Alli leaned forward, all shows of irrational fear gone, and grabbed him firmly by the collar.

"Listen up buddy," she spoke quietly but very forcefully. "If you speak down to me once more, you're going to regret it. If you make me famous, you're going to regret it even more. I am in this van because I have no choice and because it is the quickest way to reach my goal. If my straight shot from right there," she pointed to where she'd been before Sai had so strongly encouraged her into the van, "to Edge-Where becomes anything different than a straight shot, you should understand by this point what my feelings will be. Do I make myself clear, and do we have an agreement?"

He nodded his head, astounded that this mere slip of a young woman could intimidate him so easily. She had no weapons, he noticed, and she wasn't really big enough to hurt him by sheer force... slightly taller than average, he thought, but slender as Britney Spears. He contemplated for a second handing her the official looking document that Anakron had sent for her that would force her to work as a scantily clad backup dancer for Spears... Looking at her very serious grey eyes, that were really, he noticed with interest, blue with specks of many colors, but in any case seemed to gleam with potential for any of a number of emotions, none of which he really wanted to experience until her long fingers were somewhat farther away from his neck, he kept the document safely hidden. He'd shred it when they got to the studio. Anakron might be annoyed, but what could he really do about it... send the man to Mordor?

When the man looked properly respectful, fearful, and reminiscent of somebody about to wet himself, Alli straightened his bling for him and patted him on the head.

"I'm glad we're clear on this. Now let's get going, please?"

The man was suddenly very glad that he was not Lord Mardil II or this other girl and actually had to travel with the lass. Quickly he positioned himself in the opposite corner as her and everybody else, looking a bit confused over the travel delay, boarded the van. Mardil looked at Alli a little worriedly, but said nothing. As soon as the door was shut, the record man whispered in the driver's ear and the van raced down the road. Alli watched an old woman jump out of the way as the vehicle jumped the curb. She stared intently at her intertwined fingers... she could feel the heat from Mardil's body radiating through her side. She could smell the overpowering cologne of the other man beside her. She could see both of their legs pressed up against her own in the cramped space and she couldn't wait to get out of there.

[Encaitare]

It was not long before Wilhelmina found herself inside a small room, sitting in a chair in front of a one-eyed creature similar to the one toted by the Uruk-hai. Karís Mâtiktwít had told her to talk to the so-called "kamura" for a few minutes, explaining her reaction to the task that Anakron had given to her. "Don't mince words," he had said. "Say something nasty about the rest of the Offending Party, if you like. Drama sells. Not nearly as much as sex, of course, but" (here he looked at Wilhelmina derisively) "let's face it, dear, who are we kidding?" And with that, he disappeared through a curtain, leaving her alone with the kamura.

The old woman stared at the thing for a few moments; it neither moved nor blinked. She tapped it with her walking stick, and it didn't move a bit. 'I won't be moving a bit either unless I can get away from this ridiculous show,' she thought. 'Best to play along for the time being, and then...' Suddenly she had an idea. She smiled to herself, and began to talk.

"When my name was selected by Anakron, I felt like I was the most important person in the universe. And I am, you know. I want you all to know that. I'm going to get out of Mordor much more quick than anybody else. Isn't that right, Mr. Swanky?" The ferret crawled out of the caverns of Wilhelmina's hat and allowed her to pet him. "This is my friend Mr. Swanky. I only feed him licorice, and if he's especially good, dead flies. Unfortunately he's got a bad case of conjunctivitis, and some kind of cold -- I think it's the polluted air in this city. Say hello to the kamura!" She held the ferret in front of the unblinking eye just in time for him to sneeze all over it.

"Hey!" Mr. Mâtiktwít appeared, throwing the curtain aside. "What--"

"How was that, Mr. Mâtiktwít? Just like you asked, right? Let's get going," she breezed, placing Mr. Swanky on her shoulder and walking straight past him. If she had turned around, she would have seen him make a horrible grimace, but since his teeth were in quite a deplorable state, perhaps it was for the best that she didn't.

~*~*~*~*~

"We're stopping here, Karís," Wilhelmina declared, halting abruptly in front of a bakery.

The man blinked. "Whatever for?"

"It's lunchtime, and I need something to eat. I've had an insatiable fruitcake craving all morning." She pushed the door open and didn't bother to hold it for him. "I'd like to purchase one large fruitcake," she told the apron-wearing Orc behind the counter. To the reality show host, she said, "I want to sit at that table by the window."

"It's already occupied," Karís protested, not realizing the difficulty the Uruk-hai was having getting the kamura through the door, which he hadn't bothered to hold open either.

Wilhelmina put her hands on her hips. "I am the star of this show, and I say I want to sit by the window! Make them get up!" The man scurried to the table, and slipped the couple sitting there a Troll to make them leave. Wilhelmina immediately flounced over and sat down with her fruitcake.

"Er... I think I saw a restaurant down the block," Karís said, jerking his thumb in that direction. "I'm going to go get something to eat and bring it back, alright?"

"No. You can have some fruitcake."

"I think I'd really prefer--"

"I said fruitcake!"

The man meekly sat down and tried the fruitcake, which was about as hard as a diamond but slightly more colorful. Wilhelmina heard a cracking sound and hoped it was one of his teeth.

"I need some gum," was the next thing she said to him. "Go to the candy shop I saw next door and buy me a pack or five of cinnamon gum. I want all different flavors." She observed his hesitation and continued. "Hey, if I'm going to be filmed by you, then you're going to have to keep me happy. Got it? You wouldn't want to lose the star of your show, would you?" Karís scrambled towards the door and bolted for the candy shop.

"What are you looking at, you overgrown Orc?" Wilhelmina rudely asked the Uruk-hai.

"I'd be much obligated if you'd be so kind as to call me a Native Mordorian," said the kamuraman, accidentally using the wrong word in his haste to promote political correctness.

"And I'd like it if I were Queen of Gondor, but you can't have everything, can you?" said Wilhelmina. Then she spotted Karís returning with her chewing gum. "Or maybe I can..."

[the phantom]

The van ride was extremely bumpy. Mardil wasn't sure if the street had a lot of bad potholes or if they were running over pedestrians who foolishly believed that the street was an appropriate place to walk. Sai was directly in front of him sandwiched between two copyright lawyers. She sat in a slumped position staring straight ahead as the two men talked over her head.

Alli was leaning forward and breathing a bit heavy and kept looking around at the ceiling and walls, as if they were too close for her comfort. "Claustrophobic?" Mardil asked.

Alli took a large breath and paused, like she was considering her answer and perhaps gathering herself to say something untrue. "No," she said, and then she turned and gave Mardil an awkward look, which Mardil figured was meant to appear confident and at ease.

Mardil nodded and said "Okay," but he was thinking "You're lying, Alli."

Alli looked down at her hands again, obviously uncomfortable. Mardil nudged her arm. "What do you want?" asked Alli, still looking at her hands.

"Trade spots with me," said Mardil, thrusting open the window next to him as he spoke. "I want to talk to that RCA representative sitting next to you and it would be easier if there weren't someone between us. Plus, this way you will be able to look out the window and get some fresh air. Surely that will be more interesting than staring at your hands. With the traffic around here, it could take us a good thirty minutes to get there."

[the guy who be short]

Fléin walked into Ma Cuddonelds, perhaps just a little apprehensively. He had, of course, heard of it before, vaguely and in passing. Most people seemed acquainted with it. The large, yellow, spiderlike symbol above the doors was instantly recognisable - he'd seen it on litter for years. But what was Ma Cuddonelds?

There were chairs and tables all around the doors, stretching into the building for a few score metres. And there, right at the back, were several orcs behind a counter, an unsanitary looking kitchen behind them.

Two years in Mordor, and still Fléin could hardly look at an orc without shuddering, his hand unconsciously moving towards his axe. Still, he had to be politically correct, or at least pretend to be so. Or did he? Wasn't that one of the things he was trying to escape from...? He marched up to the counter.

"Excuse me my good Man-"

"Native Mordorian, please," the Orc simpered. Fléin shuddered.

"Yes, yes. What... this is an Inn, yes?"

The Orc explained that the establishment was indeed an eating house, or a fast food company, as some preferred, but that it was no ordinary inn. As words such as "Multinational corporation," "Providers of institutional food," "false allegations of food poisoning," and "possible halitosis" whizzed by, Fléin started to nod off. The story of Ma Cuddoneld herself, and her capitalising upon her brilliant ideas (such as using slave labour to increase profits and reconstituting chicken nuggets from diseased meat) passed him by completely. A long queue starting forming behind him, and when the person behind him pointed this out, the Orc simply started rambling about the history of language, and how the word queue had seemingly changed meaning after it's transition from French to English. He seemed to ramble on and on.

"Interesting, isn't it, how a queue is almost like a tail, in that it flows behind you, but of course, I had the most horrendous French teacher, don't you know, threatened to eat my legs, and my mothers, all of them, if I didn't do well, but never mind all that, what would you like to order?" he finished at last.

Fléin asked about the menu, and was told to choose from "a burger, large, medium or small, either cat, fish, lemming, possum, rabbit, raccoon, squirrel or any other furry animal, with optional purple ketchup, or else a bag, large, medium or small, of candy, flies, liquorice, bees, or slugs. There's also a choice of lima beans, chocolate, chewing gum or fruitcake, with either cola, coke, pepsi, coca cola, soda or mountain dew on the side."

Fléin signed at the unimaginitive, quasi-traditional Mordorian menu. Sometimes he really did long for a nice mug of ale and some nicely cooked chicken...
"Medium lemmingburger, please, and hold the purple ketchup," he replied.

After eating his meal at a small window table (it had come with purple ketchup, and was grossly overpriced at one troll fifty, and altogether wholly unsatisfying), he decided he really needed to sort out where this Edgingville was, and how he was to get there before the end of the day. It was already midday.

*******

Half an hour later, Fléin was still puzzling over the useless map. Amon Haradow... it had to be here somewhere. The map was still of Lûndûn, no matter how odd the names. Haradow... Haradow... Edgingville, too, was mysteriously absent.

The Dwarf sighed and, deciding that a short nap would clear his wits, set his head upon the rather sticky table. He closed his eyes, immediately regretted doing so for obvious reasons, sighed again and tried to get to sleep in the middle of the very busy restaurant.

[Kath]

Sai was keeping her body in as tight a hold as possible as the van lurched from side to side, not wanting to come into any more contact with the two lawyers on either side of her than she had to. They both reeked of the city and she was having to keep her head down to avoid gagging. Not that either of them even seemed to notice she was between them anyway. They were talking about warranties and tax codes and custom checks, and all the time using double negatives and passive voice and mispronouncing words so that Sai was having to bite her tongue not to scream at them. Even worse though, the two of them continually punctuated all their points by waving their arms about, so she was being hit in the head every few seconds and was starting to worry about a possible concussion.

Her patience was already running very thin when one of the men's arms hit her in the nose. The pain caused her eyes to water like crazy and she finally lost her temper. Grabbing hold of the arm that had just hit her she took hold of the little finger on the hand at the end of it and bent it backwards. Pulling herself upright again she carefully bent the man's finger until she could see his eyes begin to water as hers had just done.

"Hit me again, and next time, I won't stop here - understood?"

The man nodded, trying to edge away from her without moving his finger, a feat he was failing at quite miserably if the look on his face was anything to go by. Satisfied that she had made her point Sai let go and settled back down, finding that she inexplicably had more room. Her method of attack may have been less fierce than Alli's, but it seemed to have been just as effective.

[the phantom]

With a not very well hidden look of relief, Alli agreed to trade Mardil spots and sit next to the window. It was easier said than done though. The rows of seats were quite close together, not really leaving enough room for two people to squeeze past each other. On top of that, there was the continual bouncing of the van on the substandard streets. Needless to say, an awful lot of contact was made while switching spots, which, though he didn't show it, Mardil rather liked.

Once he was situated next to the RCA representative, Mardil asked "So- you have a document that requires that I accompany you to RCA and work out a record deal, correct?"

"Yeah, homey, that's what we got," answered the man.

"Don't call me 'homey'. My name is Mardil."

"Aw, sorry 'bout that hom- uh, Mardil. Heh- that's a tight name, man- Maarrrdiiilll! S'got a ring to it, ya know. Maaarrrdiiiillll!! Ha ha ha!" Mardil shook his head. He was beginning to regret switching seats. Oblivious to Mardil's annoyance, the man continued. "Mardil... Let's go chill with Mardil! Ya can't hold still with Mardil! Let's pop some pills with Mardil! Yeah, ha ha! Your name'll be real useful when we start bustin' out with some rhymes! "

"Oh, goodie," said Mardil.

"Hey, sorry Mardil, I never told you my name," said the RCA representative. "My real name is Jamal Octavius Jones, but I go by Doctor Drive-by."

"How wonderful," said Mardil.

"Thanks, my man. Now, about that contract. How's about we negotiate that right now, homey?"

"Look, I'm not your 'homey'!"

"Can I call you bro?"

"No!"

"How 'bout MacDaddy?"

"Definitely not!"

"Whaz wrong wid MacDaddy? All it means is a pimp who has reached the zenith of his profession. That's a compliment, man!"

Just as Mardil was about to grab Dr. Drive-by by his throat, the van screeched to a sudden halt. Everyone slammed into the seat in front of them, except the lawyer sitting in the middle front. He went flying through the windshield.

"We're here!" announced the driver.

"I'm suing!" screamed the bleeding lawyer in front of the van.

[Celuien]

The train doors shut behind Panakeia with a thud. The whistle blew, screeching and discordant, and the train lurched ahead. She stumbled along the aisle, searching for a vacant seat. If the platform had been crowded, the train was doubly, no, triply so. The passengers climbed over each other in their rush for a seat, resulting in many trampled toes and bruised legs. Panakeia's aching feet rejoiced as she spotted an empty seat at the back of the car. She moved towards it as rapidly as the crowded conditions and unsteady ride, for the train swayed terribly along the track, would allow. She had nearly reached the chair when someone rushed up from behind, pushed her aside and sat down, with a hostile glare that defied her to challenge his right to sit. Panakeia was in no mood for a fight. She grasped a loop dangling from the ceiling and held on for dear life. The conductor was doing a terrible job. The train threatened to derail at every turn. The conductor must be speeding, she thought. I only hope we make it to Edge-Where alive.

The train stopped abruptly. "South Rût’s Lip. South Rût’s Lip. Everyone off for South Rût’s Lip." No one already on board budged, but several more passengers piled on to the train. A woman with a small child, perhaps 2 or 3 years old, now stood behind Panakeia.

"Mommy, I want some more gum," she said.

"Not now, dear. Finish what you have."

"I want more now!" she screamed. The tot was obviously spoiled rotten.

The mother replied in a harassed voice. "I told you, when you finish what you have."

The child began to cry at the top of her voice and pulled the gum out of her mouth. Her fingers went to Panakeia's hair, smearing the gum into her locks. The child smiled broadly. "All gone, Mommy."

"Good girl. Have another piece."

This was too much for Panakeia. "I hope you swallow that gum," she hissed under her breath. The only response was a sly grin and wave. Panakeia moved to find another place to stand. As she glanced around, she spotted a door at the rear of the car. A sign on the door stated "Private. No admittance." Preposterous. This is a public train on the BliddyUnnergrind. There aren't any private cars. She pushed the door ajar and stepped inside.

The new car was dimly lit. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Panakeia noted that the car was vacant. Except for four people standing together in a corner, speaking in low tones and laughing. They turned to face the intruder, and Panakeia realized that three of them were the street musicians from Rût’s Lip Garden. The fourth man was Willy.

The lead singer shouted. "Can't you read? This is a private car. Leave at once!"

"Hush up, Payne. Ah reckin it's too late now. She done seen us."

The second speaker stepped forward, and extended his hand in greeting. "Howdy, ma'am. Step inside and set a spell." He seemed friendly, but there was something in his tone that suggested a command rather than an invitation. Panakeia nodded and sat down while Willy and the musicians hurried to stand in front of her.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli was the first to leave the van... at least if you didn't count the lawyer. She pushed her way past everybody and opened the door, climbing out into the air. Suddenly a tall man in a business suit was looking down at her, shaking her hand, and informing her how pleased he was to see her. Before she could say a word, he had showed her an official looking document with a lot of fine print and an impressive looking signature with a rather large number of loops and squiggles that seemed to spell out "Anakron" or at least "Anakin"... or perhaps it said "A Napkin"? Wait... she thought, napkins aren't impressive... at least not if they aren't finely woven fabric delicately embroidered and trimmed with the best Lothlorien Lace... and he'd slung an arm around her shoulders and was forcibly leading her away from the van. A little bit motion sick and still recovering from her run-in with claustrophobia, Alli could do nothing but cast a longing look toward her companions as she was pulled farther away from them and through a large pair of iron doors into the pretentiously decorated, not to mentioned pronounced, foyer of a truly tall and somewhat shiny building with a large gold music note on the front of it.

She ignored his self-aggrandizing speech as he guided her down many twists and turns. How could a building that had such boringly square architecture on the outside have hallways that actually curved in such random directions? she thought. She was lost quickly but recognized the portraits of a few famous musicians on the walls. Madonnarwen gazed down from her portrait like a virgin clad in white silk. Aikenamir looked down at Alli from the second place in the long line of pictures and she shivered to see a somewhat creepy looking photo of the ever famous Jack son of Michel of the city of Nevilind.

Suddenly the man turned and opened a door, pushing her through it and slamming it behind her. She looked around nervously, wondering where she was. Loud music came on suddenly and stage-lights began to flash. Alli looked around, slightly terrified, and saw that she was surrounded by a dozen scantily clad dancers gyrating to the music. Suddenly a bleached blond clad in slightly less than her backups walked slinkily toward Alli. She beckoned sexily, singing accusing words at her.

"I see you looking at me like I'm some kind of freak."

Alli was terrified. The lights were flashing like a storm had come indoors. The music was loud, the dancers were everywhere, and this woman was speaking to her.

"Get up out of your seat. Why don't you do something?"

"But I'm not sitting!" protested Alli. "And I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing! Where am I?" she yelled over the music.

Suddenly the blond singer motioned to somebody off stage and the music cut. The lights turned on and Alli saw that she was standing in the middle of a stage, surrounded by irate dancers. The singer was yelling at a stage manager. Alli caught a few words as she looked around speechlessly.

"... not in costume... unprepared for work!" Alli looked over as the woman gesticulated toward her. She was about to sneak offstage and hope she wasn't noticed when she heard one of the dancers gossip to another.

"Brit's just mad because the new girl is prettier and looks better in leather."

At this, Alli snickered and decided that enough time had gone by when she wasn't in the control of the situation. She left the stage, pulling the man that the singer had been complaining to with her.

"I've had enough of her attitude." Alli complained to him with her hands on her hips. "If Brit can't handle my presence on stage, she can work with somebody else. Doesn't she know who I am?"

Though the man had no idea who this raven-haired diva was either, he knew better than to argue with one of the company's stars, and she certainly acted like a spoiled one. It was better to get fired for following orders from one of them than to get fired for ignoring them. Quickly the stage was cleared. Alli watched Britney Spears get dragged from the theatre with a deeply satisfied look on her face. Within moments, she was standing alone with the man. "Send for my backup singers." she demanded. "They are in this building somewhere. Ask for Mardil and Sai. I want them here yesterday. And I want a bottle of Dasani, a vegetarian sub, and an I-pod with a lot of heavy metal music on it."

As he scurried off to do this fantastically bossy new artist's orders, she sat happily in the middle of the darkened stage hoping and praying that she didn't run into the blond singer again. She doubted that the woman would be happy with her having her kicked out of the theatre.

[Encaitare]

Over the next few hours, Wilhelmina obtained a new cell phone with a frog ringtone, a diamond bracelet, a kitten, a bunch of Disney movies, a lawn mower, several boring books that had interesting covers, and an empty tube of chapstick, all at the expense of one Mr. Karís Mâtiktwít, who was currently trying to carry all these down the sidewalk. Being a bit hard-of-hearing as she was, she could not hear him muttering to the kamuraman, who, at her insistence, had gotten his sparse hair dyed magenta: "Old hag gets famous by dumb luck and suddenly she thinks she's some kind of princess." However, she knew he was thinking it, which was just what she wanted.

"You know what would be really excellent?" she said, stopping short and turning around.

"A breather?" Karís gasped through the sweat pouring down his face.

"No," Wilhelmina said sweetly. "If you got me that PT Cruiser over there. The yellow and lavender one."

"We've got... to get to... Edge-Where..."

"Yes, and it will be much faster if we can drive!"

"In this traffic? Are you... are you crazy???"

"Young man, are you questioning me?"

Karís wiped at his forehead in trepidation. "No, ma'am."

"Good. Then you won't mind getting the car. Perhaps you can give its owner that lawn mower as compensation."

~*~*~*~*~

"Oh, you won't be coming with me," were both the most wonderful and the most terrible words that Karís had ever heard. His face contorted into horrible faces as he tried to decide whether he should be overjoyed or horrified. He settled with simply confused.

"But... what about the show? I'll be out of a job! I'll be ruined!"

"Hmmm...." said Wilhelmina, leaning out of the car window. "Oh, I've got a simply smashing idea! You remember how you said sex sells?"

Karís nodded, hoping she wasn't about to suggest he adopt a new, promiscuous lifestyle.

"All you have to do is find a new star! Get someone else from the Offending Party!" Actually, it wasn't a half bad idea, Karís realized. But there were problems.

"But the contract is for you!" He added a silent 'unfortunately' in his head. "Anakron--"

"Pish-posh on Anakron; think of the ratings you'll get with young, happening stars! I happen to know where you can find a few others from the Offending Party."

"Where? Where?" simpered Karís, Double Dragon signs dancing in his eyes.

"Oh, some place called RCA," said Wilhelmina. "Best of luck!" And with that, she pulled out into traffic, prepared to terrorize the roadways of Lûndûn.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin woke with a start - of the table. He tried to look up at whoever had shook the table, but his face seemed stuck to it, and his eyelids to one another. Struggle as he might, and did for a few moments, he could free neither with ease, and didn't wish to appear as ridiculous as he knew he must. He stopped moving, hoping to give an air of being completely at ease stooped over the table with his eyes shut.

"Excuse me, old chap, are you quite alright there? You don't mind if I sit here, do you?" a constipated, or perhaps educated, voice floated down to Fléin.

"Go ahead" Fléin growled into his beard, a little more aggressively than he intended to.

"I do thank you... I say, are you quite alright?" the man persisted.

"Merely tired..." the Dwarf lied.

"My poor Man! Let me get you a coffee."

More vibrations, the table jogged a little more, and Fléin presumed the man was gone, giving him a little time to unstick himself if he could. He dug his finger into the corner of his right eye, scooping up as much conjunctival gunk as possible and flicking it onto the table for some poor unfortunate to fiddle with later. He noticed that there was perceivably less gunk than there had been last time he woke up.

The process was repeated with his left eye. He opened them, and was greeted by the sight of the eternally sticky table. Fortunately only a small portion of his beard, near the sideburns on his left cheek, was actually stuck to the table; the majority drooped over the edge.

"No! No, old chap, that's not at all what I meant!" the constipated voice, raised, interrupted his thoughts.

"Are you insinuating," a loud Orcish voice rose over the hubbub, "that I, as an Orc, can only serve black coffee? Is that it? Eh?"

Fléin smiled to himself. Political correctness... ridiculous, but ever so amusing when stuffy old upperclassmen were confronted by it.

He focused on his beard again, letting the raised voices of the Orc and the burbling responses of the stranger merge into the background. There was only one way out of the current situation, and he didn't much like the idea of it.

Placing a hand to the left and right of his head, he yanked his face off the table. There was a sound like velcro ripping, and pain shot through the left side of his face, but he was free! He rubbed his face a little.

"Sorry about that," the upperclassman reappeared and interrupted him again, causing him to quickly drop his hand to his side. "Those orcs... make a dreadful amount of trouble, much more than they're worth, but what can one do?"

Fléin smiled a little and took the proferred coffee. "Thank you," he replied, "those Rakhâs are a lot of trouble, aren't they? You're lucky, I got an oration on Language."

"Yes well... Did I introduced myself? Most rude. Aranwe Mullion at your service."

"Fléin son of Fréin at yours." He stood up and bowed, before resuming his seat and sipping his coffee. It was surprisingly good, for Mordor. "Thank you once again."

"Think nothing of it. I thank you for letting me share this table... all the others are taken, or full of undesirables." He scowled a little at the room in general before turning back to Fléin with a smile.

Draining his cup, Fléin stood up a second time, before seating himself again rapidly.

"You wouldn't happen to know where Edgingville is, by any chance, would you?"

A frown crossed the man's face. "Edgingville. No villes around here anymore... all have long since been swallowed up by Lûndûn, or Lûn-dun as I call it, ha-ha." Fléin resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at the poor joke. "You don't mean Edge-Where do you?"

"Yes! Yes, that was it! Edge-where!" the Dwarf beamed up at him. "Edge-Where... that's where I need to get to".

"Rather. Edgewhere, where-"

"Could you tell me where it is please?" the Dwarf interrupted before he could complete what was almost certainly going to be another ill attempt at humour.

"Only I'm in a little bit of a hurry"

"Why of could, my good chap. You're at Amon Haradow. You need only travel about five miles North East. You could get there in a few hours, though if I were you, I'd get a taxy."

"Taxy?"

"A Lûndûn phenomenon, I see you're new to the city. So called because they overcharge so, and the journeys are usually quite taxing - they're simply vehicles driven by Orcs that take you wherever you wish to go. Some call them cabs, because they're often even tighter a squeeze than cabins. Just hold out a hand to a black car on the road, it'll most likely be a taxy."

Fléin thanked Aranwe and left, finally feeling slightly in control of his quest.

[littlemanpoet]

Alli was sitting on her blackened stage, waiting for the foolish minions to do as she had ordered when the floor began to rumble beneath her. The rumble grew louder and louder, fiercer and fiercer, then there was great THUMP, and Alli found herself having been bumped into the air.

"Ow!"

She landed on her fanny about ten feet from where she had been sitting, and she was conveniently facing the place from where she had gotten bumped. What had it been what was going on?

The gyratable barely-clads all screamed and ran off.

The floor was rising, cracking, breaking apart, and an eerie red glow issued from the crack. The rumble and roar continued, the crack widened, and the red glow broadened, until with a great crash, the floor gave way. Alli shielded her face from the shrapnel, and peeked through her fingers.

"Oh. no," she said in a flat voice.

A Balrog stood before her. It was wingless. It opened its mouth. And pointed at her.

"You're late for work." Balrogs had not been speakers in the days before the Anakronism Dweomer, but things had changed since then. The wingless Balrog reached out and grabbed Alli about the waist in one hand; it was lucky she was still wearing her burn-proof work clothes. The Balrog jumped back into the hole and carried Alli into nameless nether regions deep beneath Lûndûn.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The minute Wilhelmina turned the key in the ignition, a horrible tranformation occurred. Her elderly hands grew into rough, hard fingers with talons. Her petite old lady's nose grew into a blotchy orcish nose, which also increased her ability to smell the fume and stench of the city. Her slightly bent back grew until she had a hump with ridges.

"Oh dear! I knew there was a good reason that I had never driven before!"

She gamely decided that if she must be an orc, there was little that could be done about that, she began to drive like an orcish maniac, and for a while, the orcs behind the wheels of other cars dutifully got out of her way.

Then BOOM. Boom BOOM!!!

The car suddenly began to list to the right, and was riding on its axles. Three flat tires, all at once.

Wilhelmina shook her head, then looked behind her. There were four spares in the back seat. Which was good. They were all in varying states of baldness. Which was bad.

[Celuien]

Panakeia sat uncomfortably in her seat as the musicians hovered above her. For the moment, they had turned aside and were speaking among themselves. Panakeia caught only a few bits of their conversation. Phrases such as "nosy reporter" "no good snoop" and "any publicity is better than none" floated past her ears. They probably think I'm here to do a story on them, the self-absorbed egotists, she thought. Maybe I can use that to my advantage.

The man who had first addressed her again opened the conversation. "Sorry 'bout that, ma'am. We all was havin' ourselv' a little con-fer-ence. I'm Dwaine (named for Dwalin - my ma always did love tales of the Dwarf-folk but she nivver could spell worth a plug nickel) of the King's Own Trio. Him over yonder with the banjo is called Strummer (what his rightful name is, he's not sayin'). An' the feller what looks like he sat on a porcupine is called Isildil Payne." Payne glared. "Pleased t'meet you."

Panakeia replied "Likewise, I'm sure."

Dwaine beamed. "Well now. You sure put us in a mess. No one was supposed to come in here. And in you came. And what we want to know is why?"

"To be perfectly honest, I was looking for a seat. It's awfully crowded out there." Dwaine nodded in agreement. "And..." Panakeia paused, debating whether or not to play her card. "And, I was hoping to run into you. Your performance was most...inspiring, and I was hoping to write a story about you. I'm a free-lance reporter." She smiled, hoping no one noticed the writing on her sample case.

But Payne did see it. "'Panakeia's Cure-Alls?' A reporter? Come again." There was a sneer in his voice.

"It's a side-business." She frantically thought of a way to distract them. "Tell me about yourselves."

That did the trick. Dwaine went on and on about the trio in its early days, how they had been court musicians to the King himself in Minas Tirith before being banished (there followed a brief argument as to which of the three had been most careless about the use of Anakronisms), their beginnings in Mordor as a hit band, and their more recent fading from the public scene.

"Yes ma'am, those were the good ol' days. Near on 30 years ago it must be now. We was at the top, the very top. Maybe you remember?" he asked hopefully.

Panakeia stiffened. "I am but 29 years of age. Of course not."

Dwaine whistled. "You don't say?" He eyed her up and down skeptically, but didn't challenge her assertion.

He went on to explain the business of Willy and Eckaust Fûmës. "See now," he lowered his voice confidentially, "'T'aint no Mr. Eckaust Fûmës. This here is what we call a publicity stunt. Willy thought it up. He's our manager. And a right clever plan it was too. Got us some good 'tention. It's been hard, just being in the BU all these years, no big performances, lessin' it's one of them things where they pull out all the old has-beens. But now we got ourselves another chance at the bright lights. All this 'bout Willy got us out there agin with our public, and what do you think? RCA done give us a contract t'come in and make a new record!"

Payne had been sitting silently in a corner, glowering like a thunderstorm. At last he burst out, "There's just one little problem. You. You know that none of this was real. If they find out that this stunt has all been a put on, they might rescind their offer. We can't afford to take that chance. Which means that you are coming with us, at least until the session is safely underway."

Panakeia gasped. "But I can't! I have to be in Edge-Where tomorrow."

Payne smiled maliciously. "Did you not say that you are a reporter? How can we be certain that you won't release your 'scoop,' as you say, before the session ends? No, you had better come with us, unless you would prefer that I turn you in to the authorities for failing to report to your assigned Mordor duties. Strip-mining or quarrying or some such thing, wasn't it?"

Panakeia gazed uneasily at Payne. How could he have known that? She had told no one of the official summons to report to work at some strip-mining operation or other. The summons she had tossed into a heap of litter as soon as she received it. She hadn't given it a second thought since then, but somehow, she had a sinking feeling that if the proper bureaucrats were notified of her disobedience, she would have some difficult explaining to do. Panakeia realized that her only hope was to escape Mordor before the slowly turning wheels of the bureaucratic machine caught up to her. Her impatience to reach Edge-Where redoubled.

"Sir, are you blackmailing me?" Panakeia suddenly found herself falling into Payne's overly formal speaking style.

"Let's not call it blackmail. It is such an unpleasant word. Rather, let's say that we have reached a mutually agreeable solution to our common difficulties. Quid pro quo, if you like, Miss, Miss... You have the advantage of me."

"Panakeia of Harad. I still call it blackmail, but I suppose if we must go through with this, we'd best be hurrying along."

Dwaine cheered and slapped his knees, then Panakeia's back. "Now there ya go! Looks like we got us a travelin' compan-yon." He dropped his voice, sotto voce. "Don't let that Payne worry you none. He's got the disposition of an ornery hound-dog, but his bark is worse 'n his bite. Besides now," he added brightly, "You've still got to find your way through t'station at Potted Ham Court Road. An' we've been riding these here trains for years. Why, I'd say I know them like the back of my hand!"

Willy grinned. "Don't worry, our side trip won't delay you much. The Ridiculously Cacophonous Arsininity studio building isn't far from Edge-Where on the Northern Line. Just at Entish Town. We won't keep you from your appointment, whatever it may be. You only need to stay with us until it's too late for any story to stop our session. Besides, I'll bet that you've never seen a studio before." Panakeia could not say that she had. "Well then," said Willy, "It'll be interesting for you." Panakeia had her doubts about that, but said nothing.

The train screeched to a halt. "Potted Ham Court Road! Potted Ham Court Road! Everyone off this stop."

Well, here we go, thought Panakeia. What have you've gotten yourself into now? Payne grabbed her arm, and all five of them hurried out of the train to stand in the cavernous space of the station.

[the guy who be short]

"Taxy! Taxy! Taxy, Mahal curse you!"

One after another, the black cabs of Lûndûn passed Fléin by. It must have been half an hour, at least, since he had left Ma Cuddonelds and stuck his hand out in vain. Various orc-driven vehicles had not only failed to stop, they also hurled abuse at him.

"Get that bloody arm off the road, you menace!" an orc leant out of his vehicle to cry at the Dwarf. This involved swivelling his head at a degree perpendicular to the angle at which it should have been, desirably, for the purpose of driving. This led to 'an incident,' as some bureaucrats might put it. "Holy-" was the only word the Dwarf caught, followed by a short screech, a loud bang of metal upon metal, an eerie silence, and a lot of cussing in quick succession.

Fléin stood around a little longer, spectating the spectacle as a spectator, before decided it would probably be quicker to walk the five or so miles it apparently was to Edge-Where. He waited just long enough to hear the blame for the accident attributed to budget cuts in the production line, before strolling off in what, according to the Sun, was a North-Easterly direction.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli was not at all happy with this new problem. As soon as she thought she had things under control, deus ex machina gave had given her a hard kick in the posterior. She glared at Roggie of Morgoth. "You're burning me." she accused, "And I am NOT late for work." He looked at her with a maniacal and not at all guilty feeling grin as he ran through the nether regions with what could only be described as wingèd speed.

"You know," she added pensively, noting his unnatural winglessness, "I'm kind of amazed at how quickly you're able to fly from the wreckage of the studio if you haven't got wings. Rog', why aren't they there? I attached them myself. You paid for them by giving me disco lessons, remember? And we both know that I'm the best 'winger around. You couldn't just lose them... they're attached. And you wouldn't take them off yourself... your nickname used to be The Lord of the Wings! When you won your most recent battle, the world called the event The Return of the Wing. Roggie... what happened?"

As she talked, he began to slow and looked more and more upset. His eyeliner ran as his balrogic tears turned to steam upon generation. Now he stopped and set her down. She brushed ash off of her clothes and stood there stubbornly.

"Roggie... tell me what's the matter."

"It's that... that hobbit."

"What hobbit, Roggie?" All of the hobbits Alli knew began to march slowly through her thoughts. She couldn't think of a single one that could make someone such as Roggie of Morgoth cry. Bill, maybe... Bill was a wimp. He lazed around for hundreds of years until an old man could beat him up. But Roggie? No way.

"It was... it was... Màrîo."

Alli looked at the wingless balrog wide-eyed. She couldn't believe it. She wouldn't leave here until she heard the whole story.

[Encaitare]

"Tarnation!" cried Wilhelmina. Rather, that was what she'd meant to say, but in her newly Orkish state, a stream of rude words burst out instead. She weighed her options. She could attempt to replace the tires, but she honestly had no idea how. Or, she could get out and walk -- but she didn't know how to get to Edge-Where at all! Many of the drivers behind her were honking and shouting. One pulled around in front of her, yelling, "Call a tow truck, lady!"

Now there was an idea! Wilhelmina turned off the car, found her new cell phone, and dialed Information. For a long while she heard nothing but some Mûzak melodies. Finally, there came a voice: "Information, how can I help you?"

"I need a tow truck," she told the operator.

The operator made a scoffing sound. "In this traffic? Are you kidding me? Look, ma'am, is it a five-car pileup?"

"No, but I've got three flat tires in the middle of the road."

"You're not native to Lûndûn, are you, ma'am?" the operator asked sympathetically.

"No," Wilhelmina admitted.

"Then let me be the first to tell you that the towing companies here only come under two circumstances: a pileup of at least five cars, or a parking violation."

"That's--"

"Have a nice day, ma'am, and enjoy your stay in Lûndûn!" the operator said brightly. Then there was a click, and a dial tone buzzed in the bewildered woman's ear.

"Well! If that's not the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" she huffed, hopping out of the PT Cruiser. "I suppose I'll have to check my map again, as convoluted as it is." She did so, and decided that she had to head down a particularly crowded street to her left in order to get in an Edge-Whereish direction.

[Kath]

Sai watched as first Alli was led away and then Mardil disappeared soon after. The lawyer she had not threatened, who was flipping through sheet after sheet of paper, was holding her in place so she couldn’t follow. Peering over his arm she could see nothing that made any sense, save the words Britney, Sai Onara and singer. She suddenly recalled that Mardil’s plan did actually require her to sing, and wondered whether she ought to have pointed out the fatal flaw of her inability to do so. Well, no, if you took the definition that singing was simply speaking words to music then yes she could sing, it was just the lack of pitch, tune and general talent that had anyone who heard her pressing their hands over their ears in consternation. Still, she needed to get inside and find her companions, so decided not to mention it for the moment.

Finally her captor seemed to find whatever it was he had been looking for, though Sai strongly suspected that he had in fact just wanted to show her that he was in charge here. The macho man impersonation was more amusing than effective though, and she was having a hard time keeping a straight face when he glared at her. He began to walk towards the obscenely large RCA building, throwing back an order to follow him. Scowling Sai complied, not wanting to be left alone in the middle of the street with all these orc drivers suffering from road rage. As she followed him though, she could have sworn she saw an orc that looked just like that Wilhelmina woman. Turning to get a second look she was nearly mown down by a group of incompetent nurses, who had been sent out to fetch the slightly dented lawyer.

Unfortunately he could not tell them how much he was hurting due to the unconscious state he had ended up in, while Sai was hopping up and down on one foot, holding the other and cursing under her breath at idiots who don’t look where they’re going. One of the nurses caught wind of her words and, apparently deciding that the stretcher they had with them needed to be put to good use, cried out in what felt to Sai like glee and wrestled her down onto the white board. Before she could move even a finger she was strapped down, a thermometer was stuck in her mouth and she was on her way into the building.

She was carried up what felt like hundreds of floors. The building either had no lifts or the nurses had a phobia of them, and Sai could feel the bump of every stair she was taken up. She was just beginning to think that by the time they were finished with her she would need a nurse when she was deposited in a very ungainly manner on a narrow bed. She tried to sit up but was pushed back down while the nurses searched for the injuries they had been told their casualty would have. Unable to find any they decided that it must be some kind of optical illusion, and that they would try to guess where the fragments of glass were likely to be embedded, and pull them out. Now thoroughly terrified, Sai distracted them with a quick “Oh my God, what’s that over there!?” and a point in the vague direction of the nearest window, thanking whoever created these awful creatures for blessing them with a gullibility and stupidity rivalled only by that of the contestants of shows such as Big Brother. While their backs were turned she leapt out of the bed and out the door with a display of agility that would have amazed her old physical education master and ran directly into a large man who let out an “oomph”, and in so doing, allowed Sai to discover the pleasure of being breathed on by a person with halitosis. She clamped a hand over her nose and mouth and didn’t dare remove it to speak as he led her down various corridors for fear of the stench emanating from his mouth.

He dragged her down the numerous flights of stairs she had just been carried up, and stopped in front of a door that seemed to have burn marks around the ages. Not noticing, her smelly breath’d friend pushed it open, shoved her inside and wandered off. Sai caught hold of the handle just before she fell into the chasm that stepping into the room had taken her to the edge of. Staring down in amazement her eye fell upon a familiar looking item. Tightening her hold on the door handle, Sai leaned forward a little more, and saw that it was one of Alli’s gloves – she must have gone down the hole! Yanking herself back through the door she set off running, little caring which direction she went in just so long as she could find someone to tell her where Mardil was.

Bursting through a door a little later she saw him just up ahead, coming out of a room. Slowing enough so that she wouldn’t knock him over in the same way she had done to countless people on her journey through the building, she took hold of his sleeve and tugged his head down so she could inform him of her suspicions without anyone else hearing. From what she had seen of the characters here so far, they were more likely to try and make some money out of it rather than try to help them find Alli.

Finishing her story she let go of Mardil and tried to get her breath back as he quickly weighed up their options and turned to talk to the contract personnel behind him.

[Celuien]

The arches of Potted Ham Court Station stretched above as far as Panakeia's eye could follow them. Rût’s Lip Garden, a relatively small stop on the line, was nothing in comparison. People and orcs scurried about everywhere, searching for their destinations. Adding to the confusion was the fact that there were numerous shops in this station, mostly devoted to the sale of (what else?) potted hams and something called spam, which appeared to stand for synthetic potted ham. If the ingredients list on the back of the can was to be trusted. There were numerous cafés in the station as well, all seemingly devoted to the sale of those particular items. A menu in the window of one of the shops read:

Egg and spam, 50 maggots
Egg, bacon and spam, 75 maggots
Egg, bacon, sausage and spam, 1 troll
Spam, bacon, sausage, and spam, 1 troll, 25 maggots
Spam, egg, spam, spam, bacon, and spam, 1 troll, 50 maggots
Spam, sausage, spam, spam, bacon, spam, tomato and spam, 2 trolls

Panakeia wondered aloud, "Don't they have anything without spam?"

Willy interrupted her musings. "Come on, we've got to keep moving. Our train leaves from the other end of the station."

As they hurried off to find their train, a mob rushed up to the group, celebrating Willy's release from the train and asking for autographs. They stopped. Willy beamed, being sure to thank the trio for their support. Camera flashes came from all directions, blinding Panakeia with a blur of green and purple spots. A moment later, they were moving again, Panakeia's arm still in Payne's grasp. They were taking no chances of her making an escape attempt. In truth, there was no need to worry, at least for the moment. Panakeia was glad of their guidance through the station, the complexity of which would have left her completely lost on her own. But once they reached the train, she fully intended to try and lose her new travel mates. In the meantime, she allowed them to lead her to the train while she gazed around the station. Piles of blue cans, marked in yellow with the word spam in capital letters were stacked everywhere. Yet more spam dropped intermittently through tubes between the ceiling arches. Just as quickly as they fell to the ground, a crew of workers grabbed the cans and either stacked them against the wall, to be sold to local merchants, or packed them into boxes to be shipped to distant parts. Potted Ham Court Road was the heart of Mordor's vast spam industry, and there was certainly no shortage.

As Panakeia wound through the station, up stairs and down stairs, left and right, she noticed that, unlike in the rest of Mordor, the walking paths here were smooth and even. Not one crack or hole was to be found. Even this could be explained by spam; mixed with Mordor's other abundant commodity of gravel, ash, and some water, it made an excellent substitute for concrete. Thus, the roving work crews in Potted Ham Court Road were able to keep the walkways in excellent condition, although their constant presence while patching them greatly worsened the flow of foot traffic through the station.

The little band came to a halt within sight of the platform, which was strangely vacant. They stood at the back of a long line of pedestrians waiting to go on to the platform. Panakeia soon spotted the reason for the delay. One of the crews was at work ahead, fixing a rather large hole in the walkway. They left only enough room to pass them in single file. The work crew's flagger stood in the space holding a sign. "Stop."

The train rolled up. "All aboard! Northern line to Edge-Where. All aboard!"

The company struggled to push ahead. But they couldn't move an inch. The sign was still turned to oppose them. Willy shouted, "Let us through! We'll miss our train." The flagger merely cursed at him.

"All aboard, last call."

Suddenly, a rumbling, mingled with the sound of voices raised in song, came from behind. Four riders on horseback, clad in long robes and horned caps, rushed up, bearing filled boxes of spam for the Northern line.

"Spam, spam, spam, wonderful spam. Lovely spam," they chanted.

The leader blew a blast on his horn. The work crew moved aside. The sign was turned around. "Go." Everyone rushed forward to avoid being trampled by the spam delivery. The horses brushed past. Panakeia boarded the train, pulled ahead by Payne.

Still chanting their song, the riders piled their boxes onto the train. As the last box was loaded and the riders turned to depart, the train pulled out of the station, bound for Edge-Where

***

The passengers stood and cheered as Willy and the musicians entered the car. The stunt certainly did seem to have earned the respect of the BliddyUnnergrind's patrons. Panakeia chuckled to herself at the knowledge that they had all been taken in by the group's scam. I only wish I'd thought of it myself. Brilliant, simply brilliant. She again gave thanks for their company as five passengers rose to offer their seats to the heroes and their "lovely companion." Panakeia's feet ached terribly and she was exhausted by the trip. Sandwiched between Willy and Payne, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

Troubled dreams filled her mind. She was in a dark tunnel, her feet trapped in a soggy floor of melting spam. A troop of police-orcs, bent on arresting and dragging her off to the mines, were in hot pursuit. "Failure to report," they shouted. "Unpardonable." Just as they were about to reach her, Panakeia came to the end of the tunnel. The orcs vanished. She stood outside in the night air.

The charred timbers of a ruined house were ahead of her. A realization dawned on Panakeia. "I'm home." She hurried forward. The ghostly figure of a young woman moved in the crumbling wreck. She wore the tattered remains of a long white gown, shot through with green leaves. Her long, light brown hair fell in wisps to her waist. The apparition turned. Panakeia screamed. "It's me. Dead!" The spectral image of the young Panakeia beckoned, a sad, surprised look on her face, her lips moving as if she were about to speak.

Panakeia awoke with a start. She was still on the train. Dwaine looked at her. "You look like you seen a ghost."

Panakeia nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps I have." Then she shook off her mood. "No, it was just a bad dream."

The conductor entered the car. "Entish Town. Entish Town."

Payne grabbed her arm. "Come. This is our destination."

Panakeia hesitated. "Wait, can't you just let me keep going? You have my word that I won't reveal your secret."

"We don't have time for this. You are coming along." Payne sneered. "What good is your word? Panakeia's Cure-Alls. Reporter or not, you, my dear lady, are a charlatan. How can we trust you?"

Panakeia stood abashed. Her dream brought to mind her old ideals. Never join the family business? Look how that turned out. He's right. I'm nothing but a scammer. The very thing I once despised. She hung her head and followed Payne off of the train, lost in thought.

Up, up, up they went. At last, they returned to the street. Winding through traffic and pedestrians, they made their way to the RCA building. Panakeia noticed a PT Cruiser with flat tires at the side of the road. Its driver looked strangely familiar for an orc, but Panakeia couldn't quite place her.

The musicians proudly announced themselves to a guard. "The King's Own Trio, here for a recording session," cried Willy. The guard checked his list and opened the building's tall iron doors. They shut behind the group with a clang. And chaos greeted them.

Half-dressed dancers ran about screaming. There was frantic talk about some disaster on stage. "A Balrog, a balrog," they cried out in terror. "Brit sulking and the new girl gone. What will we do?"

Panakeia seized her opportunity. "Gentlemen, this is where I leave you. Best of luck." She raced off to where the commotion looked greatest and ran down a hallway looking for a back door. The corridor twisted back into the maze-like building. Rounding a corner, she was startled to see two familiar faces.

"Sai, Mardil! Fancy meeting you here. What a surprise." Both of them looked grim. What was going on?

[Encaitare]

It was not long before Wilhelmina (happily no longer an orc) was completely engulfed by the swarming crowd; however, she was now getting accustomed to the pace of the city, and managed to move quickly down the sidewalk. Those who walked too slowly received merciless prods from her walking stick. As she continued on, she noticed a crowd gathering on a corner; she got closer and saw a pileup of not three, not five, but seven cars, around which were standing seven irate orcs. There were also a number of police officers, but they appeared quite useless, as all they did was say, "What's all this, then?"

One of said police officers was performing a slightly more functional job: diverting the spectators away from the crash site. "Nothing to see here, folks!" he yelled above the din of the angry orcs. "Nothing that won't soon be cleared up! Down this street, please! Take the detour, please!" Of course, only about half the people heeded his pleas. Wilhelmina was about to do so as well, but suddenly a thought struck her.

"Excuse me, officer," she said, approaching him. "Would you be so good as to tell me the way to Edge-Where?"

"Certainly -- Let's move along! Ma'am, you'll have to -- nothing to see, I said! -- head several blocks north -- the detour, if you please! -- and then you should see some signs -- Oy!" A brawl had begun amongst the orkish drivers, and the officer dashed off to help his fellows break it up. Wilhelmina decided that his information would suffice, followed the detour street, and then turned north. She had walked about five blocks before she saw a sign. It was heavily graffitied, but she could make out 'Ed Wh e: 3.5 m es -->,' and the rest fell into place. She would be in Edge-Where in no time.

As she marched off in the direction the sign indicated, her hat squeaked in anticipation.

[the phantom]

Mardil glanced quickly at the newcomer. "Panakeia, wasn't it?" Panakeia nodded. "We have a bit of a situation here," he continued. "From what I can piece together from Sai's information and the chatter we've heard over that security guard's radio, a balrog burst up through a recording stage and snatched Alli."

"Oh, that's horrible!" Panakeia exclaimed.

"Yes, it really is most unfortunate," agreed Mardil. "I hope she can talk the beast into letting her go. But in the meantime, you two need to get down to the recording studio and prepare to put on the worst performance in history. Right now they have an official document that requires Sai, Alli, and I to negotiate a contract. If we ignore that and make a run for it, we will have RCA thugs on our tails from here to Ithilien, and that simply won't do. We need to negotiate a contract immediately."

"But once we're signed we will be required to record an album, so we won't be any better off!" objected Sai.

"Yes, and so obviously we need to get them to break the contract," said Mardil.

"But how?"

"I've already got the RCA president to agree to let me help write our contract from scratch. I will include cunning clauses in our contract that will keep RCA from having any say about what we say in our songs. Essentially, they will have to back anything so long as we're under contract. Also, I will demand to be paid hourly, meaning that they will have to pay us for every minute we are around. That way, we don't get any guaranteed payoff, and thus it will be beneficial for them to dissolve our contract as soon as they possibly can once they have a reason to. After the contract is signed, we will go down to the studio and begin recording songs like 'RCA sucks' and 'We Hate RCA' and they will have to either pay us to record those songs or rip up the contract. Which one do you think they will do? Mwu ha ha!"

"That's brilliant and all, but what about Alli?" asked Sai.

"I hope she finds some way to escape while we are busy getting free of our contract," answered Mardil.

"Wait... you mean..." stammered Sai in shock, "you're going back into the office to negotiate instead of helping Alli?"

"It's possible that we won't have time to rescue her," said Mardil coolly. "Our first priority is getting to Edge-Where. It would be foolish to lose our chance of escape to go looking for Alli. I don't know about you, but I want to get out of Mordor more than I want to risk injury in rescuing a girl I only met a few hours ago."

"You are so self centered, Mardil!" shouted Sai.

"I didn't say that you couldn't try and rescue her. Go right on ahead. Be a foolish hero."

"So, you really are willing to ditch her?! She's a decent enough girl that I bet she'd try and save you! Why, I'd-" Sai stopped in mid sentence. "What is it Mardil?"

The look on Mardil's face had suddenly changed from flustered to devious. "Wait for me down in the studio where Alli was kidnapped," Mardil said with a half grin.

"Why? What are-"

"Don't worry, just do it. I'll be down shortly," said Mardil quickly as he turned and walked back towards the president's office.

------------

"Well, I think that just about does it," said Raymond Celeborn Adderly X (aka Mr. RCA, president of RCA).

"Yes, this contract is almost satisfactory," agreed Mardil. "All it needs now is something about liability in work related accidents- you know, just the usual fine print that pretty much never gets used. But to make this thing completely official, we'd better include it."

"Oh, of course," said Mr. RCA. "The more official, the better! So how should this be worded?"

Mr. RCA's secretary typed as Mardil dictated. "RCA security is responsible for protecting occupants of the RCA building, and so in the event that Mardil or any of his musical minions are injured or kidnapped while on RCA property, all contracts with Mardil and Co will immediately become null and void. In addition, RCA will be required to use whatever means Mardil deems necessary to correct the lapse in security that resulted in the injury or kidnapping." Mardil turned to Mr. RCA. "Sound like good fine print to you?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Now bring that thing here for me to sign- and then you sign it."

"With pleasure!" said Mardil, handing Mr. RCA the contract.

------------

"It's Mardil!" shouted Panakeia to Sai upon spotting him running down the hall towards the recording stage.

Sai joined Panakeia at the door. "Are you done negotiating?" asked Sai as Mardil entered. Mardil winked at her.

"I'm not only done negotiating," answered Mardil, "I've already managed to get the contract cancelled. Two minutes after Mr. RCA signed it, a security guard burst into the room and announced that Alli had been kidnapped by a balrog. The way I wrote up the contract, RCA is liable and must release us from the contract as well as help us put the situation back in order, no matter what the cost."

Sai and Panakeia noticed that the floor was rumbling.

"The balrog must be coming back!" screamed Panakeia.

"I think not!" said Mardil, who looked quite pleased with himself.

As he finished speaking, ten huge tanks burst through the far wall and stopped. The hatch on the tank closest to the stage opened and an orc in camo gear emerged. "Ready for orders, Master Mardil!"

"What in the world is this?" asked Sai.

Mardil chuckled. "Like I said, RCA is required to right the wrong, and so I made them pay to have a little tank division come and help us rescue Alli."

"That's wonderful!"

"Yes, and I made sure that RCA hired a tank division based out of Edge-Where. That way, after we have Alli, we can simply ride back with them. Now let's go!"

------------

"There's a balrog, dead ahead, sir!" shouted the driver of the lead tank- the one Mardil, Sai, and Panakeia were in.

"Don't fire yet! I've been told it has a hostage. What's it doing?" asked the orc commander as the tanks roared through the last bit of tunnel before the large cavern where the balrog was seated.

"The balrog is sitting next to the hostage, sir! I think it just spotted us!"

"Shoot it before it grabs the hostage!"

"Yes sir!"

Mardil, who couldn't see what was going on, popped the top hatch open and peeked out. He saw the main cannon fire and score a hit to the balrog's midsection as he reached to grab Alli. The impact knocked the balrog back into the wall of the cavern.

"Fire again!" yelled the commander. Then he climbed up beside Mardil to get a better look and radioed to the other tanks. "Tanks Two and Three, fire everything you have at that fiery devil! Four, Five, and Six, you guys get between the hostage and balrog and stand your ground! Seven, Eight, and Nine, you guys hold the entrance so the balrog doesn't follow us out of here! Ten- follow us!"

Guns blazing, the tanks shot out full speed into the cavern. When the lead tank got close to Alli, Mardil jumped off. "This is so stupid!" thought Mardil as he flew through the air. "You should've let one of the orcs do this part. It's dangerous." But Mardil knew he wouldn't have it any other way. When there was a delicious damsel in distress, he simply had to be the one to rescue her.

Mardil hit the ground with a roll and leaped up. He then grabbed Alli and threw her over his shoulder. The balrog, enraged by his injuries, leaped at Mardil, but Mardil dodged to the side and took off running towards the lead tank which had turned around and was now pointed back out of the cavern. The balrog chased after them, but Mardil had a trick up his sleeve. With his free hand, he drew a throwing knife that he had prepared while in the tank and threw it at the balrog's thigh. It pierced the beast and, as Sai and Panakeia watched through a gunner's slit on the tank, the balrog's leg began turning a bluish color. One of the tanks let loose a shot at the injured leg, and it shattered like ice and the balrog fell to the ground.

The orc commander helped Mardil onto the tank and yelled into his radio, "Fall out! All tanks fall out!" Then he turned to Mardil. "Wow, that was really something! What did you do to that knife, anyway?"

"Oh, it was nothing," said Mardil, pretending to be modest. "As you can see, I have all sorts of little vials and such on my belt. They're all for coating my throwing knives, and each one of them is different. Some of them have poisons that kill quickly while some just paralyze. But the one I used for that monster was this vial of concentrated cold virus. It works particularly well on spirits of fire."

The orc clapped Mardil on the back and shook his hand. "Well, that was nicely done! And now, Lord Mardil, we'll just turn up that side tunnel there, and in four minutes or so we will come out of a hole right in Edge-Where's central park."

[Celuien]

I should have stayed with Payne. Balrogs, singing and rescue missions. Blargh. Panakeia was a devoted self-preservationist, and this business of rescuing Alli from a balrog sounded dangerous. Yet she pitied the girl. Panakeia hoped that she would manage an escape. And hopefully, Mardil would handle any balrog-battling that was to take place.

She listened to Mardil's conversation with Sai. Get out of an official contract? That didn't seem likely. RCA's lawyer's were sure to fight anything of the sort. If they were unable to escape their obligation to RCA, Panakeia wasn't planning to wait for them. She had already been delayed enough on her journey.

Mardil strode off. Sai said, "Come on, let's go to the studio." She led the way to a door.

What a sight met Panakeia's eyes! A gaping fissure sat in the center of the stage. Red light shone outward from its depths, illuminating the room with an eerie glow. The room was deserted. Panakeia caught Sai looking at her quizzically. She realized that she must look terrible with her filthy dress, broken shoe and gum-smeared hair. Panakeia smiled wanly, "I know I look terrible. It's been a hard trip."

Sai snapped. "I wasn't thinking about that. I'm worried about poor Alli. How are we going to save her?"

"I don't know. But in the meanwhile, I suppose I should take the opportunity to clean up. You wouldn't happen to know where there's a restroom, would you?"

"Restroom? How can you think about your appearance at a time like this?"

"My dear, there are some things that are unforgivable. One of them is for a lady to go about looking like a draggled-tailed...street pigeon. In any case, if we're waiting for Mardil to finish negotiating, we're going to be here for sometime. I might as well use it."

Sai looked at Panakeia in disgust. "I didn't notice. You're on your own." She sat on the edge of the hole in the stage and said nothing more.

"Oh, sulk then!" she exclaimed. "I'll be back." Panakeia left the room and headed down the hall. She was in luck. The third door down from the studio was marked with a star. "Dressing rooms." Panakeia entered. Another hallway stretched out before her. She walked down the hall. It too was hung with portraits. With a start, she recognized the images of her friends from the train. All three were smiling. Payne doesn't look quite so frightful when he cracks a grin, she thought. He really should try it more often. She kept walking. A pink door was marked in gold. Ladies. Panakeia stepped inside.

For such a lavish studio, you'd think they could find a better cleaning staff. Soap scum covered the sinks. The mirror was so smeared that Panakeia couldn't find her reflection. She pulled out her scarf and wiped a spot clean. I really do look dreadful. How embarrassing. She turned on a faucet. Cold water poured out, but the side marked hot was not functioning. Better than nothing. She opened her sample case. A change of clothes was stashed in the bottom. Out came a bottle of Residue-free Gentle-cleansing Shampoo for Dyed Hair to tackle the sticky mess in her locks. She only hoped it wouldn't double as a hair-remover. There were no extra shoes. After thinking for a moment, she took off the undamaged shoe and broke off its heel. At least I'm on even ground now.

15 minutes later, Panakeia emerged looking like her old self, if a few inches decreased in height and with shorter, greener hair. The shampoo hadn't done much to help her remove the gum, so she had been forced to trim off the involved areas. Worse yet, it didn't mix well with Pearie Ockside Potion, accounting for the change in hue. I should know better than to use my own products, she thought ruefully.

Panakeia made her way back to the studio and peeked inside. Sai was still sitting at the edge of the balrog hole. There was no sign of Mardil. She poked her head inside. "Have you seen Mardil?"

"Not yet." Sai stared. "What happened to you?"

"Never mind. I'll wait out here."

Time passed. Just as Panakeia was about to set out on her own again, Mardil appeared at the end of the hall. "It's Mardil," she shouted. She listened as he unfolded his plan.

The entrance of the tanks startled Panakeia. This was most impressive. A new respect for the strange man of Gondor and his influence rose in her. It was a masterstroke to have the tanks bring them to Edge-Where. Panakeia really did not want to return to the BliddyUnnergrind. She eagerly boarded the tank, forgetting temporarily that they were about to go searching for a balrog. However, she was soon reminded of that fact when their driver announced that one was directly ahead. She watched in amazement as Mardil exited the tank. Panakeia was not about to look out the hatch, but she wanted to know what was going on.

"Isn't there any way to look out of this thing?" she queried the orc-in-command.

"Gunner's slit, just above. Be sure you don't block his view. We may need to fire."

Panakeia reached the opening just in time to see Mardil running back toward the tank, the balrog just behind him. "Retreating already?" she said “And I thought he was trying to be a hero.”

"Look again," Sai said triumphantly. "He has Alli!"

Panakeia had failed to notice that fact. "I only hope they make it back before that beast catches them." She watched in astonishment as Mardil flung his blade and the balrog's leg changed color, then shattered. It seemed that Mardil could do more than talk. At the same time, Panakeia was annoyed at his showing off. It made her feel all the guiltier about her own unwillingness to face danger for her companions. But what what Alli doing? She appeared to be screaming at Mardil.

Mardil and Alli climbed into the tank. The commander barked. "Back to Edge-Where!" Alli continued to yell at Mardil. If that's the way she thanks him for getting her out of trouble, I shouldn't feel quite so guilty about being less than eager to come to her aid. The tank rumbled and turned down yet another tunnel. Alli's hysterical screaming about the Balrog was beginning to grate on Panakeia's nerves when a soldier gave her an injection. Alli dropped off to sleep. "Thank goodness," Panakeia murmured.

A few minutes later, they stopped. The driver announced their arrival. "Edge-Where."

Mardil flung the hatch open and leapt gracefully from the tank, carrying the still unconscious Alli. Sai quickly followed. Panakeia brought up the rear.

Behind them, the tunnel gaped back into darkness. A mist hung about everywhere, making it difficult to see where one thing ended and another began. If this mist is around all the time, Panakeia thought, I see why this place is called Edge-Where. I can't find the edges of anything.

"Well, here we are," she said cheerfully. "Where to now?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"What are you doing?" screamed Alli, barely aware that Mardil could not hear her over the ammunition fire. "Don't you dare throw that knife! You ba-" she was cut off as a sudden bump caused Mardil's shoulder to slam into her stomach. She hit him hard across the back of the shoulders, not caring that it probably didn't hurt. As soon as they were in the tank she turned on him.

"What the [deleted] do you think you're doing? Who the [deleted] are these people? Why the [deleted] are you here and what the [deleted] makes you think you have the right to come bashing your way through here, shooting at and seriously injuring a helpless balrog, taking me away against my will, and destroying Roggie's home?!?" Alli thoroughly cursed him out, getting all that much more upset by his look of understanding concern. Mardil whispered to one of the soldiers who looked at Alli appraisingly and then made himself busy in the corner.

"Come miss," another soldier interrupted. "Balrogs is evil through'n'through. They's only one way to deal wid creatures like dem."

"Balrogs aren't evil!" she screamed, flustered at this man's obvious racism and agreement errors. "They're just misunderstood!"

The soldier that Mardil had spoken to now came over to Alli. "Ma'am, it's all right. I've got a background in medicine and Freudian psychology. You're in shock. Don't worry. We've got everything under control. Here... let me treat your burns."

Alli slapped him hard as he tried to move close. She didn't trust Freudian psychologists as far as she could throw them and this one had just helped to blow the leg off of an old friend of hers.

"Let me out of this [deleted] tank!" she screamed at everybody listening. The physician soldier looked at Mardil, discreetly showing him what had been hidden in his palm. Mardil looked at Alli, uncertain. When she moved to the hatch and attempted to leave the moving vehicle, he nodded with a sigh. A second later, a needle punched through Alli's skin. Immediately she slumped and fell, unconscious. Mardil caught her and laid her on the floor.

"You know," interjected Sai nervously, "she's not going to be happy when she wakes up."

Mardil responded quietly. "She wasn't happy already. We'll deal with it once we're in a less dangerous situation. If she'd gotten the hatch open just then, it would have hit the ceiling of the passage and either broken off and caused a pileup behind us or slammed back down into her. Either way, we're currently safer with her drugged."

With that, they reached Edge-where.

[Encaitare]

Three miles, the next sign said. Then two. Then one. Finally, Wilhelmina spotted a shiny sign which garishly welcomed her to Edge-Where. "Smashing!" she exclaimed. She might have done a little victory dance if her feet hadn't been so tired from all the walking. 'I wonder where exactly I'm supposed to go,' she thought, 'and more importantly, how I'm supposed to get there.' She chose to leave it to chance, which had served her relatively well thus far.

Edge-Where was a misty place, but that did not seem to deter the large number of shoppers she saw as she moved deeper into the area. Everywhere she looked, people were eagerly buying everything from rap CDs to lima beans to mice. One mall boy was begging his mother to get him a small nuclear bomb. "Now, now, Phineas," his mother was saying. "I already told you, no more nuclear devices this week."

'What a horrible name for a child,' thought Wilhelmina.

Up ahead was a sign that read 'Edge-Where BliddyUnnerground,' and from behind it emerged four familiar figures -- or three emerged, rather, and one was being carried. As Wilhelmina approached them, she was sure that they were fellow members of the Offending Party.

"Hey!" she called, coming to meet up with them. "Well, look who's made it: Mardil, Sai, Alli--" she raised an eyebrow here, wondering what had happened to her, "and Panakeia. Everyone but the Dwarf and... er... Waldo. Or something like that. So, does anyone know where we're supposed to find Anakron?"

[the guy who be short]

A few minutes later, Fléin had reached the A-AOO6, or Autoroute All Obdurate Orcs 6. Some called it Ent-One Road. The Road systems of Lûndûn were immensely complicated, making mapping something of a nightmare even in the right language. However, Fléin made sure to ask several people along the way, and was quite sure of his direction.

Furthermore, the map had started to make a little sense, once he had shown it to people. Though the names were awfully mucked up, he had a vague idea of where he was going to, and where he was coming from.

He even felt brave enough to leave the main roads. If he stuck to the A-AOO6, he'd go far out of his way. Chavton Road would significantly cut his travelling time; by a quarter, he worked out mathematically in his head.

Unfortunately, as a newcomer to Lûndûn, Fléin had no knowledge of Chavs. Some things were horrible, even by Mordorian standards, and these things had a habit of congealing in the vibrant city. The Chav was one of them.
Fléin noticed a large group of youths up ahead, all with odd clothing. Nick, their white clothes screamed at him from afar, which should have been a harbinger of things to come. Um, Bro? other tops asked in the linguistic manner of these people. Another boy's top seemed to say Re-Book. As Fléin got closer, not noticing the snickers of the lads, he managed to read the whole slogan. "We apologise most sincerely, the mechanized telephone system seems to have failed miserably, please Re-Book.

The white, near-fluorescent jogging bottoms the boys wore hurt Fléin's eyes. No wonder they had covered their faces with huge hoods, he was surprised they didn't need goggles.

As the gang approached, Fléin aimed to walk directly through them, thinking they would part around him. Apparently, it was not to be so. Suddenly, he found himself surrounded by a dozen boys towering above him.

"Aw-ite, mate, givvus yoo munny'nd mobile" the tallest of the chavs sniped at him. He too wore a hood, but Fléin could see the boy's pale face and bling-bling fake diamond earring. He couldn't help bursting out laughing at the combination of hideous fashion and attempted machismo.

The boy's face turned sour. His body tensed up visibly, as did the rest of the gang. "Whaddya larffin' at? I ain't kiddin' bruv. Givvus the cash now."

"Bruv? I am Fléin, Fréin's son of the Orocarni. I am no brother of thine," Fléin accidentally slipped into Jamesian English.

"And I's tellin' yoo to gimme yoo munny, innit," the boy replied, trying to maintain the upper hand and appear as threatening as possible. Fléin bit his lip.

"I'm warnin' you, bruv-" he attempted to continue in an intimidating manner, but was cut short by the sudden apparition of a double-headed axe in Fléin's hands.

The entire gang dissolved and fled before Fléin could blink, which was a little disappointing, truth be told. He had wanted to make a clever retort, something along the lines of "No, I'm warning you;" but no matter. It was too late now. He half-heartedly chased the leader who had tried to mug him, waving his axe frenziedly whenever he looked back, but too soon the fun had ended.

"And not even a severed arm to my name," the Dwarf grumbled to himself into his beard. Still, the short jog had quickened his journey yet more, and now he had an interesting tale to his name.

The rest of the walk passed without major incidence, unless you wished to count a dog jumping onto him, tearing off part of his beard and running off on its tartan-clad, furry little way. Fléin, however, resolved to omit this part of his day from his account to the others, presuming they had got to Edge-Where, of course.

Well, he thought, One task down... Let's hope the others are a little easier.

A short while later, he realised he had just referred to himself in the plural form and sincerely hoped he wasn't developing schitzophrenia.

A short while after that, he was with the rest of the offending party (minus Valde) at Edge-Where BliddyUnnerground Station.

[Durelin]

Valde had a lovely chat with the trolls on the way to the Trobe Theatre, and began slipping into Jamesian English as he was always wont to do when trying to impress someone, or simply when talking to a number of trolls. He was in great spirits, since it seemed his skill as a playwright was finally being recognized. He mentioned this, and the Trolls seemed happy to oblige in bringing many of his dreams to reality.

“Ah, playwrights. ’Tis a sorry state indeed, that most of thy kind live their fruitful lives unbeknownst to most eyes and ears, until their death bed doth bring them fame.”

Valde bowed his head slightly in respect, smiling at the troll, and flourishing his hand toward him, silently offering a compliment and agreement to him concerning his words. His face practically split in a wide green that displayed yellow teeth to Valde, who politely continued to smile. trolls, no matter their GPA as a graduate of University of Mordor, nor how poetic they could be, often slipped back into their more primitive ways, enjoying praise as a child does. The thought reminded the man of a tragedy he wrote about the ‘Childlike Poet,’ and he was brought back to thoughts of scripts and stages.

“Such is the playwright’s bane, yes. But only one who suffers so can truly grasp the meaning of tragedy.”

“Aye, aye,” the trolls agreed, nodding, and falling into their own deep and dark thoughts of their deepest and darkest memory from somewhere in their dark and mysterious past that made them the brooding geniuses that they were, and which had secured them a part in the upcoming tragedy of the Spamlet.

One troll, the new Trollonius, suddenly spoke up. “I do wonder, though, my dear tragic fellow, if thou would’st be so kind as to act as the sun does on a fog fettered dawn, to scatter the mist that doth cloud my vision on a particular subject that thou knowest well?”

“I would, verily and gladly,” Valde replied in what he believed to be a professional way, hiding his excitement at being consulted by such trolls as these.

“Is a playwright thusly named because he doth craft plays, or because he doth write them?”

Another of the trolls, the one playing Trollrick, jumped in. “Thou knowest ‘tis due to the write, for the answer is found in the very name itself!”

The troll who had voiced the question immediately snapped back at his comrade. “No, thou art a beslubbering pottle-deep coxcomb, and thoust would not know a pillow from a hedgerow!”

“You loggerheaded swag-bellied flea! I shall instruct thee in thy fiendish ways, and show you that it is indeed the wright and not the write!”

The new Trollonius stopped to look at his fellow troll. “What on earth are you gibbering about?”

“How darest you say that I gibber, cur!”

And so Trollrick jumped upon Trollonius in an awful bout, the likes of which Valde had never seen before. Admiring the punches thrown, and with his mind still dwelling on wrighting and writing plays, he made a few notes in his head, hoping to remember some of the moves in order to choreograph a fight scene later. But then Trollonius pushed Trollrick off of him, causing the latter to land on the litter (Valde later tried to say that five times faster) that the man still sat on. He gasped in shock as he felt his seat rock, and squeaked in surprise upon hearing the breaking of wood as Trollonius jumped back on to his opponent. It was not until a screaming Lead Tragic Actor was pulled out of the back of the van along with his fine seat, one troll he knew well, and one not so, that Valde realized that he had not answered the troll’s question yet.

Rising from the pavement and rushing out of the street, rubbing his bruised bottom, Valde watched in awe as the two trolls continued their brawl in the street, and caught the last sight of the Pretentious Blimcasting Corruption van with a mournful glance. Tires screeched and several crashes rang out as the orcs, poor drivers as they were, failed in coming to a halt soon enough and were forced to hit more solid objects than the trolls in the middle of the road. Valde counted exactly five cars that had found each other to be their preference when it came to solid objects. At least the victims of the accident could be comforted in knowing that Mordor’s towing companies would soon be on their way.

“It is playwright, you know,” Valde shouted at the wrestling duo. Somehow, Trollrick had found a ‘mail receptacle’ and had it raised above his head, prepared to keep Trollonius down for the count, but he paused now, and both turned to the man on the sidewalk. “Wha?” they both asked, and Valde shook his head, and swirled his cloak in a dramatic fashion as he turned to walk briskly away. But he stopped in his tracks and turned back to the trolls with just a bit more dramatic swirling. “W-r-i-g-h-t. You know, like those Wright brothers who Trollinci is suing over stealing his designs.”

Trollrick dropped his ‘mail receptacle’ with a heavy metal thud, and began to wail. Trollonius placed a comforting arm around him, and the two began to share some strange kind of moment of reconciliation, though it was as if it were a scene from a play that they should never have been characters in, with Trollrick muttering something about ‘tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.’ Valde bothered them only once more after a moment, asking politely if they could tell him where ‘Edge-where’ was. They gave him detailed directions amidst sobbings and splutterings and many a ‘thou,’ ‘tis,’ and the like. The Lead Tragic Actor, feeling even more tragic at having lost his part, settled on a solemn vow to make it out of Mordor, even though he knew that it would make such a good play if he did not.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron Istkon Vayor stood just outside the entrance to the Edge-Where Bliddyunndergrind terminal, staff in hand, the Siamese cat purring loudly.

The sun was setting. Mardil, Sai, Panakeia, and Alli, arrived.

"Mardil, 10 points. Sai, 10 points. Panakeia, 10 points. Alli, 9 points; one subtracted for arriving unconcsious."

Anakron waited a while longer. Wilhelmina showed up.

"Wilhelmina, 9 points; subtract one for driving without a license."

Anakron waited still longer. The sun was almost down. Fléin appeared.

"Fléin, 10 points."

Anakron waited yet longer. The sun went down. "Valde is not yet here; 9 points as of this moment, subtract one for lateness."

He turned to the others. "There are cots in that shelter just across the square. Take your rest and be here at sunrise. There is much to do on the morrow."

The six who had arrived, made their way to the shelter the Grank Anakronist had indicated, talking amongst themselves, wondering where Valde was.

Anakron continued to wait for Valde.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron Istkon Vayor was standing precisely where the six who had successfully completed the First Test, had left him.

"It is good to see that you are all (ahem) awake this morning," he said. "Valde Delego has not yet arrived. Since it is morning, I subtract one point more: current total, 8."

Anakron raised his staff, but Mardil cleared his throat.

"Grand Anakronist, sir...."

"Yes?"

"What difference do the points make?"

"It is a flexible system (by which Anakron meant that he had not decided exactly how the point system would add up in the end, nor precisely what total signified failure) by which, for each test, members of the Offending Party will be given a point total not less than one, not greater than ten.

"There are five primary Tests, but that does not mean that points will be given out only five times. If I determine that a particular circumstance warrants points given, they shall be given. Any questions on that?"

No one spoke.

"Now then." Anakron raised his staff and the Siamese Cat let out a particularly raucous yowl. The air rippled as if it was made of water, and revealed before the eyes of the Offending Party were ten vehicles: five Yellow PT Cruisers, and five Little French Cars With No Guts. The tires on each vehicle were in various states of near baldness. Beside each vehicle was a pile of ten spare tires.

"Lûgnût!" Anakron called.

Up walked the Orc who had given them instruction back at Cair Pairadocks.

"Congratulations," simpered Lûgnût, "to the six of you for having successfully avoided failure in the aforementioned goal, albeit with varying honours.*

"Now then. Your next test is to drive from here to Mount Doom Casino and Resort, by way of the Motorways and (ugh) Interstates that have been constructed in the chasms created by the passing of the Dark Lord (may his stay in the Void be fortuitously enibriated). You will be given 50 Trolls, in addition to that which you have not expended from your former allowance.

"You may select from any one of these ten vehicles displayed before you. You may also elect to form a group of two or more from amongst yourselves, in order to perhaps increase your chances of success. But do understand that, for the purposes of this Second Test, each fellow member of the Offending Party removes three spare tires from the amount with which you you may stock your vehicle. A PT Cruiser with only one driver can hold ten spare tires. A Little French Car with one driver can hold precisely three spare tires. By way of addendum, the PT Cruisers have tanks that hold twenty-five Trollbellies of petrol, and manage perhaps fifteen to twenty-five miles per trollbelly, depending upon conditions. By Contrast, the Little French Cars have tanks that hold eleven Trollbellies, and manage between thirty-five and forty-five miles per trollbelly. Choose wisely.

"I am given to understand that the entirety of you are in need of drivers' licenses. You must all take RETs, in the vehicle of your choice, under my observation.

"And now I will hand out the Trolls." Lûgnût handed out the money.

Anakron looked on dispassionately. "One thing my assistant failed to explain," he said presently, "is that the tanks are not full. Some have more petrol, some have less. So this is a race to see which of you will get the best deal at the start-off. Ready, Set, Find your car!"

The six were taken by surprise for the briefest moment, then tripped over each other trying to get out in front of the small pack.

*-all loquacious Orcs speak with British spellings...

[Celuien]

Think, think! PT Cruiser with twenty-five trollbellies of petrol at fifteen to twenty-five miles per trollbelly. Little French Car with eleven trollbellies at thirty-five and forty-five miles per trollbelly. What does that make? Panakeia tallied up the numbers. Fortunately, running a business had made her good at arithmetic.

So a PT Cruiser could go 625 miles on one tank, but the French Car only 495 at maximum. Furthermore, the Little French Car looked suspiciously flimsy, not much more than a golf cart, better suited to an easy jaunt over well-kept green fields than Mordor’s hazard ridden Interstates. And could the driver of a PT Cruiser even see the diminutive lawn-mower of a vehicle if she were to choose the French contraption? Undoubtedly, a PT Cruiser is the better choice. She ran ahead, unapologetically tripping over Fléin in her haste.

Spotting a particularly shiny PT Cruiser that appeared to be in better repair than the others, Panakeia rushed to the door, tossed her sample case into the rear, and sat behind the wheel. "I've never driven before. This should be an adventure," she said to no one in particular. Recalling that she had only seen Orcs piloting these particular means of transportation before, she added half jestingly, half in genuine worry, "I only hope I don't turn into an Orc."

Panakeia stared at the dizzying array of controls and dials in front of her. Watching the Orcs spin through the streets of Lûndûn, she assumed that driving was a simple thing. But now that she was the one sitting in the driver’s seat, she felt differently. She longed for a way out of this challenge. “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” she cried, before sheepishly recalling that she neither had a kingdom nor any great skill as a rider. “How do you start this confounded thing?” she called. Lûgnût simpered and pointed to a rusted key dangling from the side of the steering wheel.

Panakeia turned the key. The SUV sprang into life with a roar and blast of exhaust. And suddenly, Panakeia felt herself changing. She watched in horror as her carefully polished fingernails lengthened into thick, yellow claws. Her hands grew rough and warty, and she was sure that she felt her ears lengthening. With no small amount of trepidation, she glanced up at the mirror fixed to the center of the Cruiser’s ceiling to find that she had indeed been changed into a particularly hideous Orc. Her wrinkles were now massive sagging folds in her face that no amount of Wrinkle-Away would cure, even if it were a genuine product.

With the physical transformation there also came a change in personality. Panakeia’s temper suddenly seemed to have been turned up from a low simmer to a full boil. She screeched at Anakron, her voice raspy and harsh, berating him in no uncertain terms for this less than satisfactory makeover.

“Only Orcs may drive automobiles. As it is necessary for you to drive, it is also necessary for you to be an Orc.” He turned to leave.

“But for how long?” she protested. Anakron didn’t hear her. He had already moved off and was speaking with another member of the Offending Party.

Lûgnût cleared his throat. “Prepare for your RET. This will be a brief exam, designed to assess your suitability for the undertaking of the task of operating a motor vehicle.” He opened a small book and began to read in a solemn voice. “Mordor Drivers’ Licensing Exam, Version Five A. Instructions. Cheating is strictly forbidden. This includes, but is not limited to, requesting assistance from other licensing candidates, requesting assistance from previously licensed drivers, or attempting to obtain copies of the exam in advance. For this reason, multiple versions of the exam are given, such that drivers are not necessarily tested in any consistent fashion. Is that clear?” Panakeia nodded. “Good. We shall proceed with the exam. One. Turn on your vehicle.” He paused. “As you have already completed this step, we will dispense with it. Two. Locate the steering wheel.” Panakeia placed her hands on the wheel. “Three. Move the vehicle to the location of your choice.” She fiddled with the various controls and pressed on a pedal on the floor. The Cruiser unexpectedly jolted backwards, knocking a pile of tires over of one of the Little French Cars. She slammed her foot onto the other pedal and the car stopped. Having no wish to run over anything (or anyone) else she quickly turned the key again and stepped out of the car.

Lûgnût sauntered up to her. “Congratulations! You have passed the RET. Sign here, please.” He pointed to a line at the bottom of a small rectangular card. The number 9 (or was it 6?) was printed in the corners along with a red diamond. There was another, larger red diamond in the card's center with her name neatly etched over top of it.

Panakeia scribbled her name on the line. “This is your drivers’ license. Keep it with you at all times. Do not lose it! Do not permit unauthorised drivers to use your license.” He handed Panakeia the card. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have several other exams to administer.” Lûgnût left her standing by the PT Cruiser. Now that she was out of the car, Panakeia slowly began transforming into her ordinary shape.

A moment later, all traces of Orcishness had left her. What a relief! At least it seems transformations are limited to driving. She laughed. Maybe that’s a good thing. No one will recognize me like that. I can drive as aggressively as any Orc, and no one will ever know it!

Panakeia snapped into action. She grabbed the nearest tire and proceeded to put it into her SUV, working on what she hoped would be an ample supply of spares for the journey ahead.

[littlemanpoet]

Just as the Offending Party were choosing vehicles, six yellow vans descended upon the scene, each bearing the words, Blimmin' Barblecashing Corpulation on their sides. Karís Mâtiktwít jumped out of the first one and started screaming orders at various and sundry goblins, orcs, uruks, and trolls, who ran around in a seemingly disorderly fashion, setting up kamuras, my crow phones, and other such paraphernalia.

One goblin each ran up to each of the Offending Party and pinned very tiny my crow phones to their lapels, earrings, strands of hair, or whatever was most ready to claw. Meanwhile these goblins lisped directions at the competitors, who, after the directions had been completed, had to wipe their faces clean from all the flying spit.

Here is an example of what they had had to go through:

"You have to weaw thith my cwow phone becauth you'we on the BBC weality tv thyow, an' if you don't weaw it, you'll be in vewy vewy big twoubow. Theiwill be a kamuwa twoll in youw caw at awl timeth. You may not go anywhewe without him, or you'll be in vewy big twoubow. Thith ith the biggetht hit of the theathon wight now, an' if you co-opewate, maybe thewe'th thomething it it fo' woo."

Six sets of eyes rolled and six pairs of hands rubbed six faces. As each member set out, sure enough, a BBC van followed each one.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli had slept through the night and woke up rather irritably the next morning. She had no idea where in Mordor she was but the tent in which she seemed to be located was full of sleeping Offenders. She resisted the urge to kick the prone Mardil (barely) and wasn't all together happy with Sai either, though she at least felt no violent inclinations toward her.

Leaving the tent, she sat shivering and watched the sun rise, taking deep soothing breaths. She wanted to go back and find out what it was that Roggie had been trying to tell her but she had no idea where she was or how to find him. A few tears rolled down her cheeks and she felt lonelier than usual, even for being in Mordor. She was in the middle of a terrifying new city with nobody for company but strangers that were prejudiced against her friends. Roggie was hurt and wingless and she couldn't do anything to put him to rights. Mardil, whom she had just been starting to like, had allowed her to be drugged. She missed her family and her friends from home... she really just wanted to go home. She sat on the cold ground hugging her knees, crying softly as the sun broke the horizon, staining the dirty grey sky an almost pretty shade of dirty salmon. Suddenly she heard a noise.

Anakron stood before her. "Up. There are things to be done." He walked away as the rest of the Offending Party began to gather, all looking remarkably bleary eyed. Alli hastily rubbed her eyes free of all traces of upset and joined the group once more, pointedly ignoring Sai and especially Mardil. They both looked at her concernedly but she pretended, hopefully convincingly, to be far more interested in the state of her fingernails. She picked at her chipped black nail polish. They probably think I'm some annoyingly weak and angsty emo-kid or something. Well let them. See if I care.

Of course she did care... they just didn't need to know it. It was easier to lie than to admit that she was vulnerable. Now Anakron gave his instructions. Alli looked at the selection of vehicles and decided instantly. The moment he stopped speaking, she pushed her way to a little French car with no guts, loaded it with spares, and opened the door. There was a man sitting in the passenger's seat holding a kamura. "No freaking way." she muttered. "Get out of my car." she ordered. "You aren't coming."

Anakron tapped her on the shoulder and sneered aristocratically down at her. "Yes. He is. And this van will be following."

She set her jaw, about to argue the point when she decided against it. She got into the driver's seat (turning orcish immediately) and apparently from nowhere, Lûgnût appeared. He didn't speak. Alli looked at him quizzically for a moment before shaking her head and ignoring him completely.

Now what do I do first? she thought, the kamura lightly humming just enough to annoy her. There was a small red light on the side of it that kept flashing. She felt the urge to throw it out the window when inspiration struck. Well... first I must get my driver's license. She put her seat-belt on and adjusted the mirrors. She turned the key in the ignition and to her surprise, it actually worked. And then it didn't. The car died where it sat. Jumping out of it (and transforming back into her usual form), she fumbled with the thing until the hood popped open. A rather large amount of smoke that seemed to convey the idea that something wasn't quite working right poured upward like a demented coffee pot defying gravity. She coughed and her eyes watered. She had no idea what to do so she kicked the car a few times and, much to her even bigger surprise, the smoke cleared and the car began to run smoothly in very unorthodox circles around the parking lot. She assumed that she'd better go catch it, but before she could, Lûgnût descended upon her with a small piece of paper-like substance with a picture of a suicidal monarch decorating it. Alli grinned, thinking along political lines, and then realized that her grin was a bit maniacal, not at all appropriate, and that if she got caught snickering over regicide, even if she escaped from Mordor, she'd be locked up. That sobered her and she noted that her name, Alumìne Umfuìl, was emblazoned on it with her date of birth, her eye color, and a lot of truly pointless information such as her favorite brand of mobile phone and the name of the last boy she had after-date paranoia with, and it all typed neatly in bubbly comic sans lettering.

"Your licence, madame." offered Lûgnût with a bow. Alli had no idea just what she had done to deserve her driver's licence. That was ridiculously easy, she thought, now putting her brilliant scheme into action. She went to the passenger side door (on the right of the car, no less), and pulled the filmer out of it. She then forcefully led him to the driver's side and shoved him in front of the wheel, taking the kamura from him. "You drive." As he began to protest, she whispered a long and quickly spoken message into his ear about the state of the company he kept and how he'd be judged by it, his former profession as a scary professor, the fact that he makes his kids practice job interviews with him, and the way she had seen the used handkerchief in his pocket and wasn't afraid to tell the world about it. His eyes grew wide and he handed her the kamura without hesitation. She climbed un-orcishly into the passenger's seat, happy that since she wasn't driving, she wasn't an orc. He climbed in and his body took grotesque form. She flicked the switch of the kamura and began talking into it as the little car peeled out of the parking lot that had been paved once paradise was destroyed, spraying Mardil with mud, and jumping a few curbs. Ignoring the bumps and jostles, and happy to get away from her companions, she spoke.

"You want reality?" she asked the kamura, ignoring the road. "This is reality. My companions are idiots. Not all of them... that Valde is pretty hot. Sai's a nice girl. But the rest? Morons. Especially Mardil. I couldn't be happier than if I never saw him again. And Anakron... where does he get off telling us what to do? He's probably being paid by Gondor's oppresive government. Have you seen the way he represses us? Some watery tart probably jumped out of a lagoon and handed him that staff. Real legit basis for leadership, that." Alli turned the kamura to the road and took a few seconds feed of the landscape. Craters broke the ground every few feet. "The reality of life here is that it sucks. You want beauty? Look for stars at night through the clouds that never leave this place." She pointed the kamura at the moodily dark sky. She then turned the kamura back toward herself as the engine began to sputter. "And I'll bet that you are all idealistic enough to believe that even in Mordor, love can flourish. Well you're all a bunch of idiots too. Love is for the people who are too weak-minded to accept that life sucks and then you die. There always has to be something for you to strive for. Well quit striving. Following your dreams will get you alone and friendless here." There was a pregnant pause in her bitter monologue. "[deleted]." she muttered. "The car just died." She turned off the kamura and got out of the passenger's side, popping the hood open again. This time the smoke was followed by flames. The kamuraman got out of the car (returning to human form) and yelled for Alli to run. For the first time in her life, she didn't question this.

She grabbed her bag and sprinted just in time to be propelled upward, outward, and finally downward into the unforgiving ground by the explosion of the small car whose full tank of gas had just decided that being trapped in a tank wasn't what it felt like doing. As the bald tires kept burning, Alli glared at the vehicle, the kamuraman, and the world. "[deleted]" she muttered and sat moodily on a large rock, contemplating what to do next. The yellow van pulled up and set up a tripod, recording with few visual flaws, the girl sitting. One kamuraman offered her the yellow van to drive, but just then, the transmission fell off of it. Alli couldn't be certain, but she was pretty sure transmissions were important.

[the guy who be short]

One thought rushed through Fléin's mind: PT Cruiser! PT Cruiser! PT Cruiser! Well, perhaps two words, then. Growing up in a business family, the calculations had been performed in his head almost instantaneously, and he headed towards the purple Cruiser as fast as he could - the colour of nobility, that was for him!

That idiotic charlatan, Panakeia of the Dubiously Authentic Face, tripped over him before rushing on. Luckily, this only served to push him forward - he was the third to reach a car, and rushed into it as quickly as possible.

He looked to his left and was startled by an orc. He shuddered, then turned to look in the back seat. There was another orc there, with an odd machine.

An expectant silence followed, with Fléin looking pointedly at the orcs in turn.

After about three minutes, it was clear the orcs weren't getting the message.
"Well...?" he ventured.

"Well what?" replied the orc in the passenger seat.

"What by Mahal's beard are you two doing here?" the Dwarf roared. "Did I order two imbecilic, debased, disgusting life-forms with this car?" The night hadn't been a particularly restful one; he had been tense about the next task, and having to share a car with two orcs definitely wasn't making his day.

"My, what a shocking display of profane prejudice, if ever I saw one... I should tell Anakron, I should. You Mordorian-haters disgust me... we're people too, and deserve as many rights as you do. Probably more."

"Well ruddy go and tell the freak! Get out of my car! You're not wanted here, you... you Orc!"

The creature hissed at him. "Fine then... fine, I'm going. We'll see soon enough... yes, you'll see." He snickered, threw a piece of paper at Fléin, and exited the car. "Do... enjoy your ride" he smirked, and went off.

"Good riddance," Fléin muttered under his breath. He picked the little slip of paper up - apparently it was a driving licence, with his name and everything. That was horrendously easy... no wonder there were so many accidents in Mordor, if all you had to do to obtain a licence was roar at an orc.

The very thought made him chuckle. He turned around, in far better spirits, to the orc in the back seat, whence came a low murmuring sound, presumably from the kamura. The orc's expression caused him to break out into a roar of laughter.

"I'm not going to bite your head off," he exhaled once it had passed. "What do you need then? Will a shout get rid of you too?"

But apparently it was not to be so. The kamuraman would stay. Fléin wouldn't let that bother him. "Stay in the back and stay quiet, will you? I don't much feel up to conversation with an Or- Dorian. Mordorian." With that, he turned back to the wheel.

He frowned a little. His knowledge of cars was hazy at best. Pedals... there were pedals to make you go forward, pedals to make you stop. But... how was he to reach them? These cars weren't designed for Khazad, that was certain. And if he couldn't reach the pedals, he couldn't drive... A fleeting thought of attaching little sticks to his feet rushed through his head before he disposed of it.

Well, he could deal with that later. He lined himself up, and placed both hands on the wheel.

Something like an electric shock passed through his body. He convulsed a little, then lay still a little, then yelled a lot.

Well, at least the transformation had leant him a little height. He noted with glee that he could reach all three pedals. Perhaps he could get used to being a goblin.

[Durelin]

Ever since he had stepped over the ‘threshold,’ Valde knew that his ‘hero’s journey’ would undoubtedly have more than three ‘trials and tribulations.’ And whoever determined that a hero only experienced one ‘abyss’ had no knowledge of a true tragic hero. Once his story was recorded in a diary even more heart-wrenching than any young girl could write; was adapted to the screen over thirteen times, inspiring both a tv show and hundreds of young emo teens to kill themselves; was translated into over thirty different languages; and made millions of dollars off an ‘adopt a tragic hero’ campaign, Valde would show the world.

He was now experiencing one long abyss. His tale had darkened just as the day did, for it was late evening when he fell right out of his leading role in Spamlet, and it grew dark, as the world is wont to do at night. The stars were no comfort to him, and indeed he only watched their brightness and yearned to be like them, a large ball of burning gas that no one could ignore the death of. He wandered in what he had been told was the general direction of ‘Edge-where,’ and stopped only once at a particular shop.

It was the sign out front that had intrigued him: Elenbucks. He spent several moments looking at a small Art of the Modern Orc exhibit, making an effort to seem like he knew how to appreciate art and trying not to see the shady looking hobbits in the corner smoking pipeweed, before he ordered a drink: A ‘Mírdain Mocha’ something, for 4 trolls. Taking his drink with him, he soon discovered some after effects of ingesting an Elenbucks drink. Sleep did not seem like such a good idea anymore. He felt full of energy, and indeed he found that his pace quickened and the depressing poetry in his head was playing pinball. “Is this the way to ‘Edge-where,’” he would ask every passer-by, pointing in a different direction every time. Some answered him, but most did not, seeing his dilated pupils and suspicious looking large black cloak and practically breaking into a run to escape being seen with him. The orcs in the dark alleys were normally nicer to him than anyone else.

Just after dawn, the Lead Tragic Actor did arrive in ‘Edge-where,’ in a very tragic state indeed. The effects of his Mírdain Mocha something were wearing off rapidly, and he was feeling the results of a sleepless night spent walking the streets of the city. It really doesn’t sleep…no wonder it looks the way it does, Valde thought upon inspecting himself quickly in the hazy reflection in a window before stumbling slowly up to where the rest of the Offending Party, looking much more rested and well-groomed, were hopping into ugly cars and turning into equally as ugly orcs. Valde hoped that whatever car he chose, the colour of his skin might match the interior, knowing how un-politically correct that sounded.

He was making a show of being as the injured bull, weak but still full of anger and pride, doing his best to hide his injury, and fueled by the rage of being brought down to the level of the maimed. Certainly his pride was maimed at being last, and he clutched his heart as the Anakron announced that he had only received seven points. Strange that it would be such a number, though. He considered the dramatic irony of it all, if it were a play. Everyone would know that seven would be his death number, as prophesized by… His thoughts were broken by Lûgnût handing him a pile of Trolls and his driver’s license. It seemed the orc was getting sick of administering the RET, as he only waited for Valde to show that he could see the bag of money being waved in his face to determine that the man was up for driving.

Hopping into a hideous yellow PT Cruiser, he groaned as a kamura was shoved in his face. He quickly checked himself in the rear view mirror to see that he did not match the interior, and that he had retained his large, brooding eyebrows. He was a little more than half displeased, much like a cup is more than half empty and not almost half full. He eyed the kamuraman suspiciously. After waiting several moments for the kamuraman to cue him, he slowly started the engine after several more hesitations, and swerved away from the curb, switching on what he believed to be some kind of GPS system. Still there was no cue. “What is the point of this…reality show?”

“To please the masses.”

“Then it is drama that you want! And that is what I can give you, my good kamuraman!” He began to recite his tale, and was happy to oblige in giving the kamuraman several handkerchiefs to blow his nose on which he carried solely as a sacrifice of tragedy. “And so, I am here now, struggling to come to amends with my tortured past, and find my true love in a strange new environment after I gamble away my family fortune and look for a way to redeem myself and my honour.”

“But what about the contest?”

“What do you mean, ‘what about the contest?’ Do you have so little insight that you cannot predict the outcome of a typically and superficially dramatic plot? I am going to redeem myself by winning the contest!”

“What about your true love?”

“Oh, yes, that… Well…”

“There have been rumours of Alumìne Umfuìl taking a certain interest in you…”

“Oh really? Well, then, I guess we might as well make it her. Is there a jealous lover involved, by any chance?”

“We could produce one for you, perhaps.”

“Please do.”

Valde then realized he was driving on the sidewalk again, and quickly picked a white line on the black pavement to follow. He heard a thud and a scream. “Did you get that on the kamura?!” he shouted at the kamuraman, conjuring up fake tears in order to better wallow in self pity upon injuring a helpless…child, cat, dog, whatever he felt like making it. He ignored the kamuraman when he said “It was the spare tire you were supposed to take with you, sir…”

[the phantom]

After Anakron was finished explaining the newest challenge, Mardil turned to Sai and asked, "Are you going to follow me?"

"Do you know the way?" she inquired.

"Yes."

"Then of course I'll ride with you, Mardil."

"I didn't say 'ride with me'- I said 'follow me'."

"But- I don't want to drive!" protested Sai. "The roads of Mordor are murder, and I am not an experienced driver!"

"Don't worry about that," said Mardil dismissively. "Just grab a PT Cruiser and pass your test. I'm sure you're good enough to do that."

"You don't understand, Mardil, I can't handle a Mordor Interstate! I'll probably die!"

"You don't have to worry about the Interstate. Trust me," he said with a wink.

"You seem to have some sort of plan, but I really wish you'd tell me so I wouldn't have to worry any more!" said Sai, feeling a bit relieved but at the same time annoyed with Mardil for teasing her with hope but not revealing what he was up to.

"The fact that I have a plan should be reason enough not to worry," countered the ever arrogant Mardil. "Now go hop in a Cruiser."

Mardil began walking over to one of the PTCs, but before he was halfway there, Alli's little French Car peeled out of the parking lot and somehow managed to spray mud on the back of his cloak despite the fact that the parking lot was paved.

Mardil removed his cloak and grabbed a passing reality tv crewman. "Get this cloak cleaned and bring it back here and wait for me. I'll be leaving but I'll be back within the hour." The crewman hesitated for a second, wondering if Mardil was allowed to give him orders. Mardil grabbed the man's tie and yanked him forward. "I am one of the stars of your program- THE star most likely, if you judge by who is likely to be the most entertaining to watch. Now, go get this cleaned- NOW!"

The man scurried off to do Mardil's bidding and Mardil continued over to the PTC he wanted. Upon reaching it, he opened the driver's door and lowered himself into the seat. A tiny orc with a clipboard was sitting in the passenger seat. "Ready for your driving test?" he squeaked.

"Certainly, but I thought it would be Lûgnût administering it," answered Mardil.

"He's busy doing her test," said the orc, pointing at the Cruiser Sai had just gotten into.

"Okay, let's get this over with," said Mardil as he turned the key. The car started just fine, but Mardil was disappointed to see that the tank was only two-thirds full. "Just a minute," said Mardil to the orc.

Mardil jumped out of the car and trotted over to the next PTC. He opened the door, leaned in, and turned the key. "Ha ha! This one is nearly full!" he thought to himself. "Come over to this car!" he shouted at the orc. "I'll take my test here!"

"You already passed!" shouted the little orc as he climbed down out of the other car.

"What?" said Mardil in disbelief.

"You know how to get in and out of a car and read the gas gauge- that's plenty good to get a license," explained the orc as he approached, holding Mardil's license in his hand.

"Are you kidding? That's lunacy!" shouted Mardil. "It's no wonder there are so many accidents and traffic jams- any idiot can get a license!"

"Are you saying that the driving test is too easy?" asked the orc, who seemed rather shocked. "I know several people who had to take their test more than once before they passed it."

"That doesn't mean the test was hard," said Mardil. "It means that they are stupid."

"My daughter had to take the test three times- are you calling her stupid?!" screamed the little orc, stamping his feet with rage.

"Yes," said Mardil. "Now, give me my license."

"Forget it! You don't get one!" With that, the orc turned around and stomped away.

Suddenly, he tripped and fell. He looked back at his foot, and saw that it was pinned firmly to the ground by one of Mardil's knives. "Yahhhh!!" he yelled, as the pain finally reached him through his slow neurological pathways.

"I passed my test," said Mardil as he approached, "So give me my license." Mardil pressed his foot down on the orc's neck and held his hand out to receive the license. With a look of sheer hatred, the orc handed it over. After examining it to make sure it was legit, Mardil removed his foot from the orc's neck and his knife from the orc's foot and strutted over to Sai, who was finished with her test as well.

"Load your spares while I talk to Anakron," he told her. "After you see me leave, wait two minutes or so and then drive half a mile down that road over there. When you see my car, park next to it. It will be on the right side of the street in an empty lot next to a used car dealership. I spotted it yesterday evening when we emerged from that hole in the park. It's right across the street from it. And also, don't mention to the reality tv people that we are going to be traveling together. Otherwise, they might think they only need to send one van with us."

"What difference does that make?" asked Sai.

"You'll see," replied Mardil, as evasive as ever.

------------

"You haven't been overly impressive thus far, Lord Mardil," said Anakron as he walked with Mardil towards his PTC.

"What are you talking about? I didn't spend any of my trolls, I arrived on time, and I rescued a damsel while I was at it," stated Mardil.

"Why did you bother with her? It was an unnecessary detour. What if something would've gone wrong? What if a stray shot had caved the tunnel in on top of you? What if you would've stumbled when the beast came after you? There are many things that could've gone wrong. You should've gotten to Edge-Where and left her alone."

"But- she was my companion. She trusted me to get her to Edge-Where, and I was just keeping up my end of the bargain!" argued Mardil.

"Your first priority should've been yourself," said Anakron firmly.

"It was," said Mardil.

"Good," said Anakron, nodding his head. "But Mardil, I have to ask- you say you rescued her out of a sense of duty, but are you sure you didn't do it because she is attractive?" asked Anakron.

"Well... I don't know. Maybe that did make me more willing to rescue her, but-"

"Would you have gone to those lengths to rescue Fléin or Wilhelmina if they had been your companions, or would you have, in the name of prudence, left them to their fate?"

After a pause, Mardil answered, "I don't know."

"Listen to me, Mardil," said Anakron, turning Mardil's head with his staff and looking him in the eye. "The rescue was either the right thing to do or the wrong thing to do. If it was wrong, then you were lacking in wisdom when you rescued Alli. If it was right, then you are lacking in nobility when you say you might not have rescued someone else."

Mardil turned away and began to load his ten spare tires into his vehicle. Anakron put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Either way, you have fallen from what you once were. I realize that fate has been cruel, but if you let it make you less than what you should be, your enemies have triumphed."

------------

Mardil shifted the car into drive. As the shifter clicked into place, a tremor ran through Mardil's body. He watched in fascination as his skin began changing to a grayish green. His hair became dark and course, and his ears grew points. "Well, I guess that answers the question about orc ears," he said to the cameraman in the passenger seat as he pulled out of the parking lot. A yellow BBC van followed him.

"Grand Anakronist!" said Lûgnût. "Mardil is going the wrong way."

"I'm sure he knows what he's doing," said Anakron.

[littlemanpoet]

Back at Edge-Where, Anakron considered the state of the Tests. These Offending Party members just had it too easy, with road construction at an ebb. He would have to have a talk with old AzFalt, the Orc in charge of MRC (Mordorian Road Complications). In the meantime, he would have to take matters into his own highly capable hands.

Anakron raised his staff. The Siamese Cat began purring with pleasure.

"Konvay the Dweomer!" Anakron said. The Cat yowled gleefully. Fog thick as pea soup descended upon Lûndûn and all points within fifty miles of the metropolitan area. It stayed for hours. And it got cold; not freezing cold, but only barely.

[Celuien]

"10." Panakeia had just finished lugging the last of her spare tires into her lime green PT Cruiser. She brushed a stray piece of hair, still pea soup tinted, out of her eyes. Hard work that was. Best be setting off. She pulled at her hair again, shaking her head. I have a quick stop to make along the way.

As she was about to climb back into the car, pandemonium descended upon her once again. A bright yellow Blimmin' Barblecashing Corpulation van pulled into the lot, tires squealing. It cut a sharp turn to come directly in front of and perpendicular to her Cruiser. Panakeia was blocked in.

A tiny orc came flying out of the van and grabbed one of Panakeia's necklaces. He attached a my crow phone to the golden chain.

"What do you think you're doing? That's no pendant. Even if it is, it's ugly. Take it off!" Panakeia tried to yank the bird-shaped black object off of her jewelry and hurl it to the ground, but the orc snatched her hands away.

"Dhoun't thouth the my cwow phone," he scolded. "Woo have to weaw it for the weality tv thyow or we canh't hwer whath you'we saywing." A troll lumbered over with a kamura on his shoulder. The orc went on. "Dhith ith Bewt, youw kamuwa twow. He'ww wide whith woo an' woll the fiwim." Bert pulled open the passenger-side door and took a seat.

"Now just a second, don't I have anything to say about this? I don't want to be on any reality show."

The orc pulled out an official document and waved it under Panakeia's nose. "Ith's parth of the deaw for you to be in the Offending Pawty. Thayth tho wighth hwer. You have to be on the thyow, ow ewthe it'th vewy big twoubow for you. But of couwse woo wanth to be on the thyow. Ewryone wathes it. Woo'll be famouth."

"Famous, eh?" That sounded more appealing. "Well, maybe we can work something out."

The orc sprayed on. "Thath the thpiwit. See woo awound." He got back into the BBC van. It pulled into position behind the Cruiser and made ready to follow.

Panakeia's face was soaked. She stood for a moment, wiping her face clean. Then she turned around, hopped into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. She instantly transformed into an orc.

Now that Panakeia was expecting the transformation, it was almost welcome. She turned to Bert. "Stay out of my way," she hissed through jagged yellow jaws, "and we'll get along fine." She slammed her foot down on the accelerator and sped out of the parking lot.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli was terribly cold. Her work clothes were not very warm as she was usually standing next to shadowy creatures of flame and perceived [but not really existant since they're just misunderstood] malice. Her cloak had been in the car that exploded and most of the kamura crew had gone off walking a while ago to find a sketchy repair shop to see if there was anything that could be done about the precariously dangling transmission. Alli tried to get warm by sitting by the tire fire but the acrid smell of burning rubber turned her stomach. The dratted fog that had all but blinded her meant that she ran the risk of being run over. Well... at least in this case, this stupid reality television crew also stands the risk of being hit. They had begun to ask her questions. She had begun to give smart alecky answers.

"Miss Umfuil, how does it feel to have been Assigned to Mordor?"

"Like a walk in the park, dear man. There is nothing more appealing to me than being stranded on the edge of a dirty road in clinging fog while trying to stay warm by the loving caresses of heat coming from the tire fire which is all that is left of the small car that I was travelling in that so recently exploded."

"Is it true what they've been saying about you and Valde?"

"That I'm pregnant with Valde Who Be Short? Of course." The man's jaw dropped. "You wouldn't know it though, looking at my fantastically lean and fit figure. We've got an appointment with the Jerry Springer Show soon though... I'm supposed to be telling Valde live on the air that not only is the child not his, but it's also a figment of my imagination. Sigmund Freud will appear shortly thereafter to deal with my neuroses. A bit later he'll be guest conducting the band on Saturday Night Live, but they may disinvite him due to his fraudulent criticisms that the flutists have pianist envy." The man picked his jaw up from the dirty ground and reattached it, complaining all the while about faulty manufacturing.

"There have been rumours that you have feelings for Lord Mardil II. Is there any basis to this gossip?"

Alli blanched for a moment. "Of course there's no truth to it."

Now she left the fire and began to wander down the road. She was done with this interview. The questions had ceased to be a source of entertainment. If she was going to get to Mount Doom Casino and Resort, she certainly couldn't do it moping on the side of a road or waiting for help to arrive. Shivering against the damp cold, Alli walked away from the group. A lone kamuraman followed her. She duly ignored him in favor of wallowing in self pity.

[Kath]

Sai stared in horror at the car she was supposed to be driving. She'd never even driven something the size one of the little French cars never mind one of these huge PT Cruisers! As she stepped towards it, the orc named Lûgnût leapt out from the other side, making Sai jump and causing her to fall off the pavement and into the car. Shooting her arms out she managed to catch herself on the wing mirror and was just regaining her balance when it snapped off. Horrified at her seemingly wanton destruction Sai tried to reattach it, but was stopped by the orc who was smiling broadly. Well, she assumed he was smiling, though it did look more like he was about to cough up a hairball, or very possibly an entire cat. Having not been here that long Sai wasn't exactly sure what was included in an orcs diet, though she was quite certain it would be nothing she would choose to eat herself. Nevertheless he was smiling and taking the broken mirror from her hands he exchanged it for a piece of paper with her name on it and some keys.

"What's this?" she asked in confusion.

"Your drivers license. There you see your name, which you will need to sign under, and there's your details and . . ."

"Wait - what? How can I have passed the test? I didn't even get in the car! I just broke it!"

"But you have understood perfectly the principle of driving on Mordorian roads. You want to get to where you're going so to, well, Mordor, with anyone else! It doesn't matter whether you see them or not, though you do tend to get in more trouble with the insurance people if you crash and you did see them. So, to keep premiums down, no wing mirrors mean you didn't see them and so you can't be at fault. Makes perfect sense!"

Sai just stared at him, trying to work out if she had understood anything the orc had just said. Apparently ignorance was the best policy on the roads, and she decided it might be the best policy right now as well because if that was the test then ridiculously easy was about the understatement of the millennium. Forcing her face into a smile she took the piece of paper and scribbled her name on it before heading back over to Mardil. Everything going on around her right now was just too confusing for her to want to even try and figure it out. She'd not been in a situation where she was dependent wholly upon herself before (thanks to those neurotic and over protective parents of hers) and she wasn't too keen to begin her independence in the middle of Mordor, especially not with this cold fog that had just rolled in.

She returned to her car after a quick word with him and was just about to begin loading her spare tyres into it when she felt a hand grab her arm. She was whirled around and as she turned a wire was slipped around her neck and something small and black was attached to it. Batting hands away from her body she backed away and bumped right into a man with a large black box sitting on his shoulder.

"Who are you? What do you want? And what is this thing" she cried out, lifting up the wire on her neck and pointing at it.

"We, young lady, are your kamura crew, and that is a my crow phone. "

My what? Thought Sai, before remembering Mardil's words about the reality crews. She knew she should do as he asked, well, as he told her. Arrogant and bossy he may be, but it wasn't like she had anyone better right now. She wasn't too keen though on the idea of having a group of strange men in the car with her. She hated that even now her mother's warnings about not getting into a car with strangers kept ringing in her ears, and that (as well as the mans referring to her as 'young lady') gave her the courage to resolutely ignore her doubts and make the most of this situation.

"And you are supposed to be following me and filming all I do right?"

Receiving nods from those around her she smiled triumphantly, before sitting down on the edge of the pavement and declaring,

"Well, I'm not going to be going anywhere until all those spare tyres are stacked neatly in the boot, so you'd best get on with it."

Realising they'd been had the kamura crew began to argue, but Sai sat silently examining a most interesting puddle and, noting they had a stubborn one on their hands, the crew reluctantly acceded to her demand. As they began heaving tyres into th car, Sai looked up again and reflectively enquired as to the availability of food. When no answer was forthcoming she sighed quietly and stood up. Theatrically raising her arm to her head she threw it across her eyes and fell gently to the floor, crying out that she had low blood sugar, and that if she didn't get food this instant she would surely not make it through the next test. Lowering her arm she saw a packet of something heading her way at a fair pace, and she snatched it before it could hit her. Barely looking at the label (which said Pronged Cockerel Tail crisps) she ripped it open and guzzled the first morsel of food she'd had in the past 48 hours or so.

Just as she finished her breakfast and her new crew finished loading the tyres, Sai saw Mardil peel away in his Cruiser. Standing up she meandered over to the car, looking as though she was going in no particular direction. Some of the crew turned when she stood up, and she waited until they had gone back to their tasks and closed the boot before wrenching open the drivers door, leaping inside and slamming on the central locking system (helpfully labelled with a big red key sign). Her transformation into an orc was surprising but not painful, and she was quite pleased with the fingernails she developed, having long suffered from the bad habit of biting her own nails. Looking at the encrusted dirt and who knew what else that was on her hands now, she thought she might just have been cured of that particular problem. The crew left stranded outside banged on the window in indignation and Sai rolled it down just enough to yell back at them.

"If you want to film me you're just going to have to catch me - if you can!"

She then turned the key in the ignition as she had seen Mardil do when he set off and slammed her feet down onto whichever pedals happened to be in reach. The car jerked backwards, knocking the crew away and bumping into the kamura van behind it with an audible and destructive sounding crunch. It wasn't exactly purposeful on Sai's part, but she certainly hoped it would mean it took them a little longer to catch up. She was shy enough about small camera's, let alone these ginormous kamuras! Several seconds later she found the forward pedal, and sped away, learning to steer as she went, though not fast enough for the unfortunate lamp post on her right which received a severe dent as she screeched past, and the even more unfortunate pedestrian who had to leap halfway up the now bent lamp post to avoid being crushed between it and the car.

After a while she saw Mardil's Cruiser parked up ahead, and had a slight panic attack as she tried to work out how to brake. Lifting her feet off all the pedals had something of a slowing effect, but she was saved from the need to to anything else by the handily placed bin bags that had been haphazardly thrown around the place but had ended up on the swerving route she was taking. Whatever they had in them was strong enough to withstand the impact of the large car and she skidded to a halt.

Throwing open the door she collapsed out onto the ground and debated with herself as to who was going to turn up first, the crew or Mardil, as she slowly returned to her normal self.

[Encaitare]

While the others rushed off to pick a vehicle, Wilhelmina stayed where she was.

"You don't seem in much of a hurry," Anakron commented.

"I'm not going anywhere those obnoxious kamuramen are going to follow," she said, crossing her arms. "I've had more than my fair share of reality television stardom."

"Oh, we'we weady to fowwow wou into the Void and back, Mth. Bwokenback," lisped an orc who was tottering under his heavy kamura.

"The show comes with the chance to get out of this wretched land, as does getting your license," said Anakron. "You do want to leave, don't you?"

Wilhelmina glared at him and stomped off to where the cars were parked. She looked between the PT Cruisers and the Little French Cars in dismay. She'd developed a dislike for Cruisers after what had happened in Lûndûn, but she'd also had a bad experience with some frog legs once, and therefore was not inclined to drive a French vehicle.

"Frog legs are disgusting," she muttered as she selected a blue Cruiser.

"What wath that?" asked the kamura-orc, who had followed her.

"It wath nothing," Wilhelmina replied, feeling very spiteful. Curse you, Karís Mâtiktwít, and curse your stupid show, too! she thought. Fortunately, Lûgnût approached the car, which kept the other Orc from asking any stupid questions.

"If you would please step into your chosen vehicle, your RET shall commence momentarily," he said mildly. Wilhelmina got into the car; the kamura-orc clambered into the passenger seat, and she tried to ignore him, as well as the fact that she was turning into an Orc herself. She looked out the window at Lûgnût, but all he did was glance at a clipboard and wave his hand in a noncommital direction. Wilhelmina took this to mean that she was supposed to prove that she could actually make the car function. She stepped on the gas and steered dangerously close to a kamuraman, who was forced to jump out of the way; this, however, might have been done on purpose.

In her rearview mirror, she could see Lûgnût beckoning for her to stop. She got out of the car as he approached. "Very good, very good," he said. "Please sign here," he said, handing her a small card with a hastily drawn sketch on it that looked like a stick figure with a large hat. "Now that you have your licence, you may depart and make for your destination."

"If you think I'm driving for a second time, you must be daft," she said, marching right past him towards Fléin's car, hoping he wouldn't mind taking a passenger.

[the phantom]

As Sai exited her car, Mardil came jogging up out of the fog. "Glad you could make it, Sai. Did you see..." Just then Mardil noticed the damage to Sai's car. "Well, my car has a leaky gas tank, but mine came that way. Yours- I don't remember it looking like that. Did you have a bit of trouble getting here?"

"I told you, I'm not a very experienced driver," said Sai. As she spoke, Mardil's TV crew came up behind him. "So, you didn't lose them?" asked Sai.

"We aren't supposed to lose them. If we purposefully lose them for long without their permission, they can appeal to Anakron to have one of our points removed. For your sake, I hope you didn't completely lose your crew, Sai." But Sai had not lost them. They pulled up behind her car as Mardil finished speaking.

Mardil stood thinking while Sai's crew got out of their van. "That damage on your car- did the cameras catch it?"

"I'm pretty sure they did. It was mostly in the parking lot where we started," said Sai.

"Good, good," said Mardil, nodding his head. "Hold on one second. I want to check your car's mileage." Mardil opened the door and peeked in quickly. "Very good. Now, let's get indoors out of this cold fog."

"Into this used car dealership?" asked Sai.

"Yes," said Mardil.

As soon as they entered, an overweight man who reeked of cigarette smoke greeted them. "Hello! Hello, my friends, and welcome to Big Neil’s Steal a Deal, where you can find the best deals on cars of all makes and models. We have-"

"Cut the spiel and let's deal, Neil," interrupted Mardil.

"Of course! Of course! Come on into my office, and we'll get started right away."

"Go on in and wait for me. I'll only be a minute," Mardil told the dealer. Mardil turned to Sai and whispered in her ear, "I'm going to get us a better vehicle."

"How?" she asked.

"I'm going to sell both of ours, and one of the TV crew's vans."

"Hey, you guyth," said Roger, the leader of the crew assigned to Mardil. "We can't heaw what you thayin', tho could you thpeak a wittle wouduh?"

"Leave us alone for two seconds, will you?" said Mardil. "After this, Sai is going to sit down and tell you her life story."

"But, I don't want-" said Sai, but Mardil continued.

"If you're going to follow us during our escape, you'll want to do a focus episode on each of us. Let today be your day to get the story behind Sai. She'll talk to you about her life while I talk to this salesman. And, seeing as my dealings won't be very interesting, this is a perfect time to focus on Sai. That sounds good, doesn't it?"

"Yeth, yeth- I think my both ith gonna wike that. Okay, cwew- evewybody thet up ovuh deh fo' da intevoo. Evewyone 'thept you," he said, pointing at a geeky looking orc with large glasses and pants pulled up to his belly button. "You thtay with Mawdiw."

While Roger was giving his orders, Mardil and Sai continued their conversation, each with a hand covering the microphones that were hanging down on their chests.

Sai spoke first. "How are you going to sell one of the vans?"

"I snatched the key out of the driver's pocket before you got here. Just don't tell anyone. Anyway, once I sell the vehicles, we'll have more than enough money to buy us something much better."

"Okay, that sounds good, I guess. Are you going to buy it here?"

"No, no. I'm going to buy a new one from down the street. But don't worry- it won't take me long. Just keep the crew with you. I'll get rid of my guy long enough to make a deal for the van, and then he can come with me to get our new vehicle. I'll be back with something good within thirty minutes." With that, Mardil turned and made his way towards Neil’s office with the geeky looking camera-orc in tow.

Neil welcomed Mardil into his office and sat down behind his desk. "Now then, you said you're feelin' like dealin'?"

"That is correct, I- oh, I completely forgot to get the keys to my Cruiser! They're out in the car. What's your name, orc?"

"Orckel, thir. Thteven Orckel," replied the nerdy orc.

"Orckel, I want you to go get my keys and bring them back. I can't remember where I left them- someplace in the vicinity of the front seat, I'm sure. I have to have the keys to hand over to this gentleman if I expect to sell him the car. Hurry up and get them for me!"

Orckel looked a bit unsure, so Mardil added, "I promise nothing interesting will happen in here while you are gone."

That was enough to convince the orc, and soon he and his camera were out the door. Mardil shut it behind him.

"Now that I've gotten rid of him, let's do some business," said Mardil, who was successfully shielding his microphone from sound as he spoke.

"What've you got?" asked Neil.

"I've got two PTCs, GT. A brand new one goes for just over 24,000 trolls. The ones I have aren't brand new, but they aren't too used either. They are both one year old and have ten thousand miles on them. The tires aren't the best, but they each have ten spares."

"Ten spares?!"

"Yes, so I think that makes up for the baldness. Now, one of them is a bit beat up, but it happened on the way here, so it may actually be more valuable that way."

"I'm not sure I follow you on that," said Neil.

"Well," said Mardil, "You know who we are, don't you?"

"Well, sure, everyone knows. You two are a couple of the escapees. I've been watching the coverage on television," answered Neil.

"Yes, and don't you think you could get more money for a vehicle that was driven by an escapee? I mean, you know this show is only going to get bigger and bigger. We'll be some of the biggest celebrities ever in Mordor."

"Well, yes, that is true- but how does that make the damage any better?"

"Don't you see?" said Mardil. "The damage adds some... how would you say it... color to the car. That damage actually happened on camera, and so the buyer will be able to show people the dents on the car and then show the clip of the show in which that dent was received. It really gives the car character."

"I suppose," admitted Neil.

"So anyway," continued Mardil, "What we have here is two cars that are only slightly used and have been driven by celebrities. You shouldn't have any trouble at all getting more than original price for these."

"Okay, so what are you wanting to sell them for?" asked Neil, getting straight to the point.

"Less than original price," answered Mardil. "Twenty-thousand trolls." Neil leaned back and stroked his chin. "And I'm in a hurry, Neil, so I'm not going to barter. Twenty-thousand is my price, and if you turn me down then I will go elsewhere, and someone else can have the distinction of owning a PTC that was featured in Escape From Mordor."

"Well, all right then, I'll take them both!" said Neil. He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked a safe behind the desk. Mardil watched him as he counted out 2,000 double dragons, but before he put the money back in the safe, Mardil piped up.

"How much for one of those vans out there? You can see they aren't very old, they have lots of equipment in them, and they helped to cover Escape From Mordor. How much would you give me for one?"

"Well," said Neil, "I suppose I could give you 15,000 trolls."

"Done!" said Mardil, flipping Neil the key to the van, as well as both of the keys to the Cruisers.

"I thought you sent that orc to find your key," said Neil as he counted out another 750 double dragons.

"I did," said Mardil with a chuckle. "Now, would you be kind enough to send some of your employees out and have them take that van someplace out of sight, and don't let anyone know you have it for a couple months?"

"I guess I could, but why?"

"Just do it as a favor to me. I've just given your dealership some business and some nice publicity, so you can do a favor for me, can't you?"

Neil grinned and winked at Mardil. "Of course I can do you a favor," he said, handing Mardil two very think stacks of double dragons, amounting to 55,000 trolls. Mardil checked them to make sure they weren't fakes (having grown up around lots of money, he could tell quite easily). But the money was legit, so he proceeded to find several different places to stick the money.

------------

"Tho, why awe we goin' hewe?" asked Orckel as he and Mardil walked in the door of a car dealership. "We alweady have cawth."

"No we don't. I sold our cars, and now I'm going to buy a new one," said Mardil.

------------

Ten minutes later, Mardil drove away behind the wheel of a Ford Explorer. As he drove, he thanked whoever it was who had assigned large vehicles to Mordor. Though the Explorer XLT usually went for around 28 or 29,000 orcs, Mardil convinced the dealer to let it go for 20,000 in exchange for allowing them to place a large bumper sticker on the vehicle advertising their dealership. They knew it would be seen by millions of television watchers and so was worth the price knock-off. They also threw in four spare tires, though they probably would not be needed as the dealership had, at Mardil's request, stuck their super tough Mordor-grade tires onto the SUV.

When Mardil arrived back at Neil’s Steal a Deal, he blew his horn until Sai and the tv crew emerged. After Sai was inside the vehicle, Mardil leaned over and whispered to her everything he had done. Sai was extremely pleased to learn that they had a better vehicle and were also 35,000 trolls richer.

Meanwhile, the tv crew was busy scanning the street for their van. Mardil rolled down his window. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I can't wait for you. I need to get on the road. I guess you'll all have to get into the van Sai's crew drove."

"But one of uth needth to wide with you guyth," said Roger.

"Don't be silly- we already have Orckel, and one camera-orc is quite enough." Mardil rolled his window up and turned to Sai. "Okay, first we'll stop by the starting point and I'll pick up my cloak. Then, we'll grab something quick to eat, and then- we're off to Mount Doom!"

------------

There was a knock at the Grand Anakronist's door. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Lûgnût, sir!"

"You may enter."

"Grand Anakronist," said Lûgnût as he entered, "Mardil and Sai just passed by the start point. It seems they sold their vehicles and bought a different one."

"Hmm, yes, I know. Very smart- very smart, indeed."

"Mardil threw this little bag at me when he drove past," said Lûgnût, tossing a small brown leather bag onto Anakron's desk. It landed with a heavy clinking sound. Attached to it was a note that read- To The Grand Anakronist- a small token of thanks for your help and advice.

Anakron opened the bag. Inside he found 5,000 trolls.

"Now there's a good noble man, no doubt about it," said Lûgnût.

[the guy who be short]

Just as he was about to fiddle with the pedals, Fléin was startled by a knock at the window. He turned around to see Wilhelmina, and rolled down the window to speak to her.

"My! You're an Or-"

Fléin cut her off with a hand and a shake of his head towards the back seat.

Wilhelmina looked into the back seat, then looked at Fléin again, a frown on her face. "What?"

"Native Mordorian. I'm a Native Mordorian," he explained. "Not an O-R-C."

Wilhelmina looked up at him, sighed and shook her head. "Those political correctness nutters... They've got you too, have they?"

"Not at all, it's just the - the O-R-C in the back seat. They get a little touchy if you call them... you know what."

"You're crazier than Anakron! What Orc?"

Fléin turned his head a further ninety degrees to see that the kamuraorc was indeed gone. He twisted his head in the other direction in confusion - to find the orc sitting in the passenger seat. He turned back to Wilhelmina.

"He's in the passenger seat now, apparently. What do you want, my lady?"

Wilhelmina didn't respond for a while - Fléin heard another car leaving - and then said "I've never seen an Orc with a beard before you know. Most uncanny, you look just like my uncle Bill, but a little more warty." Her eyes focused again, and she said "I just thought I'd tell you, you need to pack your spare tyres - everybody else has, you know."

Fléin thanked the woman, clambered out of his seat, resuming his former shape, and started packing spare tyres into the boot. To his surprise, Wilhelmina helped - what an odd sight we must make! he thought to himself.

"Mah-vewwouth! Jutht mah-vewwouth!" the Orc from the passenger seat squealed, descending and filming them. "What an odd coupwe you two make."

"Oh, be quiet, you nitwit," Wilhelmina sniped back. She turned to Fléin. "These BBC Orcs... they're enough to drive you nutty. I can't cope with driving - driving, and on these streets! - with only one of them for company. Would you mind if I joined you?"

Fléin happily obliged - some company would be most welcome on the long journey, and, in addition, they'd only need to take one kamuraorc between the two of them. And Wilhelmina seemed by far the most pleasant member of the Offending Party, no dramaticism, no teenage angst, no newcomer confusion, no dodgy wares to sell him, no flashy James Bondisms that made him pale in comparison; simply an old woman with a ferret in her hat. It seemed quite an acceptable trade for the three worst tyres.

Fléin climbed into the driver's seat again, transforming into an orc upon contact with the steering wheel. Wilhelmina got into the passenger seat, forcing the scrawny orc ("You really should stop worrying about offending people; no matter what they call themselves, they're still filthy orcs and always will be") into the extended boot, the back seats being pushed down to create more space, with the seven tyres in varying states of decay.

Fléin twisted the key in the ignition. The car fired up.

Just then, smog descended upon them.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As Alli walked, she looked for road signs. She found some, certainly, but the only purpose they seemed to serve was to tell her that she was currently in Mordor and that she should have a nice day. She looked at the kamura bobbing along behind her and cursed (though not quite as colorfully as before, with Mardil) the fog. She couldn't see where she was going and was thankful that there seemed to be no traffic. Suddenly she sprawled on her stomach and hit her head on a rock, causing her forehead to split open and bleed down the side of her face. This did not much improve her disposition.

When she could see straight again, she pulled a spare bit of cotton from her bag and pressed it firmly to her injury. Once the bleeding had stopped, or at least slowed a lot, she took a look at what she'd tripped over: a body.

Ugh... why is it always me that has to deal with this sort of thing? she asked moodily, conveniently forgetting that she'd never actually ever had to deal with an abandoned body. A breeze blew the fog away enough that she could see his bruised face: Hookbill the Goomba.

Alli beckoned to the kamura-man. "Do you have any experience with injuries? I'm good enough at fixing my own but I don't want to hurt him any more than he already is."

Hookbill groaned and spoke, flinching away from the kamura-man's (conveniently a doctor also) touch. "It was... Màrîo." And then he fainted and [even more conveniently] had no more lines in this adventure.

Alli thought for a few moments, beginning to harbor a few ill-wishes toward this Marty-o character. Trouncing all over poor innocents like Hookbill? The Goomba never did anything to Marty-o and yet the fat little hobbit felt the need to walk all over him. And wasn't it this same hobbit that Roggie had mentioned? And-- with this, Alli pulled out the periodical that she had began reading back in Lûndûn. As the kamura-man carried the unconscious body of Hookbill the Goomba to a nearby convenience store for aid, Alli sat on a serendipitously placed rock and flipped to the article. Yes... Màrîo. The kilt-clad man was wanted for attacking him, but here two innocents had been attacked by the very hobbit now being treated as a king in Saint Gimli's Hospital. Did nobody else know? Was the kilt-clad man innocent? Alli stood up, hoisting her bag, and fell back down.

Oops... she thought. Note to self: skipping breakfast and then bleeding profusely aren't good for somebody with low blood pressure. The ground swimming around her feet, Alli pretended that she was no longer dizzy and began to walk. She was on a mission. Who cares about getting out of Mordor, she thought. I have to find out the Truth. I have to make sure the right criminal ends up behind bars.

And then a large gas-guzzling SUV pulled up beside her.

[Celuien]

A lime-green PT Cruiser came careening around a corner, closely followed by a tailgating BBC van.

Bert's kamura bounced. "Careful, now," he protested. "You're ruining the shot. And where are you going?"

"Oh, hush," came the peevish reply. "If you must know, I'm looking for the Wally Market." Panakeia needed to buy some Pearie Ockside Potion - she had no intention of remaining in front of the kamuras with green hair. At the same time, she did not want to be seen making her purchase. She would have to escape Bert, at least for a few moments.

"But why?"

"None of your business," came the short reply.

Bert laughed, a rumbling sound from deep in his throat. "This is reality TV. Everything is our business. Why don't you tell us a little more about yourself?"

Panakeia seized her chance. She wasn't about to give up any information about herself, not just yet, at least, but she wasn't going to miss the opportunity to make a free infomercial. On she went about her highly effective line of health and beauty products. "Best sellers from back home in Harad all the way to, well, just about everywhere." She tried her best to flash a dazzling smile at the camera.

"And you use them yourself, naturally."

"Of course. They're what keep me looking the way I do." Recalling that she was currently in an orcish form, Panakeia realized this might not be the best time to demonstrate the efficacy of her wares. "Well, not like this. The way I look when I'm not an orc. Maybe we should continue this conversation outside." She fell silent.

Then, just ahead in the deepening mist, she saw it. A particularly plain, gray, box-like building, even by Mordorian standards, loomed ahead. Panakeia slammed her foot down on the brake and cut her wheel to the left. The bald tires whined as she slid into the parking lot and stopped. It's getting a bit slippery around out, she thought. She hurried out. "Well, here we are," she announced. Bert started out of the car. "No, you wait here. I'll be right back."

Bert shook his head and tapped the kamura. "Where you go, kamura goes."

"Look, it's not all that interesting. I just need to pick something up. Won't be but a moment."

"Kamura goes with you." Bert was determined.

Panakeia shrugged. "Suit yourself. But this needs to be a quick stop. You'll have to keep up." And with that she set off at full speed to the Wally Market, leaving the slower moving Bert huffing and puffing several paces behind her.

Heads turned in Panakeia's direction as she entered the Wally Market. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she noticed that she still partially in orc form. Two fingers on each hand were now clawed, though shrinking back to their normal size. Her skin retained its green-gray hue, and her teeth were still yellowed and uneven. She approached a smiling greeter. "Health and Beauty. Which way?"

"Just to your left through the clothing section." The greeter stared as Panakeia's transformation completed. What bad manners, staring at me like that, she thought.

Panakeia hurried off, choosing the narrowest possible passage in hopes of further frustrating Bert's efforts to follow her. She would be happy to cooperate with the show, but it was really too embarrassing to be caught buying hair dye. Especially when she was attempting to sell her own competing version.

She reached a counter in the Health and Beauty Section. Bert was still several yards behind, tangled in a rack of discounted clothing. "I'd like a bottle of P.O.P.," she said to a salesman, busily reading a magazine behind the counter.

"P-O-P? Pop? You mean soda," he corrected officiously. "You want the food department, back out front." He gestured in the general direction of the front door and went back to reading his magazine.

"No, not soda, not pop. Why would I come back here for that?"

"Why would you, indeed? I don't know. Now go away. I'm busy."

Panakeia's patience was wearing thin. She knew that Bert would catch up to her soon. "Now, look, you lay-about rascal. I want some P.O.P. Pearie Ockside Potion. And I want it now." She looked over her shoulder anxiously. Bert was still entangled, but he appeared to be making some progress. One leg was now free, and he was working on the other.

"Why didn't you say so in the first place," the salesman cried in an injured tone. "Do I look like a mind-reader? It's right behind you on that shelf. 50 maggots, on special today."

Bert had now escaped the clothes rack. He picked up the kamura and hurried toward Panakeia.

"I'll take a bottle." She grabbed one from the shelf and put it down on the counter along with the 50 maggots. "Please put it in a bag."

"Paper or plastic?"

Bert was at the end on the aisle. "It doesn't matter. Just so you wrap it up. Please hurry." The salesman picked up the bottle with a scowl on his face and tossed it in a paper bag. He threw it down on the counter and stalked off into a back room.

Panakeia picked up her sloppily wrapped package just as Bert came up behind her. "All finished," she called out brightly. "Let's go."

[the guy who be short]

"Er... Wilhelmina? I think we have a little problem here."

"Yes," she looked back, wrinkling her nose in disgust, "I can smell him too."

"I weawwy mutht obzhect!" the orc squealed back. "I-"

"Quiet!" Fléin roared at him. "You, back seat, minimal noise. What do you not get?" The kamuraorc sulked in response, allowing Fléin to turn back to Wilhelmina. "That wasn't, in fact, the problem I was referring to. Er... I don't smell too, do I?"

"What was the problem you meant then?" she responded rather diplomatically.

In response the Dworc pointed at the fuel gauge. It was only about a quarter full. "155 miles at best. 95 at worst."

The pair sat for a little, contemplating. By this time, all the other cars had gone - Alli in that little French Car with no Guts; Panakeia, Valde, Mardil and Sai in the other four Cruisers.

"95 miles isn't that bad. I'm sure there'll be a petrol station on the way. It's only... how far to Mount Doom?"

"225 miles. And I wouldn't count on petrol stations along the way, not in this blasted land."

They debated a little longer, hoping the smog would clear, though it only appeared to get worse as time went on. The idea of siphoning off fuel from the four remaining Little French Cars seemed best, though they needed some method of doing so, and, according to Fléin, there was none without the use of extremely specialised equipment.

"We'll just have to brave it and hope for the best then," Fléin finished, and, turning the key in the ignition and pressing a pedal, proceeded to cause the car to hiccup a lot in a vaguely forward direction.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron looked up at the sky as the Cruiser bearing away Fléin and Wilhelmina jerked out of the lot. Could the sun be seen, it would be more than halfway towards zenith.

"'Tis time for a change in the weather," Anakron announced dramatically, his sombre face breaking into an amused grin, and he raised his staff. The cat meowed displeasurably.

It started to sleet. Slowly the smog cleared into an uncomfortable but clear and slippery Mordorian duskiness having naught to do with smokey hazes from cracks of doom. No, this was the result of the Anakronism Dweomer as it peculiarly functioned in the land of Mordor.

"Lovely weather, is it not, Lûgnût?"

Lûgnût rolled his or her eyes.

Anakron, not hearing a response, arched his brows, though hidden beneath his wide brimmed hat, and glanced down his nose at the nervy little rat.

"Yes, your Dweomership, sir. Very dwimmer-crafty of you."

"Nonsense." Anakron gazed into the pouring sleet, watching the Dworc's and old womorc's cruiser slip and slide down the road. "Lûgnût, I have a message for Rôgû. Take it down and have it brought to him."

Lûgnût obediently pulled out his/her notepad and began to take down Anakron's dictation.

[Celuien]

Panakeia returned to the parking lot, Bert in tow, to find a little change in the weather. It was bone-chillingly cold, at least for someone who had neglected to bring a coat and was still wearing a lightweight lemon and orange shaded summer gown. Sleet poured down from the sky, battering the ground below.

They came up to the Cruiser to find the kamura crew from the van standing outside in disarray. They had been setting up to film an interview segment with Panakeia when the storm blew in unexpectedly, both ruining the lighting for the film and icing the van doors shut. Now they were struggling to shield their equipment from the elements. An assortment of griping grips and grumpy gaffers ran about snatching various instruments and searching for a place to stow them until the storm passed or the van opened, whichever came first. To the latter end, the orc who had pinned the my crow phone on Panakeia's jewelry blew on the frozen doors, hoping to defrost them.

Panakeia couldn't help being amused at their predicament, even though she had been starting to look forward to a moment in the spotlight. But the choice seemed to be between 15 minutes of fame on a reality program, most likely followed by a rapid descent into obscurity, and reaching her destination on schedule. Panakeia decided that she couldn't wait for them. She started to open the Cruiser, only to find that her doors were also sealed closed by the sleet. "This is awful," she wailed. "I'm soaked. And it's cold." Her teeth chattered.

Blowing on the doors wasn't turning out to be a particularly effective method of freeing them from the ice. "Bewt! Thee ith woo can open the doow," the orc called out.

Bert obliged. The side door to the BBC van sat in his hand, completely detached from the opening it was meant to cover. He set it on the ground. The crew hurried inside the van and huddled on the ground. Panakeia followed, happy to escape the chilly downpour.

"What did woo do that fow? Woo bwoke the doow, woo sthupid twoll!"

"Troll? Stupid? How dare you fling such sterotypical insults at me," howled Bert. An argument broke out. By its end, only three things had been determined. The van obviously could not be driven in its current condition. At the same time, there was no way to fix it. Nor was Panakeia's Cruiser accessible. Until some way of breaking through the frozen sleet could be ascertained, hopefully without breaking the Cruiser in the process, the group was stranded in the Wally Market parking lot.

[Kath]

Sai allowed herself to be moved around, needing every brain cell she had to try and figure out how she was going to keep the TV crew occupied for 30 minutes. Her life certainly wasn’t interesting enough to fill that time slot, and even if it were she wasn’t about to tell it to the whole world. She could usually think up a lie at the drop of a hat, but she seemed to be experiencing a brain freeze that was making it hard for her to do so. All too soon she was sat facing a kamura, and a man stepped in front of her and began to count down.

“3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . and we are live with Sai Onara, one of the 7 members of the Offending Party who had kindly agreed to tell us her life story. Over to you Sai.”

Suddenly he moved aside, leaving Sai in direct line of sight of the kamura. Terrified she sat in silence for a moment and then, seeing the looks of impatience on the faces of those around her she took hold of the lie that while not the most convincing was definitely one she could spin out for a reasonable length of time, and began to tell her ‘life story’. She just hoped that no one who saw the programme had ever been able to stomach Shakespeare or the old fairy tales!

"Well, I suppose it all began when my parents ànne Urotîk and Carb Onara met. Their courtship and marriage were both rather clandestine affairs, as their parents were rival families and would never have condoned the relationship. My mother carried me in secret for 9 months, but the truth was discovered when I was born and a trap was set to prove it. My father was followed to where my mother lay recuperating, and he was told that she had died from the stress of childbirth. Distraught my father tried to throw himself upon his dagger, but he missed and fell through the door into my mother’s bedroom, finally cracking his head open on my crib. Hearing the noise my mother awoke and got up to see what the commotion was, but she was weak and disoriented and slipped in a nasty puddle cause by a dog that couldn't be housebroken , falling forwards and impaling herself on the very dagger my father had used to try and kill himself. And so it was that they both died, just hours after my birth. I’m not sure I’ve ever really stopped blaming myself!"

Here Sai took a moment to collect herself, knowing that she needed now to show ‘appropriate’ emotions. Her tears weren’t entirely fake, as she was having to bite her cheek hard to keep her laughter in check. Still, they weren’t bad enough that she needed the used hanky that was passed to her. Looking up again she made a show of setting her shoulders and carried on.

"I was an orphan, alone and helpless. My father's brother took me in, and for a while I was happy for he was a good and kind man. But soon after my 8th birthday he married a woman who was neither good nor kind, but cruel and wicked, as were the two daughters she brought with her – Uglià Sin and Mary. Between the three of them they made my life a misery."

And Sai began to regale them with tales of the 'bullying' she had received at the hands of these three women, wondering just how long she was going to have to keep talking because she was running out of ideas! Just as she thought she was going to have to start making up some ridiculous story about fairy godmothers and the like, she saw Mardil out of the corner of her eye and quickly wrapped up the interview.

"Anway, to cut a long story short, my uncle finally saw the error of his ways and divorced my evil stepmother and we all lived happily ever after."

Jumping up she quickly crossed over to Mardil and hopped into the rather flash new car. After a small detour back to the starting point for Mardil's cloak they were on their way. Mardil had wanted to stop for some food, an idea Sai was certainly not adverse to, but there seemed to be no service stations along the road. There were plenty of signs but every time they reached the mile limit specified there was nothing there. The sleet that had begun to fall was making it difficult to even see the signs anymore, so Mardil began to drive as close to the edge as possible so Sai could see better. She was just straining her eyes to see the next sign when she saw a moving shadow. As they got closer she could make out the figure a little better, and caught sight of a distinctive looking chignon.

"Mardil! Stop the car - it's Alli!"

"What? Where?" came his reply. (And there was a "Who?" from the back as well.)

"Over on the side of the road, pull over. If her car's broken down we can give her a lift."

For a moment it looked to Sai as though Mardil was going to keep on driving, and leave Alli where she was, but a quick glance at the orc in the backseat seemed to convince him to stop, and he pulled over next to the still shadowy figure.

[Celuien]

Sleet poured down, battering the van with the fury of a . Panakeia sat inside glumly. This is horrible. Half the day gone and I've hardly even started. If only I could melt this horrid ice. She sighed.

Across from her, one of the grips, wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase "Escape from Mordor," pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Foul smelling smoke filled the air. Panakeia coughed. The grip glared at Panakeia. "So, you're one of the overly health conscious nuts who challenges my right to smoke?" He blew a cloud of noxious fumes into her face.

Of all the rude, insolent ways to behave! I should give him a piece of my mind. Panakeia was about to launch into an invective against the grip when an idea popped into her head. She broke into an enormous smile. Now that's a way to kill two birds with one stone.

"No, not al all. In fact," she smiled, "In fact, I was just going to ask you to share. May I?" She held out her hand.

The grip eyed her suspiciously. "Well, just one. These things are expensive with taxes and all." He handed her a small box, printed with the image of a man wearing a ridiculously large hat, along with a box of matches.

Panakeia snatched the box and scurried out into the driving sleet. To the loud consternation of the now very angry grip, she set the entire box ablaze and held it up to her Cruiser's door. The ice coating the handle melted. She pulled the door open. Bert pushed in ahead of her to claim the passenger's seat. Panakeia quickly seated herself behind the wheel.

The injured grip ran up to her. "What's the matter with you?" he shouted angrily. "10 Trolls up in smoke."

"Oh, do calm down. Up in smoke is where they would have gone anyway. Here, I'll give you something to replace it." Panakeia rummaged through her sample case. She tossed him a package of black licorice and a box of Hammered Armor Tooth Whitener. "There, that should cheer you up. And it's worth far more than 10 Trolls. Why, I would have charged anyone else 15." The grip disagreed. He continued to yell at Panakeia.

The orc scampered up to the group and ordered the grip back to the van. "Whewe awe woo goin'?” he cried out to Panakeia. “Woo can'th leave uth."

"I'm afraid I have to. I can't wait for your repairs. But I'm sure Bert here will capture anything of interest on kamura. You know where were going. See you at the Resort." Panakeia slammed the door and set off, sliding over the ice. Behind her, the crew sprang back into action under the orc's direction, struggling to replace the door on the van.

Just ahead, Panakeia spotted a sign over the road. "M25 to M1. Mount Doom Casino and Resort and other Recreational Facilities." An arrow pointed to a crisscrossing set of ramps, but gave no clear indication as to which was correct one. She asked Bert, hoping that a Native Mordorian might know the roads. "Which way is Mount Doom? Right or left?"

"Right. No, left."

"Left?"

"Right."

Panakeia gritted her teeth. She looked down at the controls in front of her. One was the likeness of a troll with a large belly. Lines circled the edges of the troll's abdomen, dividing it into portions from "F" to "E." An arrow pointed three-quarters of the way towards the F. At least we have plenty of gas. She turned to the left and hoped for the best.

[Encaitare]

Fléin drove a little way down the road while Wilhelmina lounged in the passenger seat and happily ignored the questions the kamuraorc persistently asked. She didn't much feel like telling the smelly little creature about her past, or her plans for after she got out of Mordor, "if," he said, "woo thouwd be tho fowtunate."

Yet the landscape was bleak, and the smog thicker than the kamuraorc's skull, which he was not pleased to hear. "It's really quite ridiculous," Wilhelmina said. "I think you're right, Fléin; there mightn't be a petrol station for miles. I don't want to be stranded in this awful smog."

"What do you propose we do, then?"

"We'll stop at the first hardware store we see. I think siphoning some gas might not be an entirely crazy idea," she told him with a devious grin that was, in fact, entirely crazy.

"I think there was a Wally Market back there somewhere," said the Dwarforc.

"Unless you want ugly holiday ornaments or squishy pillows, that store is about as useful as... oh, I don't know... frog-leg kabobs at a respectable dinner party."

Fléin wasn't sure what to say to that, so he remained silent.

In a few minutes, an orange glow became apparent in the distance.

"Oh! Wonderful!" enthused Wilhelmina. "I do believe that's a Home Despot store! We can get some tubing there."

"Home Despot? Sounds somewhat dictatorial," commented Fléin.

Wilhelmina waved a wrinkled hand dismissively. "Don't worry your little bearded head about it. As long as the owner's not about we should be in and out in a jiffy."

Fléin pulled into the parking lot, and drove about trying to find a space. Many of the parking spaces were occupied by ridiculously large vehicles, such as Hummers, and their brethren the Singers and Whistlers. "Damn double-parkers," he muttered.

"If woo'd gotten a wittwe Fwench Caw with no Guth, woo'd be abwe to thqueethe into one of thothe wittwe thpaceth," the kamuraorc noted helpfully.

"Wouldn't be caught dead in one of those," the two in the front seat said together.

At long last, Fléin managed to find a place to park the Cruiser, and all three of them passed through the mighty gates (Caution! Automatic Door!) of Home Despot.

O! the vast plains of concrete flooring, spread far in all directions as far as the eyes of Eagles could see! And lo, they beheld the flourescent lighting and the stark metal of the shelves, respectively as flourescent and metallic as really flourescent and metallic things! And they were stricken dumb by the brilliant orange of the shopping cart and the logo, and they fell on their knees before the monolithic statue of the Home Despot mascot, carven in the likeness of a large-schnozzed man clad an apron the color of pumpkins in the sunlight! Yet that was only because they had tripped over an inconveniently located pile of two-by-fours, and they did climb back to their feet, and verily, Wilhelmina was heard to declare, "Two-by-fours really aren't really two-by-fours. They're more like one-and-a-half-by-three-and-a-halves." And thus did end the pretentious narration.

Fléin and Wilhelmina, both being quite short, craned their necks and looked up at the signs suspended from the ceiling, hoping to find the plumbing aisle.

"It'th that way," lisped the kamuraorc. Wilhelmina was about to give him a sharp retort, but looked first and grudgingly realized he was right. Shortly, they obtained a length of plastic tubing, clear, "because," said Wilhelmina, "I don't want to get a mouthful of petrol by accident. Now, let's get out of here."

Suddenly, there came cutting through the stale smell of the store a nearly sickeningly fresh scent akin to flowers rotting in a sugar bowl.

"I've bought out Home Despot -- that's a good thing!" boomed a feminine voice. Wilhelmina just had enough time to say "uh-oh" before a woman appeared upon a makeshift stage. She was dressed stylishly but modestly, and her face suggested that she had been using products similar to Panakeia's wares. Behind her, curtains were swept away to reveal handmade tchotchkes, piles of books of holiday cookie recipes, and cans of perfectly-shaded paint.

"Is that -- Mârtha Stewârt?" Fléin gasped. Wilhelmina could do nothing but nod in horror.

"My new recipe book is chock full of delicious ideas which will be the envy of all your friends and family!" she declared. "And that's a good thing!"

"Let's get out of here, fast!" Fléin whispered. Wilhelmina was quick to agree.

"And you'll all just adore my new craft ideas!" boomed Mârtha Stewârt. "You there! You with the beard!" Fléin stopped and stared at her, dumbfounded. "You look like a learned man -- take note, it has both lovely handpainted flowers, and easy-to-read markings measuring each and every milliliter! Aesthetics and function," she said, thrusting the enormous piece of scientific glassware (which would have made any self-respecting scientist vomit on the spot) into Fléin's hands, "that's a good thing!"

Fléin and Wilhelmina tore out of the store at lightning speed, barely pausing to throw a couple of Trolls at the cashier on their way to the exit.

~*~*~*~*~

"We'll put the car in neutral, then," Fléin decided, "and push it towards the vans. That way they won't hear us approach. Then you can siphon their gas and we'll simply drive off!"

"Stupendous," approved Wilhelmina. And that was just what they did, the kamuraorc nearly wetting itself with the delight of devious activity caught on film. It stopped giggling when they made him help push.

When the Cruiser was next to one of the vans, Wilhelmina unrolled the tubing and inserted one end into the van's gas tank. "I need that beaker for a minute," she said to Fléin. "The gas can either go in there, or in my hat, and I'm not having Mr. Swanky drowning in dead dinosaurs." She sucked quickly on the end of the tube, and then let the gas move through the tube and pour into the beaker. She repeated the action from the beaker to the gas tank of their own car.

"Not bad for an old lady," she noted with satisfaction. "Let's do another one, just in case." In a few minutes, their gas gauge read "full".

As they entered the vehicle once more, Wilhelmina wrinkled her nose at Fléin. "I wish you wouldn't keep turning into an Orc. It's horrid."

In the backseat, the kamuraorc wearily protested, "Native Mordorian!"

Wilhelmina turned around and glared at him. "Every time you're politically correct, Eru kills a kitten," she said sternly, and then they were driving away in triumph.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron stood by the side of the motorway, deep in the road system chasm, at the midpoint between the two arms of mountains that separated Nûrn from the northern reaches of Mordor where lay the pitted lands of great renown from the War of the Ring. How he had gotten there was a mystery, as it seemed to belie all possibility. But he was, after all, the Grand Anakronist.

It was high noon, though the sun could not be seen. The Offending Party were making terrible progress. Anakron shrugged; it was still early in the trials.

Anakron raised his staff. The cat yowled. The sleet ended, borne away on a dry, hot wind from the desert of Harad. Dry, hot, sandy wind. Dry, hot, sandy, fast moving wind. Painfully fast.

Anakron pulled his cloak more tightly about him, and raised his staff a second time. Against all seeming possibility, the air, amidst the blowing sand, seemed to flow like water, and slowly coming into focus was a bridge, shaped like a half of a figure eight, switching the road directions, such that north was on the right instead of the left, and vice versa. As cars passed by, the steering wheels inexplicably changed sides of the vehicle without warning, and car after car skidded off the road, some of them crashing, a few of them managing to right themselves and re-enter the flow (such is it was) of traffic.

Anakron raised his staff yet again. Billboards started popping up at irregular intervals, too often and multitudinous, bearing obnoxious pictures and messages. There was Britney Spears grinning at the viewers, words in bold, brash colors, bearing the message, "Kotex fits. Period." There was a stern looking fellow in a top hat and striped pants, pointing at the viewer, seemingly saying, "You are judged by the company you keep." And many, many more.

And the wind heated up the land. In mere minutes, the temperature climbed from almost freezing to sweaty.

"Any time now, Rôgû should be making his appearance," Anakron said under his breath with a satisfied smile.

[Durelin]

Valde continually shot the camera brooding looks, and deftly wiped away beads of sweat that were forming on his temple. Why? Because he was concentrating, of course. This driving stuff was hard work; just ask Steve McQueen. And of course there was the fog, and then the sleet to deal with. Valde was pleased, though. The drastic changes of weather only added to the feel of tension and suspense. If only a good thunderstorm would blow in, then he could have a good brooding moment, and perhaps even a horrific one. But after each change in weather, Valde Delego, wanting only to give the viewers what they wanted, would say to the camera: “Slow down while driving in inclement weather, and be sure to turn on your headlights.” He then punched down on the gas a little harder. “How do I turn on the lights?” he asked, and suddenly a Mr. T voice spoke. “I pity da fool who’s goin’ the wrong way!”

“And so finally, the GPS system came to life, and Valde Delego could breath more freely, if only for a moment,” the kamuraman said, narrating for him.

Valde began following the directions given by the Mr. T voice, and ended up having to turn around and cut across what seemed to be seven lanes of traffic. By the end, even the Mr. T voice was confused. But then the voice decided that it was best to take a few more rights before they no longer made a wrong. Things settled down for a bit, and even the sleet came to an end. But then a terrible wind started raging, and it seemed an entire sandstorm had swallowed up Valde’s Cruiser. He turned to the kamura. “O what lot life leaves me with! First fog, then sleet, then wind, and then…Britney Spears? “Wait…where’d the steering wheel go?” Valde had just enough time to say before his car crashed into a billboard with a stereotypical blonde on it in a pose that was meant to please the masses of a certain kind. Perhaps she was limbering up for…a show; yes, that’s it: a show. The sign actually read “Paint your game face on” in the bottom right hand corner, but Valde wasn’t sure if it was meant to be there or not.

Stepping out of the wrecked car, he was immediately forced to the ground. The kamura man was still in the car. Most of his rigging was knocked over and tangled around him, trapping him. He did not seem to wish to leave the car, though, anyway. Valde found himself to quickly be back to his normal form. He almost wished he was an orc again, though. The rough skin of such a creature, he assumed, would not sting so much as his did from being hit by the sand. He pulled his coat over his head, and tried to rise from the ground, all the while ignoring a voice in his head that sounded like a commercial. “Dry and irritated skin? We know you orcs get it, too. Just admit it! And now you can more easily treat it, with new Orcbond orcish lotion. Soft enough for a man, but strong enough for any orc. Buy some today at your local pharmacy, and turn that cowhide into leather!”

What? he thought.

“That jerky into tenderloins!”

Tender loins?, his mind questioned, What are they trying to sell?

Valde suddenly remembered he was lying on the ground in the middle of a sandstorm. He may not be on the road, but he could hear the cars whirring by, and the sound was too close for comfort. He crawled under his car, feeling it safe to do so, assuming that if it had not blown up yet, then it would not now. And this was on top of the fact that the gas tank had been just about empty. He had observed this, but pretended that he had not so that when the gas did run out, he could surprise the viewers. But now…now those viewers would never know what happened to Valde Delego! They would bury an empty casket twenty five years after his sudden disappearance, and his grave would be in Minas Tirith, the city happy to finally welcome him home. Feeling a Boromir moment coming on, Valde focused his mind on more important matters. He prayed to Ilúvatar that he would still arrive somehow at the correct destination, and fashionably late as well as fashionably battered and worn in appearance. Considering the story of the tortoise and the hare, Valde felt his lack of sleep catching up to him, and soon let his eyes close, forgetting that it was the hare who had fallen asleep, and had lost.

[littlemanpoet]

Official Off-topic Post

I stick out my little finger when drinking any kind of beverage. Its a natural reaction to lifting a beverage-holder in Britain. We Brits have a very slight difference in our blood to the rest of the world's population, completely isolated in our little fingers. It generates a force against most kinds of drink, particularly tea (there is currently a major study being undertaken to discover why) which pushes the finger away from the drink.

Interesting eh?

On another note, why is cheekiness associated with Brits? Anyone have any ideas?

end official off-topic post.

unbeknownst courtesy of Eomer of the Rohirrim

[Encaitare]

A myriad of sounds came from the PT Cruiser: a low and reproachful yell of surprise, a rasy cry of distress, a high shriek of pure terror, and a quieak like that of a small animal which has just been thrown against a soft surface. The car itself had also let out a cry as it was bumped off the road, but all the passengers heard was the squeal of tires. What the vehicle actually said was "OhnoOhnoOhnoUlmosavemeeeeee!!!" (Ulmo is, after all, the Vala whom all motor vehicles hold in the highest regard, since he did indeed drive a car of his own*), but as neither Dwarf, nor woman, nor Orc, nor ferret spoke Automobile, the words were lost on them.

It took Wilhelmina a moment to realize that the steering wheel had magically materialized before her. "Where did you come from?" she wondered aloud. Next to her, Fléin was stamping his feet in search of pedals which were no longer there either, and it dawned upon the old woman that it would be a good idea to stop the car.

"I hope you don't mind driving a bit more," Wilhelmina said to her companion, hopping out of the car. She'd already begun to turn a bit Orkish even from the short time behind the wheel, and she disliked the sensation very much.

As they got back on the road, the Cruiser only a little worse for the wear, it became apparent that a number of changes had been made on the surrounding area.

"Kotekth fith, pewiod? What'th that thuppothed to mean?" the kamuraorc inquired curiously.

Wilhelmina did not care to enlighten him about feminine hygiene, and instead said, "Goodness, it's getting toasty!" She tried rolling the window down, but the hot wind blew dust in her face.

"This'll be Anakron's doing," Fléin said darkly. "Let's hope he keeps the tricks in his sleeve for a while."

They did not know it, but at that precise moment, two very strange things were happening.

Not far from the road was a garish poster five stories high. It displayed the silhouette of a goblin, frozen in the middle of an awkward dance move. One word accompanied the image: iOrc. While the sign was unsightly, and only a few people at that point actually knew what an iAnything was, that was not the strange part. The monstrous ape currently scaling the sign held that office.

And very, very far away, Ulmo was wondering why he had just had a number of cars crying out to him for help. "Must be another bloody pile-up in Lûndûn," he grumbled. "I do hope the tow trucks come this time." He put his blue convertible in Drive, cranked up the Beach Boys, and decided to go see if there were any heroes who might need directions to Gondolin.


*"Behold now Ulmo leapt upon his car before the doorway of his palace below the still waters of the Outer Sea" - Book of Lost Tales 2

[the phantom]

Soon after leaving Edge-Where, it began sleeting. "This is exactly why I wanted an SUV with four wheel drive, anti-lock brakes, and quality tires," said orc-Mardil as the SUV sped past yet another car that had slid off the road.

"When will we arrive at Mount Doom?" asked Sai.

"Oh, it isn't far," said Mardil. "We left Edge-Where at 9:00 AM and it's about 225 miles to Mount Doom. Even if this weather persists, we will arrive at Mount Doom around 1:00 PM- unless we encounter some delays."

"Is that likely?" asked Sai.

"Yes," answered Mardil.

"How long do you think that might take?" asked Sai.

"It depends on what the delay is for," said Mardil with a hint of hostility. "We should leave the radio on the traffic station. That way, if we have advanced warning we can take an alternate route."

"Aren't most roads besides the Interstate in really poor condition?"

"Yes, Sai," said Mardil slowly, barely restraining his wrath, "But this vehicle can handle it. Any other questions, or are you finished bugging me?"

"Hey, Mardil, calm down. Your orcish form is making you irritable," said Sai.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," said Mardil. Mardil slumped a bit in his chair, took several deep breaths, and began humming in an effort to calm his nerves.

Suddenly Sai burst out, "Mardil! Stop the car - it's Alli!"

"Wha- where?" stuttered Mardil, bringing his mind back to the present.

"Over on the side of the road," answered Sai. "Pull over! If her car's broken down we can give her a lift."

For a moment, Mardil's mind fluttered back to the rescue from the balrog. He had put himself at risk and gotten Alli to Edge-Where just in time to receive full points-and she had repaid this favor by first yelling at him and then avoiding him. "Over-emotional, irrational girl!" he thought. "I really don't feel like having her along. Once again, I'm saving her, and once again she probably won't have anything good to say to me. But, I hate to leave her with everyone watching." Mardil looked back at Orckel. He had his camera up and had it fixed on Alli as the SUV sped past. She was staggering. Mardil wasn't certain, but it looked like the side of her face was bloody.

Cursing mentally, Mardil pulled over onto the shoulder and came to a stop. Sai gave a sigh of relief. Mardil put the vehicle into reverse and backed up until they were within twenty yards of Alli. As Mardil exited the vehicle, Alli fell to the ground. Rushing forward, Mardil scooped her up and brought her back to the SUV and deposited her in the back seat (after ordering Orckel to climb back into the rear with the spare tires). For the next twenty minutes of the drive, Alli could be heard murmuring a constant stream of unintelligible words with a "Mardil" thrown in every once and a while.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli lost train of thought. One moment she was muttering obscenities about the state of Mordor and her mood and then next there was a gas-guzzling SUV next to her and suddenly she fell.

It was a rather odd sensation; she knew that she wasn't awake, but she also knew she wasn't really sleeping. She could have sworn that she was lifted gently as a sleeping child by strong, warm arms... but she also could have sworn that she was flying... and besides... her swearing of late had been frowned upon by the more conservative members of her kamura crew. Somehow she floated between consciousness and she could feel the ground moving beneath her. Had Roggie come back? She was warm again.

She started to see things. She knew they were dreams, but they seemed so real.

Mardil came toward her. She backed away stubbornly. There was a white horse involved in the vision and the words "happily ever after" flitted through her head. She groaned and muttered "No... no... go away."

Her father was there. He hugged his daughter as she returned home. He was so glad to see her.

He turned into Valde. His eyebrows overwhelmed her. "Tweeze." she mumbled.

She was holding a baby. He was clad in a black cape with dark and sinister eyes. He gurgled happily and she pushed his hood back. Eyebrows again. "Wax." she moaned desparately.

She was on the Jerry Springer Show. Mardil appeared in the audience, chanting "Jerry, Jerry!". "Mardil?" she asked, confused. She wanted very much to escape from this foolish television show. Was he there to save her? No... chivalry was dead. He came on stage. He had on a kilt. A small man in red jumped out from the audience and spat a fireball at him. Mardil was engulfed in flames ("Mardil!") and turned into Roggie of Morgoth. His shadowy form burned steadily and dream Alli stepped backward, shielding herself. "You're so hot." His wings disappeared.

Alli screamed at the horror of a wingless balrog and when the SUV hit a rather large bump she woke with a start and it took a rather long time before it occured to her that the ground wasn't moving so much as that she was laying on the seat of a moving vehicle and before the writer decided to end the sentence. Alli looked up and saw Sai glancing back worriedly. Mardorc concentrated on the road. She suddenly remembered her mission to save the world from the evil Màrîo. Had Mardil "saved" her again? She sat up angrily and fell right back down, blood oozing slightly from her head wound. She hit the back of her head on the door handle. This did not much more improve her disposition.

"Pull.... over...." she ordered firmly through gritted teeth. "and let me the [deleted] out of this gas-guzzling, environment-destroying, too-macho, trying-to-compensate-for-something hunk of moving metal before I let myself out. What right do you have to abduct me AGAIN when I was perfectly fine on my own?!"

[the guy who be short]

Fléin took his hands off the steering wheel, shrinking back to dwarf size. Then, slinking through the gap between the driver and passenger seats, he slid into the back, allowing Wilhelmina to cross over without anything awkward happening, "like my sitting on your lap."

"Woo don't theem to mind thitting on my lap," the still-suspiciously-nameless back seat orc replied. Fléin hit him with the flat of his axe.

A short while later, the Dwarf was once more a Dworc. A raging sandstorm had sprung up, and traffic was at a standstill. How he was meant to perform a turn in the road and get them back in the right direction in this weather, Fléin had no idea.

"Ith that-"

"Shut up," a harmonious chorus intervened.

"Zhiant Monkey!" the orc squealed on regardless.

Fléin and Wilhelmina both strained their eyes. "Yes, I can see where you're coming from," Wilhelmina replied, "that sandcloud does look exactly like a-"

The sandcloud bellowed. Fléorc and Wilhelmina instinctively flung their hands over their respective ears, but they could still feel the beast roaring in their chests. Their heartbeats seems to falter to accomodate the noise.

The ferocity of the storm died down in inverse proportion with the ferocity of the giant ape before them. They could see it clearly now, right in front of the windscreen. Far worse, it could see them clearly, right behind the windscreen.

"Wondewfuw! Wondewfuw thhot!" the orc squirmed in delight. "I wondew how Anakwon doeth it, it'th tho realithtic, ithn't it?"

The ape - King Kong - beat its chest in a cinematic fashion, let out a bellow for its own sake, reached out, and picked the car up in one hand.

Wilhelmina and Fléin ignored the smell of urine suddenly emanating from the back seat.

The ape lifted the car to its face; all that was visible in the windscreen was a gigantic eye, staring into the innards of the cruiser. Admittedly, there was quite a lot of fur visible around it too, but that didn't sound as dramatic. The pupil roved from Fléin to Wilhelmina to the sticky mess in the back seat. Fléin was struggling to keep from following the Orc's example.

Wilhelmina, on the other hand, seemed to find the entire experience exhilarating beyond belief. "Isn't he a beauty?" she said to the quivering dwarf, before turning back to the ape. She rolled down her window and leant out.

"Are you mad? You'll get us both killed!" Fléin whispered urgently at her. A small whimper from the back seat communicated a "I don't want to die either," from the Orc.

But Wilhelmina ignored them both. She stuck her head out of the window, squinting into the failing sandstorm (the ape was blocking off the flow of the air) and screamed, as loudly as her old lungs could manage, "Coooo-eee! Coooooooo-eeeeeee!"

The ape receded a little, then turned his head to look directly at the beaming woman (Why, oh why, did I bring her with me?), and, to Fléin's amazement, beamed back. It roared in glee to spot her face, holding out its other hand for her to climb onto. The Dworc watched, mesmerized, as she stepped out, shielding her face with her hand, and looked up at the creature. "Aren't you a beauty?"

And at that moment, Mr Swanky descended onto the old woman's face. The ape gasped; the ferret stared up at the black muzzle of the monster.

And lo, the beast looked upon the face of beauty, and from that time she (Fléin looked down to check on this point) stayed her hand from killing, and she was as one dead.

The ferret seemed quite pleased about the whole affair too.

[littlemanpoet]

It was two hours past midday. The traffic snarls had begun at the cross-over point from left-side-of-the-roadness to the-other-left-side-of-the-roadness. Car after car squealed out of control because too many orcs insisted on driving alone, thus rendering them in the passenger's seat and useless in terms of car control. Anakron allowed the hint of a smile.


It seemed that King Kong himself had appeared in Mordor. What hey, a brand new Anakronism. Some of these things appeared will-Anakron or nill-Anakron. Little matter. The Grand Anakronist wondered if King Kong would find his Empire State Building, and if he would find his girl. He didn't care either way. He also did not care that various and sundry of the members of the Offending Party thought incorrectly as to who was what, or what was who. He didn't even care if they succeeded. He did not, of course, mind that Mordor was getting only more interesting with the advent of the Offending Party's desperate race to get out. Anakron allowed a mild smirk.

The traffic snarls worsened. That was because of Rôgû. Known to balrog-wingers by his nickname of Roggie. Rôgû was angry. He had murder on his mind. Not that Anakron could read balrog minds, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that someone who had a cold virus freezing one of his legs into shards, making him a maimed laughing stock amongst balrogs, could not be quite pleased with things. Rôgû was above ground, wreaking havoc along the interstate, picking up and throwing down Cruisers, Little French Cars with No Guts, Hummers, and anything else that came to claw. Traffic had been backing up in both directions for miles, for a good hour. Anakron allowed the quickest, smallest escape of a momentary giggle.

All the alternate roads were two lanes only. And towns were frequent, slowing traffic down to 30 miles per hour .... at best. And in Mordor, it was always rush hour, no matter the time of day ... especially in the towns. Anakron snickered.

And raised his staff. The cat yowled. The sandstorm stopped, sputtered, spewed, and spit the sand out of its mouth. It looked at Anakron out of the side of its eyes, wondering why it had been stopped.

"You are to turn into a thunderstorm hiding a tornado," Anakron said to it. It grinned and bloated and grew dark and wet and began spinning. Anakron cackled and did a jig.

[Celuien]

Panakeia sped up the ramp to M25, fighting the blinding sleet. By now, she had learned to use the pedals in her Cruiser quite efficiently. She was particularly fond of the accelerator. It’s simply exhilarating. The thrill of it all. She pressed down on the pedal and merged onto the Interstate with a zoom, ignoring the fact that the coefficient of friction for bald rubber tires on an icy road was roughly equivalent to cotton socks on a newly waxed floor. The Cruiser slid wildly, colliding with a row of strange objects resembling gigantic orange ice-cream cones. Wonder what those were for.

The road was oddly quiet for a Mordorian highway. Too quiet. There wasn’t another driver in sight, save for a few slow moving trucks containing more of the odd orange hats (the best explanation Panakeia could generate, although she was still puzzled by their placement at the roadside) and squads of orcs. Something had to happen.

And it did. Suddenly, the weather changed. Instead of the lashing sleet, Panakeia’s windshield was now hammered by flying sand. She couldn’t see a thing until, rounding a bend, she found the other drivers. Cars were at a standstill behind a line of the orange hats. “Your Taxes at Work. Road Under Construction For Your Safety and Convenience.” Too late, Panakeia slammed her foot against the brake. She swerved off to the side of the road. Four loud pops informed her that her tires had blown out. The Cruiser came to an unsteady stop at the edge of the highway, just in front of an enormous billboard. “Paint your game face on.” Panakeia stared at the sign, puzzled, and then set the bizarre message down to the poor taste in advertisements that seemed to reign in the local industry.

She walked around her Cruiser. Four flats. Now what? Bert exited the Cruiser, pointing his kamura at the flattened tires and asking Panakeia what she planned to do next. Ignoring his running commentary, Panakeia walked ahead in hopes of finding assistance. Maybe there’s a service station nearby.

Then she noticed that she was not the only driver in distress. A tiny road paralleling the highway ran on the other side of the billboard. Another Cruiser, its front end crushed, sat at the sign’s foot. And a man lay under the car, his face covered with sand. Looks like trouble. Best not to get involved. She spun on her heel to leave…and ran straight into Bert.

“Next time on Escape from Mordor. Will Panakeia play the hero and rescue the unknown stranger? Or will she turn a blind eye and continue her own journey, ruthless as ever? Find out tomorrow, same time, same station.”

The word ruthless stung Panakeia like the blowing sand around her. Looks like there’s no choice now. I’m on kamura. What would my fans say? She stared at Bert, the expression of one who has been unjustly slighted on her face.

“Of course I’m going to help. How could I leave anyone stranded in this storm? Come on.” She hurried up to the disabled Cruiser and tapped the unconscious man on the shoulder. “Is everything alright?”

He awoke with a start. “Begone! Thou gleeking beetle-headed pumpion!” He shook the sand out of his face.

Panakeia was shocked to recognize another member of the Offending Party. What in Middle-earth could have happened to Valde? Aloud she said, “A fine way to welcome me! I came to help you, but if that’s the way the wind blows, so be it.” She started away.

Valde called to her. “No, forgive me. I was dreaming.” He stared at Panakeia as if attempting to recall something. “Panakeia, yes?”

“Well, that’s more like it.” She brightened. “That’s right. Nice to see you, Valde.” Panakeia turned her profile to the kamura, making sure to put her better side in full view. “Need a ride?”

Valde noted Panakeia’s posturing for the kamura. He wasn’t sure he liked this amateur putting on a show. But he was in a spot. “Yes, I do. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all.” She noticed the kamura man trapped in Valde’s Cruiser and pointed him out to Bert, who quickly went to free his colleague while Valde and Panakeia went to survey the damage to her vehicle. They were shortly joined by Bert and the kamura man, who seemed shaken more than hurt.

Panakeia appealed to them. “Now’s the time to make yourselves useful. Change the tires.” Bert nodded and set to work, but the kamura man gaped at her. “That’s not in my contract.”

“Well, it’s not in my contract to take you with me. Go on and help Bert, or you can stay here.” Grumbling something about temperamental stars giving too many orders, he joined Bert at the back of Panakeia’s Cruiser.

Half an hour later, just as a thunderstorm started to drench the ground with rain, the four of them were seated in the Cruiser, waiting in a long line of traffic on the highway.

[the phantom]

"Should I try and revive her?" Sai asked Mardil shortly after they were on the road again.

"No, leave her alone," ordered Mardil. "I think the trip will probably be more pleasant for all of us if she stays knocked out until Mount Doom."

After a bit, Sai spoke again. "Isn't Mordor supposed to be rocky, hot, and dry?"

"Yes, for the most part, but we're still in Nurnia," answered Mardil. "Ages ago, when Sauron was lord here, Nurnia was where his slaves worked fields and such, so obviously he didn't blast this area with the breath of death the way he did everything in the north of his land. As you can see, there are even stands of trees in this country."

As he spoke the road entered a forest of pines. Soon, the road began climbing up towards a high ridge of land that seemed to stretch in both directions to distant mountains. "I'll bet that's where the land will change," said Mardil as he examined his map. "That should be the border of Nurnia."

As they approached the top of the ridge, they noticed the pines beginning to thin out, and there appeared to be racks of coats scattered throughout the trees. As they continued, the trees were replaced completely by rows upon rows of coats. "We're leaving Nurnia all right," said Mardil.

When they reached the top of the ridge, Mardil pulled over onto the shoulder. "There's Mount Doom, dead ahead."

Sai looked at it for a moment, but she was soon focused on something a bit nearer. "Look, Mardil- what is that just a bit down the road?"

Mardil's eyes widened in amazement. "It looks like the road flips directions."

"But why are all of those cars off the road?"

"I don't know. I'm going to turn the radio on and scan for a traffic report."

ssssssss...your home for the best music of the late 3rd age...sssssssss...and I really think that Dol Amroth needs to find a better point guard...ssssssss...Oops, I did it again, I play with...ssssssss...partly cloudy with a chance...sssssss...in the game, oh baby baby, Oops you think I'm in love-

"That's not a traffic report, Mardil," said Sai, turning the sound down as she spoke.

"Hey! I like that song!" protested Mardil.

"Are you kidding? That song is awful!" said Sai.

"Well, okay, I guess I don't like the song that much, but the video is great. The... uh... choreography, and... um, the... camera angles and such."

Sai rolled her eyes. "In other words, you think Britney Spears is hot."

"She's got a great body! You can't deny that!" said Mardil in defense.

"Okay, whatever, just find a traffic report," said Sai, still rolling her eyes.

ssssss...tomorrow we'll see mostly sunny skies with...ssssssss...no way will the king support such legislation, because there...ssssssss...switches sides of the road right after leaving Nurnia.

"That's it! Turn it up!"

According to what information we have, not only do the lanes switch, but the steering wheel and pedals switch sides of the vehicle, so if you have a passenger have them prepared to drive. If you are by yourself, go slowly, and when you cross the red line on the road, be ready to grab the wheel as it appears in front of the passenger seat.

"Well, no wonder all of those cars are crashing. They weren't able to control their vehicle," remarked Mardil.

Sai climbed into the back seat, leaving the entire front to Mardil. "You do what that guy said the directions were for a driver driving alone. Can you do that?"

"M'lady- Mardil can do anything."

------------

"Wow," said Sai looking at the car thermometer. "It's up to ninety degrees outside. I can't believe it was just sleeting only an hour ago. That is really strange."

"Everything in Mordor is strange," answered Mardil. "I mean, just look at me. I'm turned into an orc!"

"You know Mardil, you aren't a half bad looking orc," laughed Sai.

"Ha ha, very funny," said Mardil, feeling a bit self concious about his appearance.

"Oh, the's vewy wight, you know," lisped Orckel from the back. "You have a nithe even thkin tone, good teeth, and vewy shemetrical fathial featureth. Aftew tonight'th epithode ith aired, it'll only be a thort time before pictureth of you in your orcith form awe hanging in da bedwoomth of orc-girlth evewywhewe."

"I've never been more proud," said Mardil.

[the guy who be short]

Car in one hand, ferret in the other, Queen Quon marched towards Orodruin. They were making wonderful progress - Queenie was marching along the side of the road, positively zooming in comparison to the traffic on the roads.

Fléin, relaxed, laid back in his chair, and in Dwarf form, sighed. "This is amazing. Who'd have thought it would be possible to tame a gigantic ape from a savage island with no experience or understanding of the English language? And that it would fall in love with a creature a fraction of its size? Ha, quite funny really, isn't it?"

Wilhelmina muttered something about Hollywood and the unlikeliness thereof. "And I'm dreading separating the two once we get there..." she finished.

The conversation lapsed into a somewhat pleasant silence. Though Wilhelmina seemed worried, Fléin had no bright ideas to contribute, so he relaxed. The gentle swaying of the car was soothing, the pace incredible, the sandstorm was dying down, love was in the air, and, perhaps most importantly for the Dwarf, they weren't using any fuel at all. All that siphoning for nothing... And they had hardly touched their store of money, either - at least, he hadn't touched his, and all Wilhelmina had bought was a little hose.

He closed his eyes and nodded off for what seemed like only a few minutes before his eyes opened suddenly, cymbals clashed in his ears, and his sense of relaxation disappated in an instant. The sky was screaming in rage - the cymbals were thunder - not good, he reflected, at this height.

Fléin suddenly noticed that Wilhelmina was screaming something into his ear, but he couldn't hear a word of it. He motioned this to her. She responded by pointing out at the ape - invisible through the driving rain, but he must have been there - and then at her hat. Mr Swanky was stuck out there.

White light flooded Fléin's brain. The following roar was nothing compared to the squeal that rose from Wilhelmina, though. The car started - falling? Falling?! Queen Quon had been struck by lightning! His sight returned slowly, confirming the fact that they were falling towards the earth - the ape, too, was collapsing in front of them.

Wilhelmina continued screaming - Swanky! Swanky!, he could make out the words now, but a fresh roll of thunder cut off her squeals once more. Her face streamed as if she were outside. Only now did he somewhat appreciate how much that ferret had meant to the woman, her only friend throughout years of Mordorian life; now, falling, perhaps struck, in the hands of an ape.

An almightly crash as they hit the ground, Fléin's face struck the steering wheel, and pain shot through his face. White light - brighter than before, closer, the storm was upon them! - a boom from the back of the car, smoke, an explosion, flame in the driving rain, and Fléin passed out into blissful unawareness of the Hell around him.

[Celuien]

Horns blared. The traffic snarl went on forever. "Five hours in this mess,” exclaimed Panakeia, and we’ve barely covered 100 miles! But at least we know we’re going in the right direction.” She pointed to a billboard at the roadside. A garish mural of the Mount Doom Casino and Resort, complete with slot machines, card tables and stereotypical blondes sitting by a swimming pool, was painted on the sign. The sign screamed out with excessive numbers of exclamation points and erratic capitalization “MouNt DoOm CaSino and ReSOrT jUSt aheAD!!!! OnLy 125 miLEs to tHe TIMe of yOur LIFE - FoLloW the SiGns!!!!!!! PLay GollUM’s DiVe!!!! JoIN THE PARTY!!!!!!!!!!!” and other similar inanities. “Keep an eye out for the signs, will you Valde?”

Valde nodded and looked out the window. There were signs, some more to the point than others, everywhere, literally covering the side of the highway. A few of the signs seemed to hold actual importance, giving notices about exits, upcoming construction, detours and the like. Approximately twice as many of the signs were devoted to advertisements. But the largest number by far seemed completely irrelevant. A set of five signs spaced several yards apart gave what seemed to be an odd epitaph. “Her chariot | Raced 80 per | They hauled away | What had Ben Her.” Another four proclaimed, “Twinkle, twinkle | One-eyed car | We all wonder | WHERE you are.” Scattered throughout were signposts missing their signs. “I hope there was nothing important on those,” said Valde.

“Judging by the rest of the signs around here, I’d say not,” replied Panakeia.

But she was mistaken. An hour later, they passed another billboard. “YoU haVe missed THe ExiT!!!!!!! Don’T LoSE OUt on THE TIME of YouR LIFE!!!! Go BaCk to M1 and ViSIT tHe MouNT DoOM CASino and resOrt!!!!!!!! 3 mILes BaCk!!!!”

“I thought I told you to look for the signs to Mount Doom,” said Panakeia.

“I was, but they must have been among those which were taken down,” replied Valde.

Panakeia swung her wheel hard to the side, cutting across several lanes and in front of opposing traffic. As horns sounded, traffic scattered, and several accidents took place, she turned around and headed back to the exit, oblivious to several bright lights, like the flash of a camera, that winked behind her.

Panakeia looked down at the odometer. “We’ve almost come three miles now. Let’s make sure we don’t miss that turn. There has to be a sign around here somewhere.”

And there it was. Sandwiched between a pile of abandoned mattresses and a large poster with the picture of a mustachioed hobbit in red was a small arrow shaped sign directing the way to a fork in the road. “Exit: Mordor Interstate 1. To Mount Doom.”

“There it is,” cried Valde. The Cruiser zipped off onto the exit. And somewhere, in the depths of a building far away, a black gloved hand added a picture of a lime green Cruiser to a pile of photos marked "Violation. Payment Due."

[the phantom]

"Um, Mardil, I've been meaning to ask," began Sai, "Can't we get in really big trouble driving down the middle like this?"

There was an embankment of dirt and gravel separating the two sides of the grid locked interstate. The drive on the interstate had been pretty for the first half an hour or so, but then traffic began to slow. And so Mardil had, for the past twenty miles, been driving on the central embankment, managing to keep his speed somewhere around 60 mph.

"Of course we could get into trouble for this," said Mardil, not too concerned.

Sai piped up again. "Well then, don't you think-"

"But we won't," interrupted Mardil.

"Why not?"

"Because we've got a lovely young lady with a nasty head wound in back. If some police officer pulls us over, then we just point to Alli and tell him we were trying to get her to a good hospital quickly. One look at her and he wouldn't dare tell us to make her suffer longer." Mardil reached back and patted Alli's cheek. "Even if you have no other benefits, at least your pretty face is useful."

Just then, there was a bright flash and a peal of thunder sounded. "The weather changes quickly here," commented Sai.

"I don't think this is normal," said Mardil. "Anakron is probably having some fun with us."

After another ten minutes, Mardil had no choice but to slow down. The rain was coming down in thick sheets and the embankment was getting extremely muddy. "Go back to the road," begged Sai, not wanting to get stuck.

"Yes, yes, I suppose that is best. The road appears to be moving just as fast as we are at this point," agreed Mardil.

As the SUV shot back onto the road neatly between two other cars, a red-orange glow appeared in the cloudy, wet gloom well off to the right of the interstate about half a mile ahead. As they got closer, the source of the glow seemed to be moving closer to the road. "Can you tell what that is?" asked Sai.

But before Mardil could answer, a groan from the back seat announced the awakening of sleeping beauty.

"Pull...over," she said through gritted teeth, "and let me the **** out of this gas-guzzling, environment-destroying, too-macho, trying-to-compensate-for-something hunk of moving metal before I let myself out. What right do you have to abduct me AGAIN when I was perfectly fine on my own?!"

Mardil wouldn't have been in the mood for this, and Mardil in orcish form certainly wasn't, so he snapped back without hesitation.

"One, this vehicle gets 21 mpg, which is plenty good! Two, it doesn't destroy the environment! There aren't enough SUVs in existence to make a significant impact on this huge world! Third, there's nothing wrong with getting a 'macho' vehicle if it gets you to your destination faster! Fourth, this vehicle is not an attempt to compensate! If I was trying to compensate, I would've gotten a weak little French car like you! And finally, you were NOT doing FINE on your own!! Your car was RUINED and you were BLEEDING and KNOCKED OUT beside the road when I 'abducted' you!!"

Sai whistled loudly to get Mardil's attention. "We're getting closer to that red-orange glow. You can continue your fight later. Now, can you tell what it is?"

"No, it's raining too hard, but... uh oh."

"What? What is it?!" said Sai, who was rather unsettled by the way the ever in control Mardil had said "uh oh".

"I think an old friend is paying us a visit."

But there was no need for Mardil to say who. Rôgû was clearly visible now. He was but forty yards ahead, standing by the side of the road, his gaze fixed on their vehicle. His shattered leg had been replaced with a wooden peg leg. To compliment the peg leg, he sported and bandana with a skull and crossbones, an eye patch, and an oversized rapier.

"Rôgû!" said Alli happily.

"He wookth vewy thwathbuckwing," commented Orckel.

"And very angry," added Mardil, hugging the opposite side of the road.

Rôgû gathered himself and leaped over into their lane. "Brace yourself!" yelled Mardil as he aimed the SUV at Rôgû's peg leg, in hopes that they could keep driving and leave Rôgû behind and unable to walk. But Rôgû quickly curled up into a ball and allowed the SUV to smash into his side.

"Nooo!" screamed Alli.

------------

Mardil opened his eyes. His head was resting on an deflated airbag draped over the steering wheel. He was facing to his right, and could see Sai slumped forward, her head, like his, resting on a deflated airbag, which was lying on the dashboard. He felt a weight on his back. He turned slowly and found that Alli had ended up half way into the front seat. She was lying across Mardil's back, her head by his door and her feet sticking into the back seat. "How long have we been here- and where's Rôgû?"

As if in answer, a low rumble sounded and Rôgû's back appeared in front of the vehicle. The beast was picking himself up slowly off of the ground. Mardil could see ugly bruises on the creature's side and several places where meat had been torn off.

Rôgû shook his head to clear out the cobwebs, and then turned to the SUV. Mardil tried to start the vehicle, but it was no use. The Explorer was ruined. Rôgû picked up his rapier and drew it back, preparing to stab it right through the cracked windshield and into Mardil's chest. Thinking quickly, Mardil reached behind him and managed to pull Alli over his head and into his lap.

Rôgû stayed his hand and roared in anger. The roar brought Sai and Orckel back into consciousness. "Do something, Mardil!" yelled Sai.

"I am!" he shouted back, drawing a knife from his belt and putting it to Alli's throat.

"What are you doing?!" screamed Sai.

"Keep quiet!" snapped Mardil, his eyes fixed on Rôgû. Rôgû stared back at him, his face a picture of hesitation and apprehension. "It's quite obvious from yesterday's events that these two are old friends," Mardil whispered to Sai. "I'm trying to use that to our advantage."

Mardil kicked his door open and emerged holding the limp form of Alli. Rôgû remained motionless in front of the smashed vehicle. Mardil pointed to a mileage sign that read "Mount Doom: 60 miles", and then pointed to the ruined vehicle, and then finally he pointed at Rôgû and made a motion of slitting Alli's throat with his knife. Rôgû appeared distressed by the last action, but gave no sign of understanding Mardil's intentions.

"Mardil, I think he can understand speech!" called Sai from the car.

"Okay, I'll try it," said Mardil. "We will get into the vehicle and you will carry us to Mount Doom, or I will kill Alli," he said to the monster.

Rôgû bellowed in helpless rage, and hopped around stabbing the air with his rapier, but Mardil repeated the message again, only this time he moved the knife to prepare to make the cut. Rôgû immediately came to a stop and, in a sulky, defeated voice he said, "Get in- I'll take you to Mount Doom. Just don't hurt Alli."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli woke suddenly, her head pounding. Mardil's arms seemed to be around her. Well this is nice. she began to think before realizing that it was not exactly a message that she wanted to convey. She struggled to get away from his too-comforting grasp and felt something sharp pressed against her neck. She remembered this feeling, though she'd tried so hard to repress it. She didn't understand what was going on but she understood without doubt that she was being held with a blade to her neck by a man she had trusted. Without thinking, she cast a betrayed look at Sai and turned quickly, ramming her shoulder into Mardil's wind-pipe.

Caught off guard, Mardil dropped the blade, loosed his grasp slightly, and Alli was able to kick her way out the door. The rain washed the blood from her forehead as she ran stumbling toward Roggie. His eyeliner had smeared and his fire had gone out. He stood now as a sentient pile of ash dressed flamboyantly in pirate regalia. He smiled broadly to see her, though the looked was countered by one of obvious pain.

She ran to him and embraced his good leg, crying in the downpour. She didn't care where Mardil was now. She knew she would be safe with her friend. Suddenly Roggie roared angrily. Alli turned, splashing mud, and saw Sai running toward them. Roggie detached his young friend from his leg and began to move toward her. Sai stopped, slipping on the wet ground. She looked utterly terrified. Roggie strode angrily toward her.

"No!!!" screamed Alli, chasing him and grabbing him by the peg. "Roggie, no! She's harmless!"

"They tried to kill you!" he roared over the thunder. Sai stood frozen. Mardil had his hand to his neck, rubbing his windpipe. He climbed from the reckage of the vehicle and pulled free a bolted crossbow. He looked utterly furious, though handsomely so. Alli screamed again.

"Stop it!" she cried desparately. "Everybody just freeze!" Her voice cracked with emotion now. Completely unexpectedly, everybody did what they were told. Roggie steamed carcinogenically and angrily, but he stopped, looking at Alli and waiting for her to speak. Sai still did not move. Mardil did not relax his aim but at least looked at Alli instead of murderously at her companion.

"Tell me what the [deleted] is going on." It was too much just now. Why couldn't everybody get along? Why had Mardil tried to kill her? Why had Sai let him? The only one that she could trust was Roggie.

"Roggie," she asked, frustrated and confused tears streaming. "What is wrong with you? Why are you hurting people?"

He looked suddenly ashamed and crouched down, whispering in her upturned ear.

"They what?"

He whispered more.

"And then what happened?"

Mardil stood impatiently, tapping one foot. Sai was astounded at the sight: a huge and truly menacing looking balrog crouched low and gently, whispering into a teenage girl's ear. How this friendship had been formed she had no idea but it was truly a curious one. She had never before seen the like of it.

"And then?"

The rain was beginning to slow as Alli looked around and began to grin a bit.

"It's beginning to make sense. A movie? Yes... it certainly makes sense." A film crew that had been hidden by the torrents of rain had become visable. Stunt men began pouring from the smashed vehicles. Roggie took off his blue bandana and allowed Alli to wipe his smudged eyeliner clean with it. She was the picture of tender motherliness. Suddenly her face became stern.

"Roggie, Sai and Mardil were not in this movie. Why did you try to attack them? You know that fighting doesn't solve any problems."

He now looked like a sulking child subjected to his mother's disappointment.

"What did you say?" she repeated with an italicized parental look.

"I was mad at them."

"And why were you mad at them?"

He grimaced, glaring at Mardil who now looked outright astounded at the turn that this adventure had taken. Alli... moody, bitter, sarcastic Alli... was lecturing a balrog on proper ways of handling anger? Sai looked impressed.

"Because... that one" he nodded toward Mardil, "attacked me with tanks. I was minding my own business and he up and shot my leg off. Does he have any idea how painful it is for your leg to shatter? Yes, the peg got me cast in Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of Durin's Bane, but it aches something awful just before storms."

Roggie looked sad now instead of angry. Alli patted him on the knee (the highest part of him she could reach now). "There, there... revenge never solves problems Roggie... you know that. What do you say to them?"

Roggie looked at her with pleading in his eyes. "Do I have to?"

"Yes." she glared at him maternally.

"Msry." he muttered. She glared more heavily. "Fine. I'm sorry I tried to kill you." Alli's gaze softened.

"And how do you intend to make up for trying to hurt them? It doesn't matter who your enemies are... an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."

"I don't know... I suppose I could..."

"Hmm?" she looked expectantly.

"I could take them to Mount Doom Casino and Resort." he said at last. "That's where the reality show said you guys have to go, right?"

She nodded, satisfied. "Will that solve this catastrophe?" Alli yelled to Sai and Mardil. Sai nodded happily, slightly concerned about her safety, but confident that Alli, no matter how angry, would not be vindictive enough to get her killed. Mardil looked annoyed but nodded stiffly. Roggie lifted Alli gently onto his shoulder where she sat cheerfully looking down at the world. He next stopped and did the same with Sai. When Sai was comfortably settled, Roggie picked up Mardil. Alli leaned over and whispered in Roggie's ear and Roggie smiled. He began to stride toward Mount Doom.

"Wait!" cried Mardil. "Don't I get a seat?"

"Nope." said Roggie. "I'm not that nice."

And with that the group finished the trip to Mount Doom, Mardil gripped firmly in Roggie's left hand, as the balrog enthusiastically swung his arms to the rhythm of his saunter. In a very short time, they were there.

[Celuien]

Rain poured down on Mordor, soaking the loose earth at the side of the Interstate. The resulting mud slid onto the road, obscuring the yellow lines that ordinarily divided the lanes from one another. Drivers moved about willy-nilly, leading to numerous near crashes that left Panakeia's knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Would you like me to drive?" queried Valde. Her driving is making me nervous, went a voice in his head. She's as bad as any of the others here.

"No. I'm doing fine, thank you," she snapped back.

And then, just ahead, the road broke into chaos. Cars skidded out of control and left the road. Others spun in spirals. "What's going on?" Panakeia cried in alarm.

The answer came in the form of a sudden switch in the position of the steering wheel. In a flash, the wheel vanished and reappeared on Valde's side of the car. He grabbed it and pulled to the other side of the road, deftly avoiding the stopped and disabled vehicles blocking the road. The kamura man commented, "And he's done it! What form. What skill!"

"Shut up!" barked Panakeia, who was none too pleased with the change in situation.

"It must be some strange manifestation of the Anakronism Dweomer," said Valde. His voice cracked and croaked as he morphed into an Orc.

Panakeia, now in human form, voiced her assent. Now that she was out of the driver's seat, she proceeded to offer Valde endless advice on his driving. "Why don't you speed up and go around that slowpoke?" "Don't hit the brake so hard." "Careful, don't oversteer. You'll go off the road!" Valde ignored her advice and concentrated on supressing thoughts of stopping the car and leaving Panakeia at the side of the road. It is her Cruiser, after all. But why does she have to go on and on?

And then they saw a new obstacle. An enormous peg-legged pirate-Balrog stood in the road. Panakeia screamed in recognition. "The Balrog! And he's bound to be furious." She had not forgotten Mardil's treatment of the creature.

She watched as the Balrog lifted the little group and set off. "Follow them," cried Panakeia.

Follow the Balrog, thought Valde. She must be insane. But at least he's clearing out the traffic. And I suppose we should do our best to help.

He followed, now able to go at great speed through the cleared road. As they went along, Panakeia watched the trio traveling with the bizarre pirate. To her lasting astonishment and relief they seemed to be friendly. However could that have happened. But she wasn't sure what the Balrog would think of her. "Valde, could you arrange to stay clear of that entourage? I'd rather not have a run in with their...um...chauffeur."

"That seems to be a wise plan." He fell back, keeping a respectable distance between the Balrog and Cruiser.

Shortly thereafter, they arrived at the foot of Mount Doom. With a quick, "See you around," to Valde, Panakeia hopped out, searching for a place where she could put her Pearie Ockcide Potion to good use.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina stepped out of the car. She was quite shaken, yet miraculously unscathed. And now, she was very, very wet.

“Mr. Swanky!” she called again and again, the sound of her own voice swallowed up by that of the thunder. She could barely make out anything in the darkness, not even the monolithic billboards, let alone a comatose ape.

Lightning flashed, making each pelting raindrop shine brilliantly. She thought she spied something out of the corner of her eye: a large shape on the ground, though it might have been part of the landscape. Thunder crashed once more, and it was followed by another bolt of bright light. Yes, that had to be Queen Quon!

The old woman ran towards the shape, holding her hat firmly by the brim to keep it from flying away in the chill wind. If her pet were dead… she couldn’t bear to think of it.

The giant ape lay upon the muddy ground as desolately as only a furry and possibly deceased animal could. Anxiously, Wilhelmina ran around to Queen Quon’s right fist, where Mr. Swanky had been tenderly nestled. The hand was closed tight, but after all that screaming, Wilhelmina found herself in a logical mood.

“If she’s dead,” she said to herself, “then she can’t have been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in. So I should be able to get this ginormous hand open. I think I can.”

Ten minutes and much more nonstandard English later, the Little Old Lady That Could had pried the fingers apart. Curled up in a little ball was the motionless ferret.

Wilhelmina let out a sob. This little creature had been her friend and companion for many, many years. He was one of the few creatures in the world who didn’t think her to be a complete nutter… and now he was no more.

“Nooooooooo!” she cried, falling to her knees and turning her face to the raging sky in a manner so melodramatic that it would have made Karís Mâtiktwít dance in delight. The orchestra swelled, the choirs sang heart-wrenching minor chords, and tears mingled with the rain.

There was a familiar squeak, and orchestra, choirs, tears, and rain all stopped abruptly.

“Mr. Swanky!” Wilhelmina shouted joyously as he shook himself a bit and then jumped into her hands. “You’re alright!” They both looked solemnly at the corpse of Queen Quon. “Queenie gave her life but saved yours! Isn’t that nice?” She screwed up her face contemplatively. “Perhaps ‘nice’ isn’t the best word. But even so, ‘tis better to have played Scrabble and lost than to never have played Scrabble at all, as they say. Or something like that. Let’s get back to the car and see if nice Mr. Fléin is alright.”

~*~*~*~*~

Nice Mr. Fléin was, in fact, alright, once he had been awakened and told that his beard had suffered no damage. He had a gash on his forehead from hitting the steering wheel, though, and Wilhelmina told him that he was certain to bruise as well.

“A fascinating bruise, probably, with all different colors in it. The rainbow after the storm will manifest itself upon your forehead!” she told him brightly, tearing off a scrap from one of her many petticoats to sop up the blood.

“How wonderful,” Fléin said dazedly.

“And look!” she said, holding up the hideous beaker. “Your free gift wasn’t damaged at all, either!”

“That’s impossible,” the Dwarf said. “That defies the laws of wotsit… fizzix.”

“I’ll bet that Mârtha Stewârt had something to do with it,” Wilhelmina decided. “Unbreakable glass – she’d think it was a good thing.”

“I think she’s right, in this case, at least,” said Fléin. “Even if it is ugly, it’s still a nice bit of glassware.”

“I think I’ll have to drive us to Mount Doom, and pronto,” said the old woman, prodding Fléin so he’d move into the passenger seat, and taking the wheel.

~*~*~*~*~

At this time, some of you may be wondering about the fate of the kamuraorc. Then again, some of you may not be. But if this poor creature is a friend of yours, be comforted to know that he is unconscious, but is currently deep in a very pleasant dream about an Orc-friendly and politically-correct world.

Let us hope he keeps dreaming.

~*~*~*~*~

Wilhelmina’s hat was still dripping water on her, but it didn’t matter – she had just seen a sign that read “OnE mIlE tO tHe BeSt GaMeS aNd EnTeRtAiNmEnT iN MoRdOr: MoUnT dOoM cAsInO aNd ReSoRt!!!!!1one!!!1”. The red glow in the sky gave further sign that they were close.

“HuRrAh!” she said. Then she cleared her throat loudly. “I mean, hurrah!”

In just a minute they passed through a pair of brightly lit gates and underneath a giant flashing marquee, declaring that although they were tired, wet, more than a little shaken, and driving a car with hardly any aesthetic qualities left to speak of, they had made it, and everything was going to be just fine.

Actually, what the sign said was “WeLcOmE tO mOuNt DoOm CaSiNo AnD rEsOrT,” but to them it meant something much different.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron stood just inside the entrace to the Mount Doom Casino and Resort complex. All of the Offending Party arrived on time. And all managed to breeze through using quite creative means, unforeseen and almost completely avoiding the foibles of the anakronisms thereby. Anakron was impressed. And disappointed.

"Each of you have arrived on time. Congratulations. As for points awarded, subtract one for failure to exhibit road rage; subtract one for failure to tailgate; subtract one for failure to drive through flooded roadway at full speed; subtract one for failure of windshield wipers to streak in the line of vision. Mardil: 6 points; Alli: 6 points; Panakeia: 6 points; Valde: 6 points; Fléin: 6 points; Sai: 6 points; Wilhelmina: 6 points. If you wish to contest your point totals by proving that you indeed performed one of the four anakronisms during the last Test, I will be happy to reconsider.

"You will have a three day rest period, here. You may stay here at the resort if you wish, or you may make forays into Trollywood and Lost Angles. If you go beyond the borders of these three places, you will be disqualified with no recourse. And you will become an orc permanently employed in the Mordorian bureaucracy, so do not trifle with me.

"I expect each of you to be precisely here at dawn, three days hence. Since you all have Trolls aplenty, you will not be financed for your three days."

With that, Anakron turned with an appropriately dramatic billowing of his cloak, and departed from the confines of the resort, heading in the direction of Lost Angles.

[Celuien]

“What a relief.” The Pearie Ockcide Potion had fully restored Panakeia’s hair to a platinum sheen. She smoothed the folds of her dress in preparation to make her appearance in the resort. A last check in her compact mirror showed Panakeia that her right ear was without its proper earring. Must have fallen off in the car with all that orc-transformation business. She headed back to the area where she left the Cruiser. As she drew closer, she thought she heard the sound, not of music, but of sirens. I wonder what that’s all about.

Panakeia rounded a boulder. There was her Cruiser, surrounded by traffic officials, their highway patrol cars’ sirens screaming at full volume. A tow truck was preparing to pull away the Cruiser. She hurried over to a large orc, who stood giving directions. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she said, a note of anger in her voice.

The orc reached into his pocket and whipped out a series of photographs. He handed them to Panakeia, and her mind raced back to the flashing lights from her trip. Dratted traffic cameras, she thought in frustration. “Multiple violations have been recorded for this vehicle. Therefore, we have been delegated the task of confiscating said vehicle and searching for its operator, to whom we shall deliver these violation notices.” He displayed a stack of papers, at least an inch thick. He looked suspiciously at Panakeia, then at one of the photos, then back at Panakeia. He pointed to the picture. “This driver would not happen to be you, would she?”

Panakeia’s heart pounded. Keep your cool, you’ll get out of this. She looked at the picture. What an awful photo this is. You can’t even see my face. Or clothes either. All probably lucky – that orc look is simply not me. And that horrid green hair…Can’t even see my face.

That was the answer. Suddenly, she laughed. “Me? Of course not. Look here. This driver has green hair. Mine is, of course, blonde. How could that possibly be me?”

The orc examined the photos. “I suppose you are correct. I apologize for the inconvenience.” He turned to leave.

“Wait. You aren’t going to take the Cruiser, are you?”

“In fact, we are. The Cruiser must be held in lieu of payment on these tickets.” He tapped the ominously thick sheaf of papers.

“But you can’t do that,” she protested. A clever twinkle came into her eyes. She took the orc confidentially by the arm. “Don’t you know who’s Cruiser that is?”

“No, that information is not available.”

“Well, I can tell you that it belongs to The Grand Anakronist himself. In person. And…” Panakeia decided to play her game to the fullest. “And, I have been sent here by the most illustrious Anakron Istkon Vayor to retrieve this Cruiser, which was stolen. The thief has been found by our staff and is now being properly dealt with.” She furrowed her eyebrows and stared at the orc. “You wouldn’t want to interfere, now would you?”

The orc wavered. The normal procedure was clear, but this didn’t seem to be an ordinary situation. “Very well. You may claim the vehicle. But what am I to do about these violations?”

Panakeia put on her best look of exasperation. “That’s not my concern! This matter is being handled at the highest levels. Do not trouble me with such trifles!”

“I am very sorry. Very sorry indeed. We will be on our way.” He called to the rest of the traffic officials. “Let’s go.” They scurried into their cars and roared off.

Panakeia stood for a moment, watching them vanish in a cloud of dust. Then she laughed and laughed again, the loudest, merriest laugh Panakeia had known in ages. She got in to the Cruiser, located her earring on the driver’s seat, and set it on her ear. Then, with a grin reaching from earring to earring, she entered the Mount Doom Casino and Resort in search of a place to spend the next few days.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin lifted his head from the papers in front of him. "Come in," he called in response to the knock at the door, before twisting around in his chair most uncomfortably so as to be able to see whoever had took it upon themselves to disturb him.

The squat figure of Wilhelmina shuffled into view. There followed what many novelists call a Moment, for lack of something more imaginative. A Moment, in any case, is when a series of events happen rather quickly, perhaps in the space of a few seconds. The writer has, then, to produce a large piece of text to cover a tiny period of time. It is conventional for the author to inform the reader before this happens, just to let them know what's what and pressure them to read the next little bit as quickly as possible.

Wilhelmina came into sight. The sun, usually feeble and exhausted in Mordor, sent a powerful beam through the window of the small room to rest upon the woman's face. The light glinted majestically off her whitening hair, reflected from her rosy skin, radiated from her ferrety ferret.

Fléin looked up at Wilhelmina. Their eyes met, hers gleaming and bright in the sun, his still a little red from the conjunctivitis.

Something odd happened to Fléin's stomach. It wasn't a contraction. It wasn't a grumble, a rumble, or any sort of omen of gastronomical problems. It wasn't cramp. Fléin put a hand to his stomach. It was oddly warm and felt sort of - well, the best way to describe it is sort of fuzzy. Yes, that was it. A warm, glowing fuzziness in his stomach.

The Dwarf broke into a fit of coughing.

The reader may note that the Moment is now over.

--------------------------------------------------------

Wilhelmina rushed into the room. "Are you alright, Fléin?" she cried. Due to the size of the room, she stopped rushing very quickly and simply stood awkwardly in front of the still violently erupting Dwarf, now standing upright but almost bent double.

"All... all right," he managed in between a few coughs, to signify his confidence regarding his continued existance. "It feels," cough, "like I," cough, "swallowed," cough, "a cat," he gasped, before falling onto hands and knees and making retching noises.

Wilhelmina watched with startled interest as what appeared to be a small Siamese cat clambered out of the Dwarf's throat and, still a little phlegmy, twitched out of the open door and ran away.

The Dwarf pushed himself to his feet, bright red, to face his visitor, now sitting calmly on his bed. "Whyever did you swallow a cat, Fléin?" she inquired politely, as if this were a regular occurence that people should be discouraged from doing, like smoking.

Fléin muttered something to the effect of "I didn't, must be a ruddy Anakronism, ruddy Mordor," before inquiring about her visit.

"I just popped in to see how you're doing my Dwarf," she said a little dubiously, regarding a little excess phlegm still on the floor where the Dwarf had been.

"I'm fine, I assure you... that was just a sudden thing. I don't know - I can't explain - that is to say, I'm not sure exactly what happened, but it hasn't happened before."

But the old woman was no longer listening. "What's that?" she asked, pointing at the desk where the Dwarf had been working before she came in. Before he could answer, she got up, walked over to the desk and turned to the first page of the book he had there. The title page had many titles on it, crossed out one after another, so:

My Diary. My Unexpected Journey. There and Back Again. Adventures of Seven Miscellaneous People. The Tale of the Great Escape, compiled by Fléin son of Fréin of the Ironfoots from his own observations of the nutters around him.

Wilhelmina leafed through the book, seeing that it was barely written in. Next to it was a smaller book, with Diary written across it, also nigh empty.

"I didn't imagine you as the literary type," she looked up at the Dwarf again. "You should talk to that Waldo, he loves this arty sort of stuff, you know."

"I'm not generally a very literary person," he replied to supplement the evidence of his attempts at naming the book. He continued in response to her puzzled expression. "When we're all done and out of Mordor, I can sell this for a fortune. It will be a hit!"

Wilhelmina thought for a second. "I don't see," she began after the pause, "how you can think about money at a time like this."

"Bah! Humbug! You're not one of those communists, are you?"

"No, of course not-"

"Good! Next time that Cahal Mahks hands me a revolutionary leaflet, I'll cleave him in two!"

"- but I do think that, if everybody were a little nicer to one another, and a little less obsessed with Gold, perhaps the world would be a nicer place, and Mordor would stop existing."

There was a silence save for the noise of Wilhelmina plonking herself onto Fléins bed. "That's a nice thought, but you realise there's no logic behind it?" Fléin finally answered.

In response, Wilhelmina stroked Mr Swanky. Fléin watched her on his bed, a scene of tranquility and peace, with a smile on his face. Several seconds passed.

A few seconds later, were one standing outside the room, one would hear the noise of vomiting, following by a small miaow.

[Encaitare]

Encaitare's post

"Poor thing," said Wilhelmina, snatching the second cat and delicately cleaning it off on the quilt on Fléin's bed. "It can't be very nice being stuck inside someone's stomach."

"It wasn't very nice having it inside my stomach either," Fléin scowled. He didn't feel much pity for the anakronistic creature, and he said so.

"You try traveling via reverse peristalsis sometime, and then see how you feel."

The Dwarf wrinkled his nose and changed the subject. "So what do you think Anakron will spring on us next?"

"Oh, probably an Oliphaunt. Literally on us, just out of spite," Wilhelmina said, idly patting the cat on the head.

Fléin cleared his throat awkwardly. "You know," he began, "I felt something... well, something strange before."

"I'm sure you did," she said. "Both you and the cats have had a very uncomfortable time of it. Not to mention you injured yourself earlier. You might have a concussion."

"I suppose so..." Fléin murmured. Wilhelmina was clearly too absorbed in imagining a trebuchet-driven Oliphaunt to pay much attention to him, so he turned to the book on the table and began to write.

~*~*~*~*~

"How're the creative juices?" Wilhelmina asked after a long while. She saw the Dwarf jump a little bit as the silence was broken.

"Um, they're alright," he said. "I've written a few pages. They're probably about as good as my title-selecting abilities, probably."

"Oh, you," Wilhelmina dismissed, reaching for the book. "In a hall in the mountains there lived a Dwarf. Nice opening line." She continued to read, but looked up when she heard a squeak and a meow behind her. Mr. Swanky and the Siamese cat were happily frolicking about.

"How adorable; Mr. Swanky has made a new friend!" she exclaimed. "You shall have to name the kitty, Fléin." She watched Mr. Swanky paw at the cat before letting out an enormous ferrety yawn. It was contagious, as yawns tend to be, and suddenly they all felt very sleepy.

"I should let you rest," the old woman said, rising and gathering her ferret. "Say bye-bye to the kitty, Mr. Swanky."

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Feanor of the Peredhil's post


Alli diligently stumbled through several narratives, some wild ideas, and plenty of writers’ block before getting it right. She didn’t mind… she had plenty of time. First her mind was somewhat altered by the dubious effects of balrog smoke. It is a little known fact that exposure to balrog fumes causes cheerfully inaccurate feelings of invincibility. “I can fly, you fools!” Gandalf once cried jubilantly before imprudently trusting himself to the slightly less than supportive darkness of Khazad-dum. Anti-drug ads these days featured large billboards depicting the aged Istar with wild eyes throwing himself over a cliff and trusting that he could, indeed, fly. The Bemused-ship of the Ring stand shocked in the background of the image as they watch their fearless leader, hopped up on balrog fumes, fling himself to his death. “Just say no.” the billboard urged. “You won’t come back White!”

She had then cleared her disheveled head and pratchettly considered locking herself in a sublevel hotel accommodation for the duration of her break based on the belief that light merely blinds you while, when in the dark, your eyes are opened wider. That potential and possibly borrowed (though of course not admittedly, wink wink) narrative hit the ground with a resounding Thud and barely even twitched as it lay there dying.

Alli even rudely interrupted the dreams of her maker one night. As a line of potential suitors sauntered alarmingly along, she twitched and woke up. When and if Alli falls annoyingly in love, it will just happen, she thought with aggravation. After all, it was barely after seven and any time where the seven comes before the fifteen is not an appropriate one for such foul things as wakefulness. There need be no planning for romance beyond… well… all the planning that has already almost secretly occurred.

All in all, Alli had been very busy without having a single thing to show for it. She seemed to remember having called Mardil “Marshmallow” once or twice, or was that “Martini?”, but the look on his face failed to feature neither the shaking nor stirring that would come from those shorts of doings.

The Offending Party now stood outside Mount Doom Resort and Casino patiently listening to Anakron inform them in somewhat different words than what follow that Alli’s next obstacle was to manage a full four days in the same general area as Mardil without killing him in his sleep. Alli was willing to bet (though not with real money and certainly not at their current location) that she wasn’t nearly a good enough actress to successfully pretend that she harbored Mardil no ill wishes, so, on the spot, she decided to tweak the odds of his survival, or at least comfortable survival, a little bit in her favor.

As soon as they were dismissed (what is this, primary school? she asked herself with rolled eyes), she made her way to the most seedy looking corner of the place. She hoped nobody would think anything more of the action than that Alli wanted to show off a bit by cavorting with card sharks, loan sharks, petty thieves (adept at sharking people), mafiosos (such as Larry the Shark), and people who, when it all came down to it, were loyal to their friends and had some excellent connections. The Offenders didn’t need to know that she actually did tend to balance on a metaphorically sharp blade in life… While she often chatted academia with undeservingly assigned Respectables over a cuppa, she just as often could be found (or actually, she couldn’t… she was careful about that sort of thing.) with the Wrong Sort. She knew in the back of her head that she was judged by the company she kept… but it was quite alright because the company she kept publicly was very nicely judge-able… Heck… there were even a few official judges with whom she sometimes spent quiet evenings playing chess.

Slipping softly through the crowd of toughs, Alli was stopped only once. A hulking tattooed man with hand to blade halted her jarringly. She lowered her hood and glared. He released his hilt and her arm as though they burned him and nodded that she could pass with no further delays.

“Hey there, hot stuff.” joked Alli a moment later, sliding an arm around a black cloaked fellow in the corner that seemed to radiate terrifying cold. His breath rattled and he drew a pale icy blade from its sheath and sliced toward her neck with it in a rapid movement. Without flinching, Alli pulled a large magnet from a small black leather bag dangling from her belt. Mid-swing, the sword changed course and banged loudly against the magnet. The fellow swore brightly and tried to shake it loose. Alli used his momentum to fix the magnet [and the sword] to a metal pillar behind him and smirked. Finally the retired Nazgul released his hilt and motioned for his cronies to stop trying to look threatening and sit back down.

“Why is it, Miss Alumìne, that, every time we meet, you pilfer my blade? And where do you get such wonderful toys?” He cocked his head, though it was hardly noticeable given his billowing hood and cloak, toward her firmly situated magnet. “Surely not the gag shop? Such the joker, you are.”

She smiled broadly and looked around, searching to see if any of the other Offenders had noticed this exchange. She thought she saw a glimpse of the old woman over by the slot machines, but she was not certain… the ferret was nowhere to be seen.

“Khamul, m’love, you know that deep down I’d love to tell you, but if I did, every time you tried to lop off my head, my tricks wouldn’t work nearly as well as they do. I can’t share sources and suppliers with someone that keeps trying to kill me, now can I?” She scolded him with a grin and an exaggerated Southern drawl and he nodded amusedly. He rather enjoyed their little chats, with the exception of having to spend several weeks after them regaining the respect of his minions. An ancient and powerful Nazgul being disarmed by an unarmed teenage girl was not exactly convenient for scaring the bejeezus out of his followers, and unless he had terror to fall back on, he’d actually have to expend some effort to keep his minions loyal. Salaries… 401Ks… dental insurance… Ye gads, without sheer unadulterated fear, his control would be a lot more expensive. Then again, some of his cronies could use a good mouth cleaning… eh… he’d just make it a job requirement. But that was a thought for another time.

“Miss Alumine,” The shrouded Easterling offered his arm politely, “what do you say to making this chat private? I’ve been trying to keep my head down… a few weeks back some gallingly bright young reporter from Fox News decided to write his first novel about how not all of us Nazgul were destroyed. They haven’t found me, no, don’t worry, and there’s not a shred of evidence saying he’s right, though obviously he is, but now there are a bunch of pain-in-the-corporeal-posterior conspiracy theorists that would love to capture and probe me.”

Alli smiled and took his arm. “Just what I was thinking, actually, though not about probing. I’ve never been able to figure out what probing is good for anyhow… I’m supposed to be on reality television right now. I’d rather that this little chat go unrecorded and I’d prefer to be out of sight before the idiot kamura crew realizes I’ve disappeared.

--------------------

Hidden away in a quiet candle-lit room in the back, Alli sat primly with her fingertips gently tapping together. She was momentarily shocked when her old friend pushed his deep hood back to reveal the face of a pretty blonde child. The look in his eyes defied Alli to laugh at his currently unassuming form. Regaining her composure, she explained her request as the innocent looking lad nodded occasionally and asked a few questions in a shockingly sweet voice to clarify the nature of her order.

“Well, Alli,” he squeaked after a while, “It’s been a while… I shall have to ascertain that they are still in business.” Seeing the disappointed look on her face, he raised a hand to stop any comments. “No worries, lass… if they are unable or unwilling, I shall endeavor to find another provider. I seem to remember owing you a favor… or perhaps ten. This shall remove one from the list, I assume?”

“Of course it will. I’ll even count it as a few. This is important to me, Kammy.” She looked at him meaningfully. “Discreetly done, as well. The last thing I need is for somebody to find out any of this. Respectable Gondorian lasses aren’t supposed to have connections with the Mordorian Underworld. At least I’m not noble. That’d be a nightmare.”

“Indeed, and powerful ex-mob bosses are not expected to owe respectable Gondorian lasses favors. Makes you seem less than innocent, m’dear. I’d hate to see your pretty face on the cover of the news for being caught dealing with the likes of me. You’ve got destiny above that, lass. It would tarnish your good name.”

Alli blushed at the unexpected praise and changed the subject quickly. “Kammy, what happened to your form? You used to be so… well… scary looking.”

He made a “just a minute” motion and whistled through his fingers. He lifted his hood and adopted an intimidating posture as a sketchy looking man in black opened the door and stood ready for orders. The Nazgul beckoned him forward and whispered in his ear. The lad looked at Alli, appraising her body and measuring her up.

"One-thirdy?” he asked with a locally dialected academic interest. “Five-ayt? Lemme see… stan dup lass.”

Alli stood obligingly and turned slowly on the spot, raising up her arms and lowering them, bending her knees and elbows, and wiggling her fingers, though not all at once or her precariously bad balance would have left her all together. The man studied her, scrawling a few numbers onto a tablet.

“By’th’s aftnoon, y’ say? Xpensi--” he trailed off about the cost in order to catch the large bag of gold that the Nazgul had tossed at him. “Yessir.” He said after a quick inspection of the contents. “I’ll ‘ave m’bes’ guys on it. Room 745?” he asked to Alli. She nodded and tossed him a key.

“Realistic, and silently done.” She reminded him. “In, out, nobody sees. The key finds its way to Khamul when you finish. Am I understood?”

“Ah, ‘course, ma’am.” The seedy man was no longer interested in chat. He disappeared out the door with a look of thoughtfulness on his face.

“You’re sure this fellow can have it done that fast and that accurately?” Alli probed as the cute face showed itself once more.[/font]

“Certainly. His men are the very same that did the work for me just before start of the Fourth Age. Fooled even Sauron into believing me to be at the battle. This Mardil of yours will never guess it’s not you brooding away in your room for these few days. Anakron might… clever fella, that one… but I doubt he’ll say a word. If he gets too curious about what you’re up too, I’ll have my boys remind him that he owes me one or two favors himself. Vayor will not have forgotten the incident with the four Nurnian dancers, the chimpanzee, and the leprechaun costume. Took more than a few phone calls to make sure that got properly forgotten, let me tell you. The rest of the group won’t much notice if you take off. My sources tell me you’ve barely gotten to know them. Well… Sai might notice… sweet lass, that one. You might not want to underestimate her. Perceptive. Smart. Seems to be compassionate enough for ten but looks like she could put up a good fight if the need arose. I’d keep a sharp eye. She’d make a good friend, I believe. You know you can trust people, Alli, and not just those few that the rest of Middle Earth views suspiciously. You might get hurt a bit, but letting people see the real you will work out for the best.”

Wanting to change the subject, Alli pushed her own issues to the back of her mind for the time and turned back to the subject of Khamul’s current form of a small child.

“Speaking of the real you…” she teased. A few hours later, the fire had burned low, the good old days were thoroughly reminisced, and there was a knock at the door.

“Enter!” Khamul pulled his cloak over his face as the door opened.

“Done.” The man said, closing the door and bowing slightly. “She’s’leepin’ peace’ully in your room, ma’am. She’ll be ou’ ‘n’ abou’ once she wakes up and wi’ a keen int’res’ in a few games of Blackjack t’boot. Hope y’ drink… took the liberdy of fillin’ ‘er wi’ a strong d’sire f’r a few shots of Jack… maybe even one ‘r two…” he paused, reconsidering the name of the mixed drink he’d been about to use. He had nothing against making a lass blush, but he had a feeling that her cloaked companion might not be so favorable about him coloring this lass’s cheeks. “mix’ drinks. Id’ll explain quick t’anyone int’ristid why she’s got trouble rememberin’ details. Id’ll alsa cover the mornin’… too sick t’gid up ‘til afternoon, they’ll think.”

He laughed and Alli grinned with delight. “And she looks just like me?”

“Down t’th scar on yer lip and th’ gloves on yer ‘ands ‘n the missin’ gauntlet on yer right.”

Happy with the job, Alli tipped him a few trolls and the man left. “Well, Kammy, I’m off. Thanks for your help. Give my regards to the missus and here’s to hoping the heat’s off quick so you can go back to your usual body. The five year old kid look just isn’t working for inspiring terror. Oh, and if you want to get your blade back, just ask for Lia at the bar. She’ll get it released for you quick.”

He shook his head wonderingly as she opened the door and disappeared into the crowd, pulling up the deep hood of her own borrowed cloak. With minimal fuss, she was out the door of the casino in moments.

SimulatAlli was happily napping up in Room 745 and the real thing was happily escaping the Resort and Casino to enjoy the local haunts by herself and get some undisturbed thinking done. Perhaps a latte at a little place downtown? Who knew? Certainly not Mardil… She scowled at the thought of him and quickly lied to herself about not letting him ruin her day. At least not more than him holding her hostage to manipulate one of her best friends after he’d gotten the friend’s leg blown off had. Well, she thought pessimistically, such is life. She walked down the road enjoying the swishing sound of the black cloak, if nothing else. She thoughtlessly hummed the bridge to a song that she couldn’t get out of her head. “…and my parents will never consent to this love… but I hold your hand…” She paused for a moment and sang the refrain in a soft soprano. “And while the seagulls are crying, we fall… but our souls are flying.”

Looking around, though forgetting to check behind her, Alli disappeared into a small coffee shop nearly hidden from the casual passerby by absurdly large and lurid advertisements hanging on the walls, the windows, and even the doors. Without uncloaking, she set some gold on the counter and received a sweet smelling drink for it from the Native Mordorian on the other side of the counter. Moodily she found a seat in a dark corner, staring with unfocused eyes into the hot swirling liquid. She couldn’t be sure how long she sat there alone.

--------------------

She made her way silently back to the Resort some time after sunset with a bag in hand. She passed nobody in the halls and, feeling relieved at the lack of conversation, she decided to examine the status of the Resort’s pool. Following confusing directions on one of the walls, she quickly got lost and managed to find the laundry room. A short time later she found herself standing on the edge of a murky green pool of unguessable depth and life-containment.

Giving up on a swim, she slipped up the back stairs to her room. Coming in, she’d seen herself having quite a good time with a number of good looking men. She blew on one man’s dice while another slid his arm around her. Mardil glared from across the room and Alli watched as she won several men money, won several dirty looks from their women, and tipsily ordered another drink. She hoped she’d have a good time and not get into too much trouble. She didn’t want to see herself on television later. The idea of explaining that it wasn’t really her to her irate older brother when she got home wasn’t appealing.

Now in her room, she decided that she was done wandering for the night. She’d had an idea in the café and wanted to extrapolate now that she would be undisturbed. She bolted the door and sat beside it, unlacing her boots. Still seated, she unfastened her shin-guards and remaining gauntlet, leaving them in a pile on the table. Stocking-footed, Alli walked to the bed where she had set her bag. Khamul had seen to it that her pack made its way up here safely some time ago. It lay beside the bag. She pulled out its contents, smiling. Tiredly she traded her soft leather breeches and jerkin and her singed cotton shirt and hose for a pair of too-large flannel pajama pants and a black tank top. Even after tying the drawstring of the pants, she had to roll the waist-band thrice before they fit. Finally, barefoot and pj-clad, she went to her desk and the magic box positioned there.

Now to learn just who is traveling with me… she thought grimly. She could easily have had Khamul do the search for her… his people could learn anything about anyone… but she’d rather enjoy the magic of Gugl. What wizard had brought such spells across so wide a sea, or even what Dark Lord of the ancient past had used this tool for his own malicious use, Alli did not know, but she did know that Gugl was a tool of the Valar. With some patience and a good idea of what she was after, Alli was able to find a number of things very quickly. Just as she was close to finishing, the screen at which she looked turned blue. The magic suddenly stopped working. The box made several odd noises and suddenly she heard a crack. She smelled the acrid scent of burning metals and plastic and pulled the line through which the mysterious power of the box came from out of the hole in the wall through which it passed. The system had died but she didn’t mind… she had learned what she was after.

For a long time she sat in grumpy silence, staring at the blank screen. She fell asleep where she sat and woke up in the morning with a crick in her neck.

As the sun came through the wide windows, Alli saw herself laying sprawled in bed in the clothes she had worn yesterday. She wondered what time she had gotten in. She doubted that even she had any idea. She shook herself impatiently and rolled her eyes at the smell of alcohol on her breathe. She slapped at herself and muttered angrily. She was hungover, but more importantly, she was laying on her pack and she wanted to get to it. Alli grabbed herself under the arms and heaved herself to the other end of the large bed. She groaned and fell back asleep quickly as she grabbed her bag and pulled out a notebook and pen. Moving back to her desk, she ignored her snores and began to write in a fast and moody scrawl.

I have discovered, with the help of Gugl, the following about my companions:

The… Others: nothing important. I didn’t actually care enough to really look. I submitted their names and got nothing that I didn’t already know.

However what was important was that as I sat pondering over my latte yesterday, I began to remember my local history. I had been too busy before for the information I had available to connect into any sort of meaning, but I was feeling miserably angsty and felt like cheering myself up with a bit of leisurely name recounting. It went as follows:

Elendil begat Isildur and Anarion and Inzillomi known as Lothlome though she was oft forgot, and she begat Kathaani who was lost ere they reached Middle Earth. Isildur begat Valandil who through a long line of Aras and the occasion Orn came to Arathorn and his son Aragorn who became King of all of the lands of Importance in the days after the Ring and of him was born Eldarion whose name won Feanor of the Peredhil a book of maps once upon history surely soon to be lost. Anarion begat that guy who begat another guy and this continued in such a fashion until the line came to an end with that guy who decided to declare war on the Mafia of Mordor and rode to meet the Witchking who slaughtered him easily because That Guy was a bit of a wimp and didn’t even bother to beget anybody before getting himself killed.

At this point in history the Stewards of Gondor took over, making sure that every family had a nice bowl of hearty soup to eat at dinner and reminding everybody that they ought to stand in silence facing West before they eat it in order to remember Numenor that was around before the idiots declared war on Eru’s will and expected to win, to Valinor that is in some alternate dimension at this point and that mortals really ought to give up on since they can’t get there anyhow, and that which will ever be even if most of the world is clueless about it.

The Stewards of Gondor did a fantastic job making sure that none of the bad guys made it past the Anduin to steal the Soup of Kings and, really, could have gone on indefinitely protecting Gondor if Aragorn hadn’t shown up and said “Behold, I am Aragorn who is called Elessar the Elfstone of the North, as well as Wingfoot, Strider, Telcontar, and a whole lot of other names, and am born of Arathorn who was born of another guy whose name starts with Ara and probably also ends with Orn and that was born in a long line from Isildur whose name is utterly bereft of Aras and Orns but who was your last king’s really-great grandfather’s brother. I have come to reclaim the Stew of my people and get married and coronated in a few obscenely expensive ceremonies that will bankrupt your city!” And so Faramir gave up warding Minas Tirith because he knew that Aragorn would do a pretty decent job keeping the recipe secret and safe and that the Gondorians would ne’er go hungry again, except for a brief period after the coronation and wedding where the whole city was a bit keen for vittles while the Important Ones tried to figure out a way to pay off the bill.

For a long time, Aragorn was a wonderful and charismatic King and everybody loved him and wished that he would just get on with it and die so that they could marry his wife who used to be an Elf and was seriously really hot. And the kids he spawned wound up being pretty wimpy and let things get totally out of hand and Anakronisms popped up and here we are in this mess.

And then I began feeling a bit better, because I realized that it was really Elendil’s fault that we’re all stuck in Mordor because if he hadn’t come to Middle Earth with those darned kids he spawned, Aragorn’s tool of a descendant wouldn’t be mucking things up so bad and you know, we could really do with having another Steward of Gondor because Faramir’s grandsires were doing a pretty good job of things except for Crazy Ol’ Denathor who almost ruined everything, but he doesn’t count, and you know, I bet I’d feel even more cheerful than I do now if I started naming all of Faramir’s grandsires. If naming the Kings of old and casting blame on them for the way I’m trapped with a bunch of strangers and an arrogant noble from my hometown while in the midst of Mordor could put me in such a cheerful mood, then naming Stewards ought to work even better!

Now what was the name of the first ruling Steward? I don’t remember. I think I’ll go Gugl it.

And so it was that Alli learned a few things that she probably should have remembered some time ago but had been distracted from noticing. She knew now that if she just had some time to write things down and sort them out in her head, she’d be fine, but where in the world was the appeal of sorting out emotional messed-up-ness when she could remain wallowing in self-pity for quite a long while?

And so Alli spent her break sleeping late, rising sometime after morning had officially ended, taking obnoxiously long showers, and trying to figure out the best way of convincing the world that Balrogs weren’t evil while occasionally wondering just when Life would start up again. The rest of the time she spent sorting out personal issues, but not The Issues, because those ones would take entirely too much effort and she didn’t feeling like paying them any attention just yet, so instead she concentrated on things like “What do I want to do with my life once I go back? I can’t be a Balrog-Winger in Gondor… Balrogs aren’t found in Gondor. Maybe I could establish a society for the protection of balrogic welfare and show people their horrible living and working conditions while trying to stop the film industry from type-casting them into the roles of monsters and convince brutes to stop trying to attack them.” and “What color do I feel like painting my toenails?” while locked in her hotel room with a lot of fresh produce, a pen and notebook, a large number of books, some art supplies that she couldn’t use for lack of rough-toothed paper, and a lot of repeats of the same songs because she had forgotten to bring along her own music and was stuck listening to that which was available, only about four songs of which she actually liked. She sang along occasionally because she really loved the line “And the anchor-person on TV goes ‘la de da de da‘.”

Occasionally she rousted SimulatAlli to go wander the Resort so that questions would not be raised about her staying hidden for so long, but really, come now, she was on break and would use every excuse in the book in order to avoid doing any real work until it was over. And then… before she knew it… the break actually was over and SimulatAlli had disappeared in a wisp of smoke even as Alli stood ready to leave and wondered what to do with her simulacra.

She stood now in the bright morning sun with the rest of the Offending Party and with her pajamas, supplies, peculiar items and weapons, and a pretty dress that she really didn’t want the rest of the party to know that she had shoved into the bottom of her pack. She was clad again in her Balrog-Winging outfit as she’d realized that the sturdy material was dead convenient when it came to things like not tearing. She’d had to purchase a new shirt to wear under the vest, as the old one was burned and torn and she was unsatisfied with the amount of skin that it now covered. The new shirt was a pale grey that somehow made her eyes seem very blue. As Anakron gave the instructions for their next foray, Alli tried not to be spotted as she glanced side-long at Mardil II of Gondor. Sai slid to a spot next to her and tapped her on the shoulder. Alli looked slightly down into her eyes and saw a question there. Alli had tensed first but now remembered what Khamul had told her. This girl could prove a strong ally. Alli nodded and smiled hesitantly, a question in her own eyes. Sai smiled back and handed Alli the gauntlet that she had lost at RCA. Alli grinned now and fastened it to her right arm as Anakron spoke. The next step was about to begin.

[littlemanpoet]

Mount Doom Casino and Resort Celebrity Hunt

Anakron stood at the entrance to the Mount Doom Casino and Resort. The seven members of the Offending Party stood before him, in various states of health, perplexity, excitement, annoyance, and high dudgeon. Wilhelmina's ferret sneezed all over Fléin, who's eyes were watering and turning red with conjunctivitis; and who also seemed to be trying to keep his supper ... or something ... down. Alli, hands on hips, trying to look bored, glanced sidelong at Mardil, trying not to be noticed doing it. Sai kept blinking, trying not to have that "deer in the headlights" look from being new to Mordor - - - and failing; nearby orcs with legal pads and kameras kept nudging each other and pointing rudely in her direction, their yaps flapping and sneers mincing as if they were plannning to take video advantage of her discomfort. Mardil's lids were half closed, his arms folded across his chest, facing Anakron while his eyes darted here and there, taking stock of his surroundings. Valde looked down his tragic nose at the proceedings, trying very hard not to look gratified that Panakeia had attached herself to him, one dainty hand fetchingly inserted in the crook of his elbow; she was, of course, making the most of having been his savior during the last challenge, looking for the first opportunity to use his gratitude to the best advantage.

Anakron sniffed appreciatively at the unspoken goings on amongst the group. Creativity in the face of adversity seemed to be a strong suit for at least six of them. Valde had much to prove yet. It was time to give him in particular, and them in general, a challenge that seemed for all Mordor as if it would be well out of his - or their - comfort zones.

"Greetings," Anakron intoned. "None of you has seen fit to attempt a remonstration with me in regard to your point total from the second challenge. That is well. You would have fared ill.

"The test you will undergo for the third challenge is as follows. You must seek out those who reside in this resort, or in Trollywood, or in Lost Angles, who have been appeared in Mordor anakronistically from the far distant future, where they are apparently known as celebrities (how in Mordor they achieved such a suspicious renown is beyond our ken). You are to find ways, other than theft or murder, to make them part with that which they most hold dear. Let us take, for example, one 'Witless' Spears person. Let us presume that Panakeia manages to persuade said celebrity to part with what she holds most dear. That does not relieve the other six of you of an attempt upon that celebrity, for she will still possess something else which she now holds most dear in the absence of that which Panakeia is presumed to have relieved her.

"I shall not name these so-called celebrities. You are to seek them out by means of your own ingenuity. Anyone who fails to present to me one such most valued item, whatever it may be, will be considered to have failed the challenge.

"You have until sundown. Begin."

The reality show orcs ooh'd and aah'd their effeminate delight and began to name off various celebrities in such a lisping garble that none of the Offending Party could make out a one of them.

[Celuien]

Panakeia listened with delight to Anakron's next challenge. Oh, to visit the City of Lost Angles and Trollywood! To look upon the vast Leaning Tower of Flapjacks that represented the headquarters of the Cap It All Records and House of Pancakes enterprise! She had been fascinated by celebrity for years, and now here was a chance not only to meet the rich and famous, but to claim a token from them. She was eager to be on her way.

But what to select first? Celebrities had so much. And what could they treasure more than their fame and good looks, neither of which Panakeia was likely to bring back with her? She thought hard. Then an inspiration struck her. That's it. He must place great importance in that. After all, he's had it for so long, and he never goes anywhere without it.

"Come on," she said to no one in particular. "Let's go get William Shatner's toupee."

[the guy who be short]

Flein wandered the streets, a little confused. Where would he find a celebrity? What exactly was the point of this? What celebrities did he even know?

He sighed. Society was not his strong point, and idiotic social idols even less so. He looked around miserably.

Why hadn't he just told her?

Look on the bright side, he thought to himself. Conjunctivitis, gone. Anakron, gone. Cat-vomit, gone.

Wilhelmina... gone.

It had been his idea to split up, after all. It would just be too difficult with her. And there were always the moral objections his mind kept throwing up in lieu of those cats. In love with a Woman? How soon would she die? She was too young and frail...

He looked up again. It was no good moaning, no good at all. Be a real Dwarf. That was what he had to do, be a Dwarf. Face the task. Find a celebrity. Bash it over the head a few times. Take whatever it valued most. Easy.

Just as he had resolved to hunt down one of these celebrity things, he looked up and noticed that odd little man who had tried to sell him chocolate in Lûndûn. How on Arda had he got to Lost Angles in a day with no visible means of transport?

The man, arms still full of chocolate, sighted Fléin and approached him with an air of vague recognition. "Hello there! My! I thought you were an Oompa Loompa, don't you know? Well! Still, I'm sure I recognise you..."

Fléin considered for a moment. He didn't much fancy talking to this oddball again, but then again, he had nothing better to do at the moment. "Yes, we met in Lûndûn actually." He hoped the man - what was his name? - wouldn't remember the manner of their parting, and he was lucky.

"Ah, yes... would you like to buy some chocolate, incidentally?"

Fléin decided to ignore this and instead posed his own question. "How did you come to Lost Angles so quickly?"

"Simple, I took the elevator, my dear Dwarf!"

"Elevator?"

"Yes, of course. Anyway, would you buy something? I must be going soon, you know."

"I'm afraid not. Well, it has been pleasant meeting you again," and it will be even more pleasant parting again, he thought, "but I must go and find a celebrity now."

"A celebrity? Why, I am a celebrity! Don't you know?" the man chuckled.

"You're a celebrity?" the Dwarf exclaimed. He surveyed the man. Small, odd top hat, vacant seeming smile. He didn't seem much like celebrity material. Why would anybody idolise him?

"Have you not heard of Johnny Depp?" the chocolatier replied, equally incredulous. "Surely you must know..."

"The name strikes a bell," the Dwarf replied. Where had he heard it before?
Though he was, quite obviously, a rather secluded person, and knowledge of any celebrity was something rather alien to his nature, he knew that name.

"Why, Johnny Depp is the greatest actor that ever lived! He has scores of fangirls!" the man squealed.

Fléin simply looked on, even more incredulous than before. "You... you are the most famous actor of all time?" he asked, surpressing the urge to laugh in the man's pale face. He was obviously delusional. "You?"

"No, of course not! Ha! That would be silly!" The man, evidently not Johnny Depp, stopped there, but then continued after seeing the look on Fléin's face. "I am an incarnation of that great man. You see, when he was sent to Mordor, something odd happened. Mr Depp ceased to be. Instead, all the many forms he had assumed over his life - including that of myself, Willy Wonka - all these, I say, materialised in Mordor." He paused, then went on in a darker voice, "That is, in fact, why I have come to Lost Angles. We're having a convention of sorts."

"Really?" the Dwarf asked, intrigued. "That sounds like immense fun! Why do you look so glum about it?"

The man peered at him a little, then turned around, made a sign indicating his wish that Fléin followed, and led him to a nearby Ma Cuddonelds to sit down.

Once they were both uncomfortably seated, he resumed. "It is less a convention and more of a war plan meeting."

"War?"

"Indeed. You see, Mr Depp, before his assignment, played many varied characters. Some were good. Some were evil. And so, there must be war."

"That sounds perfectly logical," the Dwarf fibbed. "So... then, winning this war is the most important thing in the world to you?"

"No, not quite. Well, I suppose so, but there is a technicality. You see, we, the good incarnations, or G.I.s, are poised to win. But there is one who has not yet chosen a side, and he is the greatest of us all. Whichever side he chooses, victory for them is almost certain. It is imperative that he joins us, or we will lose. That is the reason we have gathered here."

"So he is the most important thing in the world to you?"

"Without a doubt."

"I shall speak freely with you," the Dwarf lowered his voice. "I am a member of the Offending Party. And it my duty to... aid a celebrity. I will find this man for you."

The man looked up, delighted. "Why, that would be wonderful! In fact, we have reason to believe he is in this city at the moment. It would be wonderful if you would help. You could come to the meeting, nobody would mind much-"

"No thank you, I shall start at once. Tell me what the man looks like."

Willy giggled. "He is not a man! He is a sparrow. Cap-tin Jack Sparrow"

"A sparrow? A bird, with wings and such?"

"Of course. It's all this homophone business. He is not allowed to be called Sparrow unless he is a sparrow. You will recognise him by his cap of tin. He is also quite large, for a sparrow. And I really must be going now! Thank you for the help, I shall let the others know. If you find him, we'll be in that large tower to the West"

With that, Willy Wonka left the building, leaving Fléin pondering how he could find this sparrow, and thanking Deus Ex Machina for the unlikely meeting.

[Durelin]

‘Celebrity?’

What in the name of Ilúvatar were celebrities? Valde had felt his body convulse at the sound of the word, and he had felt a sudden rush of sinus pressure that made him clutch his head, trying not to look at Anakron. It was as if he had said a word of the Black Speech, which of course a civilized ear such as Valde’s could not hear. He had quite forgotten that he did indeed dwell in Mordor. Such is a daydreamer’s mind. But for now his mind was actually quite empty, and Anakron’s words bounced around inside his head. He could hear them whizzing around, springing from side to side for several moments, and then all went silent. He never had been very good at pong.

“You are to seek them out by your own ingenuity.”

By their own ingenuity, eh? Now, surely Valde would succeed in this, for he had boasted before that he was as tricky as Ulyssë. But there was a twinge of something in his stomach, suddenly sprinkled there like a bit too much of garlic, and he doubted himself. What was he playing at, in this ‘Offending Party’? Perhaps the trolls had been right in casting him as the tragic hero who lost the contest. Perhaps that was his lot in life, his role on its stage. But wait…life was a stage; life was his stage! And what an excellent tragedy it would make, for he, the great Valde, to play out his role like a true… (Here Valde paused and pictured the litter he had been carried on during his brief but tender moments of glory, licking his lips) Lead Tragic Actor. Yes, a true Lead Tragic Actor: that was Valde Delego.

“Surely I must move on and no more wait,
With courage to face my tragic fate.”

Valde announced his rhyming couplet to no one in particular, and thus ended Act II Scene 2 of his life.* A kamuraman eyed him strangely for a moment, managing for once to peel his eyes away from the strain of catching such an extremity and excess of reality on film to later reel it out.

“That was an aside,” Valde hissed, looking down his nose at the nosy man.

“You mean a real aside?” the man exclaimed, sounding excited, and hoisting his kamura around to face Valde, who only scrunched up his tragic eyebrows and stared broodingly at the electric eye. It always watched him, but surely it could not see into his mind’s eye.

“Are you sure it was real?”

“Errr…” the kamuraman gurgled.

“Am I real?”

“Well, of course.”

“Prove it.”

“Well, you’re standing right there. I can see you. And I can hear you. And if you would let me, I could touch you. I really would like to just touch you…I never do get to touch the actors…”

Valde slapped the kamuraman’s reaching hand away.

“You rely on your senses for determining what is real. But we all know that our senses deceived us. We catch things out of the corner of our eyes, but they’re not there. We mistake words in our speech and hearing and reading due to tricks from the Freud. How do we really know that we see, hear, feel, and taste what we do? How do we know if that even matters? How do you know the ground beneath your feet exists, or if your mind has simply created it because of your natural feel of falling, which is a feeling that your mind creates because you have this predisposed notion of how the world works, which is simply a fabrication of the minds of people, who we are not even sure exist.”

The kamuraman stared at Valde for a moment, his mouth hanging open. “I thought we were talking about reality. Why would I be afraid of falling in reality? There’s a stunt double for that, duh.”

“No, no, not a reality show. You can’t capture everything on that kamura of yours, you know. You see, we are all made of our special play-doh known as our ‘soul.’”

“Huh?”

“Nevermind.” Valde sighed and, narrowing his purely physical eyes at the kamura, he turned his back to it and its bearer with a swirl of his cloak, returning his mind to more important things. Celebrities? What did Valde Delego need with celebrities? He was a celebrity. But life was his stage, and his fans were waiting. He had to act, though not too quickly. He was a Lead Tragic Actor, not an Action Hero.

“Come one,” Valde suddenly heard the woman named Panakeia who had helped him in the last challenge say. He turned to her, but she seemed not to be speaking to him; or no one really, for that matter. Valde felt guilty for listening to her, in case she was performing her own aside, but as the Lead he felt he deserved knowing what everyone told the audience behind his back. They always talked behind his back. If he was not such a good stage crier, Valde had no idea how he would ever survive.

“Let’s go get William Shatner’s toupee,” Panakeia finished.

William Shatner? That name sounded so familiar, and yet… Suddenly a pair of pointed ears invaded his third eye’s vision; then a pair of eye brows that might indeed have rivaled his own. An elf? No, William Shatner was not an elf. Then who? Suddenly recognition dawned on him with a searing blue light that appeared to be what he had heard called a ‘laser.’ (Or was it ‘lazer?’ Alternative spellings were surely cursed, particularly in Mordor.) Simultaneously, words such as photon and parsec popped into his head, though he had no idea what they meant. But that was the name that fit the head between those ears, and perhaps the rest of the body, too: Spockú.

Those eyebrows…Valde had examined his own in the mirror enough times that day to know that Spockú’s did indeed come close to being as dominating and brooding as his own. He was sure they were admired, and he did not like that at all. Panakeia was after this William Shatner’s toupee, eh? And everyone knew Spockú was wherever that Shatner person was, most likely a crony who would even follow the toupee wearer to die a sugary death at the floral printed-paper clutches of one known as Dixiel. Those eyebrows were too good for a man who allowed himself to be subordinate to any other. They were alike to a crown, and must be worn like one: by a king, subject to no one, and who was thought to be schizophrenic due to his inbreeding and use of the royal we. The glorious Shadowbrow’s of Spockú would surely be a formidable prize.

“Oh Panakeia…” Valde called out to the woman, walking slowly up to her so as not to ruin the way his cloak slowly glided dramatically behind him. “First, I thank you humbly, out of the humble kindness, graciousness, and compassion of my swollen heart, for your invaluable aid in the last challenge. Would you mind if my tragic lump of flesh did join you once again?”

He peered at her from underneath the shadowy, mysterious, and intimidating brow, and considered where he might find waxing supplies strong enough for his quest.

*(Apologies to Mr. Shakespeare...if he really exists, that is.)

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina frowned to herself, trying to decide how to handle this next task. It made the first two tasks seem easy -- at least they were a simple matter of getting from Point A to Point B. Now there was actually something she had to do, and it involved these so-called celebrities. One couldn't long be in Mordor without hearing about celebrities; Mordorians seemed to be obsessed with following their every move in the hopes of learning how to be cooler. I'm too old to dabble in that nonsense, Wilhelmina thought, and good thing, too. Honesly, who cared about what brand of dress this one was wearing to the Ozkars, or who that one was marrying (especially since statistically it wouldn't last more than a year)?

No, celebrities certainly weren't the sort of people Wilhelmina wanted to go looking for. That was the problem, though -- she knew there had to be plenty of them about, but how was one to find them? What she'd really love to do was get Pârís Hiltôn's stupid little dog. Of all the celebrities she'd heard about, Pârís Hiltôn was without a doubt the worst. Firstly, she hadn't done anything to attain celebrity status. Secondly, she had a catchphrase which was almost as bad as Mârtha Stewârt's, and equally worthy of boldfaced type. And thirdly, no dog should ever wear clothing that costs more than most people earn in a year. Yet Wilhelmina suspected that no amount of begging, cajoling, or bribery could separate the heiress from her canine companion. So how to do it?

A grin spread across her face as she realized there was a simple solution. Maybe that Panakeia wasn't a total waste of oxygen after all.

"Panakeia!" she called, walking quickly towards the saleswoman. "I need to buy some of your, ahem, products. Namely some Pearie Ockcide Potion and a bunch of cheap perfumes in fancy bottles, if you please."

[Kath]

Sai had wandered around Mount Doom in a daze the last few days, unsure where she could go and what she could do, so she was almost glad to be faced with a new challenge - almost. Where was she going to find a celebrity in this place, and even if she did manage it what could she take from them? She ran through a list of every one of their kind she could think of, but couldn't think of anything to take away from them. She heard her kamura orc, who had been very bored recently, complaining about her again. He'd been doing this a lot the past few days but she couldn't blame him. The most exciting thing he'd seen all week was when Sai had caught that cold and sneezed 10 times straight so hard she'd been unable to see where she was going and had fallen

"Why do we bother with her? She probably won't even be able to think of anyone - let's go walk round the block and see if she's managed anything by the time we get back."

Insulted, though privately thinking his words had some truth to them, Sai opened her mouth to reprimand him for his use of such an Americanism, 'block' indeed. But as she did so, the word conjured up memories of a song, a song that had been played over and over and over, til the words and the tune were so embedded in her head she remembered the lies in them even now. And the memory of the song led to the celebrity that had sung it. Sai grinned at the bemused orc.

"Wrong again Mr, well, whatever your name is, I have thought of someone! Come with me - we're going to remove the backside from one Jennifer Lopez!"

[Celuien]

"Why, of course, Valde. I'd be delighted to have you with me." Panakeia beamed, trying very hard to supress a fluttering sensation she felt at the pit of her stomach. Somehow, the brooding, mysterious actor swept her back to an almost forgotten time. A time when Panakeia sat on the veranda at her parents' estate, Taräê, surrounded by dozens of admirers. An almost unpleasant warmth suffused her cheeks, and she hoped that no one could see her blushing. Fortunately, the multitudinous layers of Maì Bêllienè plastered over her face effectively concealed any traces of her embarrassment.

She chided herself. Stop that, you ninny. You're not a child, after all. But the feeling did not subside. Panakeia looked at the ground, then out to the side, searching for something to change the direction of her thoughts.

"Bert!" she snapped. The unfortunate kamura troll lumbered over to her side. "Where have you been? We have to get on our way." As Bert apologized profusely for his absence, Panakeia silently gave thanks that Anakron had seen fit to send the reality show crew with them. It would keep her from being too absurd on the trip to Lost Angles.

Just as she was about to head back into the Cruiser, a voice echoed over her head. It was Wilhelmina, asking for Pearie Ockcide Potion and perfume! Panakeia's ears perked up. Why, of course she had all of that, and more. Just about anything anyone could want. She flung open her sample case and stood it up on its rickety legs, revealing a dizzying array of perfumes, cosmetics, and the all important P.O.P.

A few minutes later, her case lightened by several items, and her scarf weighted down by a few extra trolls, Panakeia led the way back to the PT Cruiser that had brought them to the Casino. Their trip to Mount Doom had left the Cruiser with a little less than half a tank of gasoline. She hoped it would be enough to bring the party to Trollywood. Valde, being careful to maintain a dramatic expression, climbed in on the other side, Bert crawled into the rear with the remaining spare tires, and they set off in the general direction of Lost Angles.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli was happy to be on the way again... she'd spent too much time now brooding. While a break was good and good for the mind, she'd gotten bored and was ready to take on the world again.

A celebrity? But... which?

And it had to be an Anakronismic Celebrity... She could not simply chose a famous individual from Middle Earth...

Who do I pick? Argh.... Oh!

This was perfect. This was too good. She couldn't resist... Surely there was no rule against it? That which they most hold dear was what he had said. Well she knew what he must most hold dear. Could she get away with it? Sure... why not.

She was off to find Orlando Bloom and take away his fangirls. She had no idea how to do it, but that was okay. She'd think of something later.

[Kath]

Sai's confident mood dissipated rather rapidly as she realised that this task seemed designed to split up the Offending Party. Alli was already heading off in another direction and Mardil was nowhere to be seen. The events of the last few tasks had made her even less keen to be alone in this strange land, and though she really didn't want to seem needy and unable to look after herself, as she knew that if forced to she could, she would really prefer to remain with at least one person, just in case.

Wavering between keeping any respect she might still have from her reality crew and actually completing the rest of this insane venture, she quickly decided the latter was preferable and sped off after Alli. Slipping through the surrounding orcs she tried to appear nonchalant as she asked,

"So, how are you planning on getting to Lost Angles?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli changed her mind suddenly and without apparent reason. Unwillingly, she felt her body turn even as she kept her eyes on the road. Wondering what was happening, she turned her gaze in the direction that her body now pointed. She saw Sai in the midst of orcs and remembered as though he spoke again in her ear (which, in actuality, he did, because he's just talented like that) the things that Khamul had told her about trust and friendship. She contemplated for barely a second before deciding quickly.

She strode back the few dozen yards to where the girl was and reached out to touch her arm.

As Sai turned her head, Alli spoke in her ear from over her shoulder.

"Will you travel with me, Sai? I am going to acquire some fangirls. I'm not sure how yet, but I figure that it will come to me. Do you want to come?"

Alli was glad that Mardil II was out of sight as she extended the nervous hand of friendship to Sai. She didn't need any extra emotional complications as she lowered her defenses slightly to let the girl in. It was hard enough to take Khamul's advice without a back-stabbing and arrogant noble of a really good looking and understanding guy around to mess with her head.

[the guy who be short]

"Whew awe we going?"

"Shut up."

"Who wath that man?"

"Never you mind."

Mordor would be bearable, were it not for the natives. Since miscellaneous Orc #1 had been damaged in that storm, Fléin had been gifted with a new one. That wouldn't shut up. Whatever he tried.

"I demand to know! I thhould've jutht fowwowed you! I don't know why I let you talk me into-"

"Shut up!"

"But whewe awe we going?"

Fléin stopped walking and turned around to face the Mordorian. "You're job" he said, "you're job, the thing you have to do, is follow me. FOLLOW. Get it? Follow! Follow! No talking. Stop talking to me! I do not want to talk to you! I do not need to talk to you! You are a distraction, not to mention an abomination. I do not need you TALKING to me when I am trying to think. I do not like it. I do not like you. I do not like green eggs and ham. Got it?"

The orc sulked, but quieted down. Fléin, meanwhile, stormed ahead. Was there even a rule about not killing kamuraorcs? Surely they could replace him?

Finally, he found a public telephone. And accompanying it - there! The Telephone Directory! Every man, woman and dwarf in Lost Angles, right there.

Ten minutes later, he was knocking on the door of a small house.

Twenty minutes later, he had left the ornithologist's home.

Thirty minutes later, he was buying a crossbow and net.

Forty minutes later, he was treating himself to a latte. He had done quite a lot in a short space of time, after all.

Forty-one minutes later, he was on the hunt. Jack Sparrow was his.

[Kath]

"Will you travel with me, Sai? I am going to acquire some fangirls. I'm not sure how yet, but I figure that it will come to me. Do you want to come?"

Sai smiled, glad she had taken the chance and gone after Alli. She could see what it cost the girl to let her in even a little bit, and thanked whatever God's might be around in Mordor that Mardil wasn't there, as she thought it unlikely Alli would have offered her company if he was. She suddenly realised that Alli had been patiently (well, at least for her) waiting for some time for an answer now.

"I'd love to come. Any idea how we're going to get there?" she replied.

And as Alli turned away from her, Sai could almost see the wheels turning in her head.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

A few nano-seconds later, Alli knew exactly how they were going to get there. She just wasn't sure where there was. Where could Orlando Bloom be found? Ah... easy enough. Okay... she had it.

"Okay..." she stopped completely, turning on her heel to look behind her at Sai. She stared blankly at nothing before realizing that Sai was at her side, not behind her, and that she'd over-spun. She tried to compensate and fell over. Standing up quickly and cringing a bit at the sharp pain in her knee, she pretended that nothing had happened and was relieved that Sai acted the same. "Okay..." she started again. She looked completely serious; not moody... actually, she looked as happy as Sai had yet seen her. But she looked pensive and a little worried. "Do you trust me?"

Sai looked at her and answered. "Of course, why?"

"No... I need you to think about it a little longer. Do you really trust me? If it suddenly seems like all of my decisions have led us into immenent danger and we're about to be crushed into microscopic pieces of corpse, will you still trust that it's all part of the plan and that I'm just about to pull off my coup d'etat? Some of my decisions on my road to the destination might seem... unconventional. I'm not positive what I'm doing, but I can promise you that I'm going to try my very hardest to do it perfectly anyhow. Will you trust that I'll get us there safely? Are you certain that you know what you're getting yourself into? I don't want you to travel alongside me without knowing that things could go very wrong because I'm arrogant, perpetually impulsive, and I'm going to try hard to be responsible, but sometimes my idea of responsible seem very different to others."

Sai had never seen Alli speak so seriously about herself. She considered hard for a few moments before slowly nodding.

"I will trust you."

"Oh good." Alli brightened immediately. "Let's go hitch a ride. I saw a pleasantly creepy looking middle-aged man with really large glasses drive by a short time ago in a white van with tinted windows. Oh look, he's coming back."

Sai looked around quickly and then laughed, seeing Alli's tasteless joke.

"How are we actually going to get there?" she asked, now eying the kamura orcs with a bit of well-hidden disdain. "Are we actually hitching?"

"Depends on how desperate we get. It's a long trip. But I think it will all go well... we're going to Florida. It's a tourist trap, so I'm sure we won't have trouble finding foolish looking families clad in vermin-esque head-gear flocking there. We shouldn't have a problem."

---------------------------------------------------------

Several hours later, Alli and Sai were seating uncomfortably in the back of a red minivan. A youngish couple and their children talked happily at them as they looked at each other incredulously. Did people really act like this?

"And then Louis here got his promotion and we moved into the suburbs and it's just so lovely there, and the street we live on is named after all of the beautiful trees that they cut down in order to make room for it, and the twins, Marissa and Lucas, share the most darling little nursery decorated all in baby bunnies. Their nanny is watching them for the week while we take little Susie here and Michael to Disney World. Tell them what you got on your test, Michael. Oh, he's just shy. He got a wonderful grade on his science test and we just had to reward him, but we couldn't take him to Disney World and leave Susie behind, so here we are and here you are with us!" The woman had the cheerful voice of a 50's sitcom's housewife and Alli was trying very hard to smile... but it was beginning to look more like a grimace.

And then Susie and Michael began to sing The Song That Never Ends.

----------------------------------------------------------

Within seconds, Alli and Sai were walking again. As the too-damned-happy little family drove away, Alli pointed to the blue skies and palm trees and shocking roads, paved with seashells instead of stone.

"We're here. Orlando, Florida, Mordor, Middle Earth. Now we just need to find the gardens."

"If you don't mind my asking... why are we searching for a movie star in a little known flower garden in the middle of Florida, Mordor?"

"Well it's simple, really. It's a little known fact that Orlando was conceived in one of these gardens. It's where his name came from. Apparently something about a rose or a tulip or something. I don't know the exact story." She shuddered. "I really don't want to. But his parents named him Orlando Bloom after some flower they saw while vacationing here. It's where he comes when he's not shooting movies."

"Sweet." said Sai, grinning. "Oh god... I think we've found him."

Suddenly they were knocked into a large shrubbery (not too big or expensive) as a group of 15-year-olds ran by screaming and giggling. Standing up and brushing the mulch off of her pants, Alli looked over the hedge to where the fangirls had been running. There he sat looking very content... Now to action.

"Okay... now that we're here... Sai... I have no idea how to get those fangirls away from him. I thought of making another simulacra... but my contacts are off at Mount Doom and it would take too long. We only have a little bit of time."

She checked her watch. "Only an hour, to be precise. Oh crum..."

She pulled out her cell phone and hit 1 on speed-dial. "Hey Anakron, it's Alli. Sai and I are just about to relieve Orlando Bloom of his fangirls. We'll have the task done, but we might get back a bit late. We'll have to walk, unless we can find some suburbanites to hitch with that aren't so perfect that I feel like vomiting. Wait..." she added, seeing a flirty looking pilot eying her. "I might be able to score a jet flight back."

She hung up and looked back at Sai. "I got his answering machine. Now... how do we get those girls away? I'm pretty certain that they'll count for both of us... after all, there are more than one. If I take the president of his fanclub and you wait a few seconds for him to have a new favorite, we can then get all of the girls to come with and it counts as multiple relievings and we'll have finished the task. But we don't have much time and I've got to go secure us a ride home. You think on it and I'll go get us a free flight back to Mount Doom and then just come over if you have any ideas... or I'll run over if I come up with one... unless you want to go hit on that pilot?"

[Encaitare]

Panakeia's bleach-white smile had been nothing short of evil. "So, you're finally getting sensible and trying to look younger, Wilhelmina. Though I daresay it's a bit late to undo some of the damage, even with my Wrinkles-B-Gone Cream."

Wilhelmina had scoffed as only the elderly can. "It's not for me. It's for Pârís Hiltôn... I'm sure people of her quality would just love your products."

"Oh? And what are you going to get from her?" Panakeia said, raising a perfectly shaped brow.

"Never you mind that. Now, a bottle of Pearie Ockcide Potion, and those cheap perfumes that look fancy, if you please."

"I sell nothing cheap," Panakeia had sniffed.

"Shiny, then! I need things with glitz! I've got a bimbo to find!"

~*~*~*~*~

Wilhelmina had also stopped at a pet store and a beauty shop, where she'd purchased a bag of doggie biscuits and a mirror, respectively. Now, she was walking down the streets in the resort area, looking for a certain venue: Club Pârís. She felt quite out of place, as the majority of the people surrounding her wore sleek suits with nary a wrinkle to be seen, or thousand-dollar dresses with matching shoes, sunglasses, and purse.

The old woman's hat clashed with each and every one of the outfits, and she reveled inwardly at that fact as she wandered, unable to see the skeptical looks she was receiving from the other passers-by -- not because of poor vision on her part, but because nearly all of them wore dark glasses of exorbitant price and nominal value.

As she stopped at the corner to wait for the traffic light to change, she noticed a man with a little table piled high with pamphlets of some sort. Tacked to the nearby telephone pole was a sign that said "STAR MAPS" in big letters. To get the point across, large painted stars surrounded the text, glittering jadedly.

"Can I interest you in a Star Map, madam?" the man asked, holding up an equally glittery pamphlet.

"Don't be silly, young man," Wilhelmina replied, checking the traffic light again. "Whatever would I do with a map of the heavens in broad daylight?"

The man laughed as though there was a joke the whole world knew and Wilhelmina somehow didn't understand it. "You do not understand me! This map," he said as he unfolded into a quite unwieldy size, "tells you where you can find the homes of celebrities in this area. It's only one Troll, madam, a very good bargain!"

Wilhelmina regarded the map with a degree of doubt. "Can it tell me where to find Johnny Depp?"

A nervous laugh escaped from the man's throat. "Perhaps we'd best leave matters of Mr. Depp alone... strange things have been happening." Suddenly, like a light bulb growing brighter after someone turns off a massive, electricity-hogging machine in the other room, he burst out with, "But this map also tells you the favorite venues of these celebrities -- who knows, if you're lucky you might get to meet one of them!"

Something clicked. "Is Club Pârís on that map?"

"But of course!"

"Then I'll take it," she decided, thrusting a Troll at the salesman, seizing the map, and barely making it across the street before an eighteen-wheeler barrelled past.

[Kath]

When Alli had made her serious little speech Sai hadn’t answered right away for fear of laughing in her face and losing her only companion. After what she had experienced the last few days she would go with pretty much anyone who seemed to know what they were doing! So far she had faced the BliddyUnnerground, been stuck in RCA records, confronted a Balrog, driven a car (mostly into things but still driven), nearly got killed on the motorways of Mordor and faced the Balrog again (who admittedly was a little friendlier the second time once they’d got past the whole Mardil threatening Alli thing). However, on almost all of these occasions she had been with Alli, and whilst the girl seemed to have a knack for getting into trouble, she had almost equal abilities at getting out of it. Sai had realised this after her first encounter with Alli’s methods, and had long since decided that it was better to simply trust to the plans and the luck that went with her. Finding Alli was staring at her again, she put as solemn an expression on her face as she could muster and gave her assent.


A little later, stuck in that van with the Brady Bunch family, she began to wish she hadn’t. There was a sticker on one of the windows, Baby on Board, and for a moment she wished she was back in her old car as an orc, as the sticker would surely cause inexplicable violent tendencies, allowing her to run up the back of them to make sure that dear little Michael and Susie would never be able to sing again. She was certain they were about to start up with I’ve Got A Song That’ll Get On Your Nerves, and if that happened bloodshed wouldn’t be far behind. The mother was just as bad, going on and on at Alli until Sai feared for her safety. The father simply looked shellshocked, and Sai wondered whether he had known what he was getting himself in for when he agreed to marriage, or whether he had simply been around so many people who thought that not having a significant other lowers your value as a human being that he eventually gave in. She thought the latter was most likely, and smiled at him. He returned the smile a little tiredly, and then motioned that they had reached their destination.


Standing in the gardens, Sai had to admit to confusion, until a group of raging fangirls hit her from behing. She stood up again, half listening to Alli and half watching as the girls flocked around the object of their affection. She wondered whether it was really him they were into, or whether it was just the fame and air of superiority he carried around with him. If it were the latter she mused, would some kind of swap work . . . ? With one ear she heard phrases like “might get back a bit late”, “how do we get those girls away”, and “unless you want to go hit on that pilot” coming from Alli, and as that last sentence trickled through into her brain she realised she had been caught not listening.

“Sorry, no, please you go do that. But we still have about two days to do this, maybe a little less if you take time off for getting back to Mount Doom, and if you get a promise of a lift from that pilot we should be ok on that front. The only real problem is working out how to convince those girls to come with us. I suppose if they really are hardcore Leggy-boppers there isn’t much we can do, though your plan might work, but most fangirls are fickle aren’t they? What if we could offer them a better obsession? Think they’d come back with us?”

Alli turned to look at her (not falling over this time), seeming surprised that Sai had come up with an idea all by herself.

“That sounds like it could actually work – but who could we bribe them with?”

Sai thought for a moment. Who would Orlando Blooms fangirls find attractive? She ran through a list of young, tall, apparently goodlooking celebrities in her head, and came up with just one that might meet the criteria.

“How about that guy from Harry Potter? Tom something, the one who plays Malfoy? He might work. And you know, they’re filming something from it around here so if we could kidnap him and then tell these girls that we have him they might come with us. This is all getting a bit farfetched, do you think we could do it?

[the guy who be short]

Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow. Fléin mulled it over in his head. It wasn't really a very cool name for a pirate, even if he had become a bird. What he needed was something concise and threatening. Jack Black, that had a nice rhythm to it. Jack Death, maybe. Jack Morgue.

Sparrows, he had been told, eat seeds. He looked at the unappetising mixture of crud-in-a-bag he had bought. Hopefully, he could lure Jack out with this. Then it was a question of netting. He didn't want to use the crossbow except as a last resort.

He wasn't exactly sure where to find Jack. The city was huge, and finding a sparrow therein, albeit a gigantic one, was somewhat like finding a needle in a haystack, considered mathematically.

Except that this wasn't maths class. Sparrows are found near sparrow food. That's obvious. Sparrow food is found in the narrow tracks of parkland in Lost Angles. And, as a Dwarf, old Fléin had a few tricks up his sleep.

"Chooo-chooo fwoo twu-wu-wu-wu?"

"Fwoo-ooh-OOOH-oo-wu-tutututu"

Fléin allowed himself a little smile. For perhaps the hundredth time since setting out, he thanked Mahal that he'd been born a Dwarf. He rushed off in a northeasterly direction, purposefully keeping the pace a little too fast for the Mordorc behind him.

--------------------------------------------------------

There was earth below Fléin's feet once more. Crumby, infertile, weak earth. He could immediately see why this patch of land had been reserved as parkland. Any attempt to build on it would result in collapse, and an attempt to farm it would result in famine. Only hardy grass managed to grow here, and a few tough shrubs.

And all around, birds of every sort. There must have been a couple of hundred, all told, but no oversized sparrows. And that idiot orc had caught up behind him, and was making far too much noise! He'd scare what there was away. The temptation to turn around and drive a bolt through his face was so great that Fléin forced himself to shove the weapon into his pocket, and keep his fist closed tightly.

He turned around, walked back to the orc, and growled up at him. "You want your ratings, don't you? Keep back, or nothing happens."

"I'm afwaid I can't. Latht time woo wouldn't tell me what had happened, and-"

"I don't care," the dwarf quivered. "If you move any further forward, these birds will fly off, and I have no chance of capturing-"

"Capturing what?"

"Just watch." He walked back to the flock of birds littering the floor, the orc sulkily watching. The orc trained the kamura on the Dwarf bending over and cooing at the birds, then tramping off. He took his eye off the dwarf for a minute to adjust the lens, to find he had disappeared.

Fléin had, however, found his way underground; marvellously with this soil, he thought. It was a wonder it hadn't fallen in. And it seemed to go down quite deep. Fléin would have felt quite at home, were it not for the skulls at the entrace. Some would consider vole skulls a little unintimidating, but their message was clear. "Here there be pirates."

"Who goes there?" a voice screeched up from below in sparrow when Fléin was about 50 feet in. Apparently, he had been treading too heavily.

"A friend," he replied in English.

There was a panicked twittering. Fléin saw light ahead of him.

"Who? What is your name?"

"Fléin, Fréinson of the Ironfoots. I come as an emissary for the Incarnations of Johnny Depp."

"Why did they send a Dwarf?"

But Fléin did not respond. He turned a corner, and was momentarily dazzled by the brilliance around him. Torches burned, not so very brightly, but their light was reflected from the piles of gold all around the small cavern. And there, perched, literally, in the centre of it all...

Fléin had been told he was a large sparrow, but he had not expected this. The bird must have been forty centimetres high. But - no, thirty. His helmet of tin - cap indeed! - was high and crested. And there - a dagger, strapped to his side? On a bird? What could he possibly hold it with.

The bird looked directly at him, inquiring. "Who are you?"

"I have told you, Mr Sparrow. An emissary. I come to ask your aid in the coming struggle."

"Ha. And for which side would you have me waste my time and life?"

"Mr Wonka sent me."

The bird made a curious chirping sound, that the Dwarf knew for laughter. "Old Willy? Ha! They speak of war, but they know not what they say. What will he do? Throw chocolate bombs at them? Make an invincibilty gum?"

"Come now. It is inevitable, and with your aid, it can be over far more quickly, and with far less difficulty. You will not abandon those who are as your kinsmen?"

The bird did not answer, but repeated his own question. "Why did they send a Dwarf?"

"I am a friend of Willy's," the Dwarf invented instantaneously.

"You are a liar."

The Dwarf stared at the sparrow. He stared back, reptilian eyes betraying only a hint of humanity. There was silence, and then, "I will not join this war. It is foolery. Leave."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that." The Dwarf drew his crossbow.

The bird eyed him critically, then laughed once more. "And what will that achieve?"

The Dwarf opened his mouth to reply, but before this was possible, there was a great screech, and Jack had bounded off his perch. He loosed the bolt, but it soared over the bird and hit the wall behind him.

Then there were talons, sharp little claws in his face. The screeching would not stop when he punched the bird, nor when he hit it with the crossbow. Still, the incessant clawing and screeching.

Finally, with another punch and a resounding smack, the bird fell flat on its back in front of him. He drew the net, but swiftly the bird drew its dagger, holding it in its beak, and jumped up, slicing at his foot. Only the thick leather protected Fléin.

But the bird must have been tired of the effort - he was scurrying rather than flying, and occasionally tumbling most ignobly over the ground.

In the end, Fléin stepped on him.

[Durelin]

Panakeia seemed very intent on her driving. Indeed, her orcish form’s brow was furrowed to the point that her eyes seemed to have been forced back into her head. Valde had heard of looking into the mind of another, but he now had a newfound image to associate with that. He made no bother to break the silence for several minutes, bored of words for the moment. Staring broodingly out the window at the passing landscape was more than enough entertainment, and he would thus allow the kamuramen in the back seat to get a few close-ups of his strikingly gloomy profile. Every few moments he would adjust his cloak, ran a hand through his shaggy dark hair, or would adjust slightly the way he sat. Sadly, his poses were simply that limited in a moving vehicle. No wonder only orcs drive cars, he thought, sparing a disapproving glance for Panakeia the orc. He still had yet to decide whether or not it was an improvement or if it simply her appearance worse that her face still looked as plastic as ever. Valde was just thankful that she had not yet tried to do anything to his face. If he had bags under his eyes, it was because of all those sleepless nights when he lay awake pondering the meaning of his life, the matter of his death, or if anything was really a matter at all. Or it was due to when he cried himself to sleep over his lost love, who he never did and never would find.

Suddenly lightening flashed in his mind as he was imagining himself staring down from a high, dark tower, with the ran pouring down and the thunder rolling all around him, shaking the ground beneath his feet. He realized something, and his life’s deleted scenes flashed from before his eyes. He had no idea where they were going. That had not seemed to matter in the last challenge, but he was getting tired of feeling as if he were being dragged along simply as an additional handsome face. Though now that he thought about it…

“No no no! Simply, no! That is your worst angle yet. This is not MTV, Fear Factor, or the Blair Witch Project. We do not want the off-road racing camera effect, nor any rude close ups.”

Valde’s head shot around to stare at the kamuramen in the backseat, who seemed to be having a debate about their kamura angles. His eyes were slightly wide with shock, and his lips were slightly pursed. He was supposed to look indignant, but it might have been more an appearance of a fish out of water. Or a fish who had just heard something about ‘rude close ups’ when he knew he was being filmed. If a fish indeed had any kind of self-awareness when being filled for a documentary on mating in particular, I am sure that he would have looked just as bug eyed as Valde did, and of course he would always have fish lips, no matter what he did.

“Rude close ups? What on earth are you talking about?!”

Both kamuras were focused on him. Now that he thought about it, it was rather intimidating to be on film twice at the same time. Did that mean that there were two of him? No, because that would be suggesting that he was his image. But then again, he was a Lead Tragic Actor, a specie of his own, and it was all about the image. It took the kamuramen a minute or two respond, though. It was a kind of deer in the headlights moment, except that Valde would never have allowed a deer in the car with him. Well, unless it was an emergency. Simultaneously, each kamuraman pointed their fingers at Valde in a motion that made him furrow his brow and wish he had the kind of death-ray powers that he had heard some strange creatures such as ‘Póst-Mëno-Pausál’ women had. Apparently they were cueing him now, since they had finally gotten the shot right after a number of alterations. Valde rolled his eyes, and turned to Panakeia.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but…do you know where we’re going?”

“Well, generally,” Panakeia replied. Valde was not comforted. “I’ve been on the lookout for signs with ‘Lost Angles’ on it. You’d best do the same.”

Valde folded his arms around his chest and ‘hmphed’ slightly, but he did start paying attention to the signs. Suddenly he had an awful idea, which cued a ‘Grinch’ smile to spread across his face. “Exit 666a, Bloodshot Row, Turnaround Pike, Turnback Key Parkway 17 miles…” He started reading every word off of every sign they passed by. It did not take long before Panakeia threatened to ‘pull a lemming,’ but soon after Valde let out a shout. “Lost Angles! That exit. No, not that one. The one off the precarious cliff there. Of course it’s that one!” He turned to the kamuramen in the back, a sideways grin untidily pinned to his face and threatening to slide off. “You’ll have to be careful now, or you might lose your angles!”

His butchered pun was met with silence, and Valde heard a derogatory and of course purely metaphorical cricket chirping in his ear. The grin slid from his face, leaving it look even more skewed. Panakeia raised an eyebrow at him, and suddenly stepped on the break, and the car came to a sudden hault with a loud screech. Valde observed that they had come to the bottom of the exit ramp, and every orc driver had to stop there, to increase the chances of at least one good fender bender every five minutes. It kept the ratings up for the whole driving thing, and apparently made someone tons of money.

“Now, before we get into the city, we have to discuss some plans,” Panakeia said.

“Are you sure it’s alright to stop here?” Valde asked, shooting a glance behind the car. The screech of their own breaks had been followed by several more, and he had sworn he had heard some kind of thud.

“Pfft, of course!” Panakeia said with a careless wave of her hand. A horn blared from behind them, and a whole chorus followed. The woman simply raised her voice. “I have heard tale of a strange cultic gathering of peoples who worship this William Shatner as a god, and Spockú as a kind of demi-god, through ritual prayers, offerings, pleadings, and effigies meant to honor them. Sometimes the Shatner and his underling will grace the most fervent of followers with their presence. And this is Los Angles.” She gestured out, referencing the land around them.

“Fervent,” Valde said simply.

Then they were off again, merging onto the Debauchémain Street of Lost Angles. “What is it you're after?” he asked, slightly hesitantly because he feared that if she turned to look at him at all his life would be in danger. “I’ve been eyeing the very brow that crowns the demi-god Spockú’s frozen face.” He paused but for an amputated second, and suddenly spoke again, before she could answer. “Say, do you sell him makeup?” he asked, resting a hand of pondering upon his chin as he peeked at her from a side glance. He received only a glare back, and a sudden jolt as the car stopped again. She had pulled over to straddle the sidewalk by the side of the road.

“Are you sure it’s alright to park here?” Valde had grown to dislike cities. The drama there was superficial.

“Chances are this was a parking lot at some point.”

“Ahhh…” They were always paving over parking lots in Mordor.

The two hopped out of the car, followed by their probing electric eyes who scene by scene were capturing the shear reality of their mission of subterfuge-ation of a religious ceremony. Panakeia quickly turned back into normal Panakeia, and Valde decided that the overly synthetic look of her face had certainly been detrimental to her appearance as an orc. He was not sure it helped now, either, but he still politely offered her his arm, though he did it stiffly, with a choppy bow and his jaw set. He couldn’t look happy about it; she should know that. It was always about the image: whenever, wherever. And today he even considered a little help from Panakeia’s makeup might not be a bad idea. They were, after all, in Lost Angles.

“Off to the ‘Cultivation Center,’ then?”

“And so the two contestants, with a temporary and tender alliance agreed to, set off to cause a cultic catastrophe at the ‘Cultivation Center.’ (‘Cultivation Center’ is a trademark of Zeal and Borg Industries),” Valde’s kamuraman narrated.

“I hope he finds the Kûl Aíd,” Valde muttered.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"That's a really great idea, Sai." Alli exclaimed. She didn't want to admit that she'd been half-hoping for Mardil to show up for that exact purpose. She didn't want to deal with him at all, but he was gorgeous and she'd had malicious plans of using him. He was hot... there was no way to get around it. She could handle some arm candy in the form of the ever-arrogant Heir of Stewardship (here she grumbled mentally about the state of politics and the Heir of Elendil Administration in Gondor) if it meant that she could completely take advantage of him. Who cared if it was ethically sketchy to use people and to be with a guy based on his looks. After all of his attempts to kill her and her friends, it's not like she'd be with him for anything else. But she was willing to bet that if she dangled Mardil on a string, Leggyboppers would come a'runnin'. But he'd gone mysteriously missing and Alli was bored with waiting. She considered drugging him and dragging him along but that struck her as too much like what he'd done to her in the tank. That would never do. Talk about hypocrisy.

"So that... Harry Potter actor kid... Yeah... he's pretty cute. I can't imagine him breaking Harry's nose though... but he's so deviously cute in that cloak-swishing "I'm supposed to be meeeeean" sort of way. I bet these girls have monster crushes on him. Let's go."

After a quick set of trials and tribulations including, but not limited to, almost getting hit by a biker gang clad in hobbit-skin (well... actually, as hobbit-hunting had been outlawed, they had on plastic hobbit-skin, more commonly known as plobbit, the Mordorian equivilant to that which had already been sent there, or at least should have been, pleather) and riding mopeds.

Very unexpectedly, Alli tripped again and gave herself a nice bruise. She laughed it off, feeling more affectionate toward the world than usual, and poking the tender spot a few times to test just how much it actually hurt. A lot, she learned quickly. She looked at the bag of refuse she had tripped over and saw a foot coming out of it.

"Sai, there's somebody in there! Help me!"

And so they sliced open the bag with Alli's pocket knife to discover a foul smelling teenage boy, golden-white haired and beautiful, with a delicate sneer and a lot of teabags and banana peels stuck to his clothing. He wasn't moving. Alli rolled him over with Sai's help and they saw that he was clad in black robes adorned with a snake and a bit of green and silver.

"Crap. I think he's dead."

"I'm not dead."

"Hm... I think he's alive."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"He doesn't look very alive."

"They attacked me."

"Who?"

"Those damned wolf wannabes. Badger my posterior, those goon "pacifists" and "loyal" tools huffled and they puffled and they blew my house down. And then shoved me into a bin."

"That's rather upsetting."

"Of course it is."

"Do you want to come with us?"

"Where are you going?"

"Wherever we're going, it's better than being half-conscious in a bin, no?"

"Good point. So where are we going?"

"To steal Orlando Bloom's fangirls."

"Oh, how are we going to do that?"

"It's a surprise."

[Kath]

Sai and Alli had returned to the garden centre with their new companion, whom they had now learnt was called Tom Felton. Both girls were keeping their distance though, as however cute he was, he still stank of rubbish bins. Realising this might be a slight problem if they were going to use him to attract the fangirls; Sai suggested that some kind of bath or shower might be in order.

Fortunately by some wonderful coincidence, the garden centre was right next to a film studio (which would explain what Orlando was doing nearby). The three of them snuck in through a helpfully unguarded back door and managed to find their way into an empty dressing room that was equipped with just what they needed. Sai and Alli left Tom in the bathroom and collapsed into a couple of chairs, sitting quietly for a while as it would likely be the last chance they’d have to do so for a while. They needed to get those fangirls and get back to Mount Doom and they didn't have long to do it.

As they were sitting there Sai heard singing coming from somewhere nearby. Standing up she moved towards the wall on the right side of the room and put her ear against it. Sure enough the singing seemed to be coming from the next room. She recognised the voice, and remembered her original plan for what to take from a celebrity. She wasn’t entirely sure that Anakron would accept the fangirls as being both her and Alli’s prizes, and thought she would have a go at getting one of her own just in case.

Informing Alli that she would be right back, Sai left the room, hearing Alli’s warning words as she went.

“Don’t get yourself caught!”

Heeding this advice, Sai crept slowly down the corridor, ready to run back if anyone came round the corner at either end. As she approached the next door down she could see that it was open, and she carefully poked her head through. She saw the object she was planning on taking first, it wasn’t exactly hard to miss, but for once was thankful for it as it meant the woman had her back to Sai. Still, now that she was here and actually had the opportunity to take it, Sai wasn’t sure how she was going to do it. She knew that pretty much anything was possible in Mordor, but she hadn’t been there long enough to know what worked and what didn’t.

She tried to think of Anakronisms, things that might have been sent to Mordor over the years that could help her, and finally came up with just one idea. Magic. Some high-minded fundamentalist type must have sent it to Mordor at some point, how could they resist? Desperately hoping that this was the case Sai tried to think of a spell, something that would work without causing any problems. She’d heard of consequences, and didn’t want to deal with them.

A movement behind her caught her attention and she turned ready to run, but it was just Alli.

“We’re ready to go!” she whispered. “Come on.”
Turning back Sai gabbled the first rhyming words that came into her head.

"I want to make J-Lo sad,
Make her weepy, make her whiney,
I think I know the perfect thing,
Take away her precious hiney!"

As she watched the giant moon in front of her slowly began to shrink, and as it did a small box appeared in her hands. Smiling, Sai opened it up a little, and saw a piece of paper lying inside with the words – "IOU one bottom". She’d no idea where the real thing had ended up but it was gone at any rate, she just hoped that was good enough for Anakron. Quickly pocketing the box, she ran back down the corridor, joined Alli and Tom and left the building.

A few minutes later they were back in the gardens, with a clean smelling Tom in tow. They had explained the plan to him on the way and had warned him to be prepared for the onslaught of fangirls that they hoped he was about to face. As they walked through the doors, every female head in the room turned from Orlando to Tom and back. Sai watched as the mental weighing up took place. The men were of similar height and build, with the same feminine, pretty faces. But Tom had the advantage being a new commodity.

Finally, with one movement, like a school of fish, every girl stood and headed towards Tom – the plan had worked!

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

After directing young Tom to the showers and nicking him some clothes from an unlocked room, Alli went outside to wait for Sai and to get their ride home set up. The pilot was now leaning against a wide stone wall, casually reading a magazine. Alli looked at her reflection in a window of the building and saw that she looked okay, but not shibang. She undid one of the buttons on her vest and loosened the laces of her blouse, showing a bit of collarbone. She loosened her belt so that her breeches would be slung low on her hips, revealing midriff. She pulled the ties from her hair, letting it fall heavily down her back and making sure that a few pieces were flirtily in her face so that she could flick it out of her eyes should the need arise. She fixed her posture to be alluring and slipped up to the man.

"What are you reading?" she murmered softly.

"Oh... just.. um... this article... thing... um..." he muttered, a little tongue-tied. She held out her hand with a look and he handed it over, looking right back at her, though not at her eyes.

She took a look at the title and immediately decided that keeping the magazine didn't constitute stealing, but rather desparate and somewhat important in a stretched-to-become-legitimate sort of way.

"So you're a pilot?" she purred, lifting herself lightly onto the stone wall and dangling her long legs subtly.

A very short time later, Alli had two plane tickets, a bit of reading material in hand, and saw a clean and far less odious Mr. Felton emerging from the baths. She bade goodbye to the infatuated fly-boy and took Tom by the arm and found Sai.

"We're ready to go." she whispered. "Come on."

Leaving behind a scene that looked to have a story behind it, Tom and Alli walked slowly down the hall, leaving plenty of time for Sai to catch up.

In the gardens, Tom asked once again what they were doing.

"Oh, not much. Can you stand here for a second?" Alli pushed him into the sight of the fangirls and he looked around, confused. They looked around, interested. Sai looked on with a grin and Alli, in her laughingly cheerful mood, reverted to chat speak and actually lol'ed. When, as one, the Leggyboppers became Malfanciers, Alli beckoned for him to walk toward her. When she saw that the girls were following like trained... well... she supposed she ought to think of a better example than hens, but the way that they occasionally strayed from the group and looked about worriedly, but very swiftly got back into the group when movement began again could only bring to mind... chickens. Alli wondered if her last sentence was run-on but didn't care enough to revise it.

Looping her arm through Sai's, Alli beckoned Tom forward with the hand that held the pilfered publication. He followed... and so did his fangirls.

As Alli, Sai, and their following left the gardens of Orlando, Tom looked remotely paranoid and rather worried, sneaking the occasional glance behind him as though to make sure none of the giggling girls were going to actually get close enough to talk to him. In the distance, Orlando Bloom was looking rather crushed.

---------------------------------------------------

On the plane, Alli apologized in advance to Sai for her anti-sociality and apologized a bit late to Tom and his admirers for the fact that they were going to have to travel in the hold, bagged and tagged. She bade them happy trip and hoped that none of them were as claustrophobic as she was. Now, seated in first class with a cool drink in front of her, Alli opened the magazine and began to read, trying to ignore that she was in an enclosed plane flying quite high above the ground and that when it landed, she would probably be hyperventilating at the lack of open spaces even as the plane moved murderously close to the unfriendly ground at speeds that were far less comforting than a distinct lack of them would have been.

Famous adventurer, Màrîo, has just today revealed his thoughts on the brutish attacks upon him by one kilt-clad Scotsman.

"It's the pinky." Màrîo spoke to this reporter. "You see, Brits are born with a sort of a genetic predisposition to the extending of little fingers. While it is perfectly harmless in terms of tea drinking, it causes a little known malfunction in the medula oblongata which inspires sheer bouts of insanity. The Scotsman had been drinking a cup of P.G. Tips, well known to be Feanor of the Peredhil's favorite tea, with his little finger extended when suddenly he was enraged and, with no provocation, attacked me as I was on my way to purchase a bit of lasagna.

"He ought to be locked up!" Màrîo added with a lot of gesticulation. "In a small padded room, with a straight-jacket so that he cannot hurt innocents ever again. However I do not wish that the world see me as unfeeling... I forgive him. I have offered to pay the salary of a large and strong looking guard to stay with him day and night and write whatever the Scot choses to dictate. His voice should be heard, though the public should remember that he has such a tragic case of little finger insanity and should not be taken too seriously."

Closing the magazine, Alli decided to close her eyes and pretend to nap. Should Sai have anything interesting to say, she'd wake back up, but until then, perhaps Alli could try to convince herself that she wasn't trapped far above Mordor in an uncomfortably cramped fuselage.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron was walking through the environs of Mount Doom Casino and Resort, watching the mobs happily being parted from their Trolls, when his mobile phone yapped. The Siamese Cat hissed angrily from its perch atop Anakron's staff.

"Yes?" Anakron listened to an eager voice updating him on recent developments. "Very well. I shall be expecting you by mid-afternoon. Please be sure that all precautions are taken." The voice ranted reassuringly that all was prepared. Anakron rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, just be sure of it. I have an Offending Party to watch, so I would prefer no more than the most necessary of needless distractions, and yours, my dear Bleeter, borders on unnecessary." Bleeter bleeted most piteously into Anakron's annoyed ear. He grimaced at the headache Bleeter was causing. "Yes, yes, very well. I'm hanging you up now, and do not call back unless you have something absolutely essential to tell me. And one last thing. Make sure the two primaries, who will no doubt be quite primed for their roles, are safely contained. There's no telling what might happen if things should get out of hand. And knowing the Dweomer, it does not take much in Mordor. Good-bye."

Anakron put his mobile phone away and looked askance at the remains of Mount Doom, shaking his head.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Quite unexpectedly, Alli both double posted and fell asleep. It wasn't for long, but the dreams were filled with terror and darkness, cut through by a piercing light.

She walked through a valley, shadowed by death, and felt no evil whatsoever since she was fully aware that it was a dream. "Itsa me, Màrîo!" intoned an obnoxiously fake Italian sounding voice. Suddenly bagpipes played out in shining glory and Alli could hear words within them.

Seek for the Kilt that was broken:
On a Scotsman it dwells;
There shall be side-plots taken
Stranger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be given a token
That He is near at hand,
For Hookbill's Bane shall waken,
And a Hero forth shall stand.

Alli woke up, shaking her head. That was the stupidest dream she'd ever had. It didn't even make sense. Well, it sort of did... she'd been worried about this Màrîo since she'd first heard his name spoken by Roggie. She'd fallen asleep just after reading more of him. He was a national hero... and yet she distrusted him. It was no wonder, really, that she'd dreamt of him. But doubleyooteeyef did the rest mean? Was she supposed to go after this kilt-clad creep that she had only her gut instinct to tell her wasn't completely insane? Should she ignore her instincts in favor of what the group believed? But she didn't trust anybody in the group, except for Sai. Her dream had been compelling... she wanted to know more about him. She'd seen things in the back of her mind as she dozed that made her wonder. But he was only a name in a magazine. It wasn't like she'd actually meet him... she was too busy. She had too many problems already without being caught up in a mysterious side-plot. She just wanted to go home...

"It was only a dream..." she murmered to herself before turning to Sai. "How long until we land?"

[Celuien]

It was an uncharacteristically quiet Panakeia who sat behind the wheel, struggling to focus on the drive to Lost Angles. This business of her new feelings towards Valde was most annoying.

They drove on. Panakeia knit her brow together. As usual for Mordor, traffic was terrible and she wasn't entirely sure of where she was going. A bad thing when gas supplies are running low and you don't really know where the next station is either. A question from Valde as to the certainty of her navigation further irritated her, and she snapped at him to look for signs leading the way to Lost Angles, then snapped again when he proceeded to call out the contents of every last sign at the edge of the road, right down to the advertisements for Raglú. She berated herself internally. Oh, why had she done that? Showing her short temper to Valde was the last thing she wanted to do.

They finally found the exit for Lost Angles. With one problem temporarily solved, she at last had enough presence of mind to reattempt conversation, carefully staying on the topic of their quest. That was safe enough.

With a sudden swerve, Panakeia pulled on to the Debauchémain Street of Lost Angles and sped along, at last coming to a halt just a few blocks from the Cultivation Center. She knew that a gathering would soon take place there. They had only missed one at the Mount Doom Resort by a few days. But a leaflet and other literature about the cult posted on the Casino grounds had given the location of the next meeting. Thus, she had excellent information for Shatner's whereabouts tucked away in her pocket. Indeed, the ceremonies were scheduled to begin within the hour. Their arrival had been right on time.

As they started out of the Cruiser, Valde offered Panakeia his arm. Her heart skipped a couple of beats. So polite. A little overly formal, yes, but absolutely charming. I wonder...Formality as a mask for a soft heart? She looked at him hopefully, but said nothing of her secret thoughts. Instead, she gave a somewhat belated answer to his earlier questions.

"Well. I'm going after one William Shatner's legendary hairpiece. I'm sure it'll be a challenge, but I think I can manage it. Actually, you've given me the idea for how to snatch it."

"Really?"

"Yes. I've never sold him makeup or anything like that before. But, I think if I offer him a new poultice or something, I can get him to remove the toupee. Just for a second. And then..." She rubbed her hands together gleefully. "Then, it's mine."

Valde eyed her doubtfully. "Are you sure you aren't a member of the cult? You seem a little too interested in this Shatner character."

Could he possibly be jealous? "Oh no. Of course not. Not in the least. But I am eager to get my prize for Anakron. One step closer to leaving Mordor, you know. Going home. Getting on with life. Aren't you?" She hoped Valde would open up to her, just a little bit.

"I suppose." Silence followed.

"Well. Well. So, you're after Spockú's eyebrows?" Valde nodded in the affirmative. "Even more difficult than the toupee. But I think I can help." Panakeia tapped her sample case. "There are waxing and plucking supplies aplenty in there, though I can't imagine how you're going to get him to agree to using them."

"You'll see." The reply was given with an air of mystery and a grand flourish befitting a Lead Tragic Actor.

That final exchange brought the pair to the door of the Cultivation Center. "Here we are," said Panakeia. "Before we go in, there are just a few tips." She pulled out her flyer and a small book detailing the rituals of the cult and turned to a page marked by a folded corner.

"Never, ever call Shatner Shatner. To his followers, his name is Kirk. Or Captain. Or Jim to those of high rank in the cult. To say anything else would be sacrilege. Watch out for the ones in the red shirts. They're a special guard and will be carefully protecting both Shatner and Spockú. And finally, don't let Spockú's hand touch your shoulder. He is rumored to have strange powers and I wouldn't want anything to happen...I mean we can't have anything happen here to interfere with our task. And once we get what we came for, we run straight back to the Cruiser and take off. Okay?"

"Agreed."

With that, Panakeia and Valde walked up to the Cultivation Center entrance and knocked on the door. A red shirted guard answered. "What is the password?"

"Password?" Panakeia was nearly floored. Would they be denied admission after coming so close? But, like a flash, the answer came to her. Of course, that must be it. It's printed in such big letters on the flyer.

Without any further hesitation, she looked the guard in the eye. "Beam me up, Scotty." He nodded, and the pair passed through the doorway, a little closer to the completion of their mission, though their greatest challenge, the actual claiming of the trophies, was still ahead.

***

Inside, the festivities were in full swing, though the main attraction, the arrival of the honored duo, Kirk and Spockú, was still awaited. A particularly excited electricity snapped through the room, for it was whispered that Kirk and Spockú would be joined by a third member of their crew, the famed Dr. McBones. The guests (all but the two intruders) had come dressed as their honored demi-gods. Several, who were clad in blue, sported pointed ears and thick, obviously synthetic eyebrows. Panakeia was about to lecture them on the proper use of eyebrow pencils when she recalled that she was the one out of place.

Suddenly an excited shout rose from the crowd. Kirk, Spockú and Dr. McBones had arrived with a large group of the ubiquitous red shirted guards. They were immediately pressed in upon from all sides by their worshippers, who thrust pictures, books and smooth, strange objects at them to be signed. Several fainted. Panakeia and Valde were left at the back of the crowd.

"How are we ever going to get in close enough?" cried Valde.

"I'm not sure. Let me try something." She pulled out the flyer and scribbled a message on the back. Handing it to a guard, she begged him deliver it to the Captain. He did. And a few minutes later, Valde and Panakeia were ushered into the presence of the famed adventurers.

"What did you write," hissed Valde.

"Never mind just now," Panakeia returned through a clenched smile. They were now but 5 feet away from their target. "Take this. You may need it." She handed Valde a small packet of Hair Snatcher Wax.

"Captain! What an honor to meet you!" Panakeia put on her brightest smile. Kirk held her note in his hand.

"Is it..true? What...you said?" He waved the message.

Panakeia smiled even more broadly. "Of course it is. Will you try?"

"I will. She may approach."

"Jim! Be careful! Can't you see she's lying?" This came from McBones.

"Well, just because you couldn't..."

"I'm a doctor, Jim, not a miracle-worker."

Spockú would have said something just then, but he seemed busy talking to Valde.

Panakeia stepped closer. Just a few more inches. Then, her hand went out and snatched the toupee. She turned and fled, breaking through a line of red shirted guards, who, despite making numerous attempts, were strangely unable to stop her. "Run!" she shouted as red lights flashed over her head and Kirk ran in pursuit of his head covering. As Panakeia ran out into the sunlight, now followed by a crowd of the cult members and the red shirted guards, she couldn't see if Valde was behind her or not. She hoped he would escape safely.

[Durelin]

Still confounded as to how exactly Panakeia had managed to get the two of them in the presence of the most honored Captain and his Spockú, Valde did not waste time considering the possibilities. He approached Spockú and flourished a bow. “I am a great admirer of your work. Never have I seen a mind more large and swollen with brilliance than yours, particularly between a pair of pointed ears.” He knew flattery was the best way to get someone to trust you. It was only logical. And of course it was only logical for everyone to simply be in awe of this ultimate Vulcan.

“Thank you…?”

“Valde,” he said, supplying the Lord of the Brow with his name. He was mesmerized by those dark streaks, twisting up and ending in a slight point. He knew they were not natural. He knew they were a fabrication of dark forces. They irked him so much that he barely saw Spockú reach out with his hand, moving it slowly toward Valde’s shoulder. But his reflexes were quick, and Valde removed the Vulcan hand from anywhere near him.

“You have passed my test. It is logical to assume that you if you admire me, you k now my ways. And since it seems that you know my ways, then you must admire me.”

Of course. It made perfect sense. Valde wasn’t about to tell him otherwise, anyway. Instead, having gained his trust, he made his move.

“Oh my goodness!” he shouted, springing toward Spockú. “Sir, there are a pair of tribbles (http://www.70disco.com/images/tribble3.jpg) on your forehead!”

“Great Scotty! Where?!” The Vulcan shouted, flailing.

“On your forehead, sir.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right.” The pointy-eared man reached up to his face.

“Here, let me pluck them off of you, sir. Just relax. I happen to have the tribble removal kit you used in episode 74.”

Spockú dropped his arms. “I had a special kit for that? Well aren’t I clever.”

“Quick, close your eyes, sir, before their hair particles get in them.”

Valde then turned searchingly to see if he could acquire some kind of help. Dr. McBones approached him, seeing the look of inquiry on his face. “How can I heat this up?” he hissed.

“Here, let me nuke it,” McBones replied. Valde handed over the container of wax with an incredulous look on his face.

“Nuke it?”

“Scotty has a microwave.”

“Ah.”

He turned back to Spockú, who still had his eyes shut. It seemed Valde had made a logical enough argument concerning the tribbles, though logic of course came in many forms across the galaxies. For now, Valde decided to keep himself busy and his victim convinced that there were indeed two small furry animals on his forehead by using the tweasers. How that would do the latter he was not sure, but he began to pluck away at the Vulcan’s eyebrows, anyway.

“Ow!” Spockú exclaimed befittingly. “Hurry up! Those things always did have a nasty bite. That was a bite, wasn’t it?”

“Quite. No blood yet, though, sir. And we’re getting there. Everything’s almost set up for their sticky gooey fate.”

“Sticky gooey? I seem to recall using something like grains…”

“You used a number of preserves, as well, though.”

Valde felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Dr. McBones holding out the container of wax. He couldn’t help himself, and he beamed at him very unlike a Lead Tragic Actor. After taking the wax from him, though, he furrowed his brow in a deep concentration that was much more suitable to his role, and scowled slightly at recalling the smile. He wondered what Panakeia would think of him is she had seen that – she probably would have thought he was a joke. She’d think he was just another silly man who found joy in love and life and food and cute fuzzy little animals and pretty faces. The thought was horrifying.

“Goodness, that is gooey. And how warm. You really didn’t have to go and cook them fresh for me.”

Valde snapped out of his thoughts and realized that he had put quite enough wax on the left furry arch. Grabbing a conveniently pre-cut cloth strip from the kit, he pressed it firmly on the waxed area.

“There, all set for getting the first one. Ah, and he’s gone for it!” Valde commentated, and then pulled ‘in the direction opposite the hair growth’ as instructed.

“By the Borg! Are you sure that wasn’t a furry leech?!”

Valde peered at the cloth he had ripped off Spockú’s face and snickered. Looking at the Vulcan he had to stifle a stream of giggles. He looked lopsided. But quickly any humour Valde found in the situation turned to pure horror. He had reached up to clutch the left side of his face at the stinging pain. It was a natural reaction, of course, as Valde had failed to place any pressure on the area after he pulled the strip off. Perhaps he should have read the directions more carefully.

“What in the Enterprise…?” Spockú questioned while feeling the obvious hairlessness of his left brow. “What have you done?!”

“Run!” Valde heard Panakeia shout, and he silently agreed, racing after her with the conveniently pre-cut strip of cloth dangling from his hand, now stuck to it quite firmly. At least he would get half his points, even if Anakron was not feeling understanding. After a daring escape, the two contestants were on their way back to the Mount Doom Casino and Resort. Both their kamuramen had somehow escaped with them. Valde was disappointed, and questioned them as to whether they had simply stayed in the car the entire time. But, of course, they claimed to have gotten Valde and Panakeia’s entire escapade on their kamuras. Valde scowled as he carefully pried the hair-infested piece of cloth off his hand.

[Encaitare]

With the huge Star Map clutched in her wrinkled hands, Wilhelmina walked down the street, scanning it for Club Pârís. "Let's see," she said as the bottles in her pockets clanked. "The Opposite of Soft Stone Restaurant? No... Hemisemidemi Moore? No... Planet Trollywood? No... aha! There it is!" To her dismay, the club was on the other side of the resort. Glancing at a conveniently placed scrolling sign which displayed the time, temperature, and velocity of an unladen sparrow, she realized that she probably couldn't make it if she walked... and she didn't feel like driving again. Ever.

So what to do?

"Move it, lady!" someone said loudly, bustling past her. Apparently she had stopped right in the middle of the busy sidewalk while lost in thought. 'I'm behaving like a ruddy tourist with this map and just stopping short in the middle of the sidewalk... how foolish of me,' she thought, and then realized that could work, too.

~*~*~*~*~

Wilhelmina had decided not to sit on the top level of the double-decker tour bus, but was now regretting it. Rabid tourists with flashing cameras, sunglasses, and too much sunscreen were pressed up against the windows. They kept turning to her and exclaiming "Isn't that something!" and "We'll have to remember to tell the kids about that!" One man actually kept poking her and pointing to various buildings and nondescript lamp-posts in his excitement. "You know," she said severely, "I went to Nü Yawk once. And if you stop to point at things there, you get trampled. Do you know there's a huge glob of sunscreen on your nose? Oh, you did. Never mind, then."

Finally, she could take it no more, and she climbed the narrow stairs up to the top, where there were just as many rabid tourists, but a bit more fresh air. The kamura-orc, which had been goodnaturedly braving the tourists, seemed relieved. A bored-sounding orc was pointing out the sights, and for once Wilhelmina was glad she was going a bit deaf.

She pulled the brim of her hat down over her ears and kept a lookout for the club. Around her, people shouted and carried on and hurried down the street to their various destinations. She should have felt lucky she had the opportunity to get out of Mordor, and yet she felt rather lonely amidst all these rushing, insufferable people. She found herself missing Fléin, in fact. The cat-upchucking Dwarf had a certain charm.

She felt someone prodding her, and was about to whack the offending tourist with her walking stick. But it was only the kamuraorc. "Cwub Pâwís! It's wight thewe!" he was saying. Wilhelmina grinned, and the two of them grabbed the leash that an anxious mother was using to tether her child, and heroically swung off the top of the bus, both hoping they'd never have to experience such a wretched form of travel again.

"So now what?" asked the kamuraorc.

"Now," said Wilhelmina mysteriously, "we set the bait." All aura of mystery vanished as she produced a package of dog biscuits from her pocket. Carefully, she laid them on the ground in a trail from the door. She then took Panakeia's perfumes and did the same thing in the opposite direction.

"Woo awe going to wuwe hew out?"

"Yes... but first we're going to lure her dog out."

"How do woo know it wiww wowk?" the orc asked doubtfully.

"The dog'll smell the treats and come out, and she'll come chasing after it. Plus, you've got a kamura. People like her are complete kamurahôres. Most celebrities are." Wilhelmina hoped very much that she sounded like she knew what she was talking about. She didn't want to blow it and get no points... whatever the points meant, anyway.

~*~*~*~*~

After a duration of time which shall remain undefined so as to maintain some small aura of mystery, an obnoxious yapping sound was heard. And just a few moments after that, a rat in GooChee clothing burst out of a doggie door, having smelled the treats.

"Tinkerbell! Tinkerbell!" a woman cried, tripping along in gleaming pink heels. "Tinkerbell, come back to Mommy!" Then the shiny baubles caught her eye, and the pair were like kids in a candy shop, or happy anime characters with sparkles the size of galaxies in their eyes. "That's hot, said Pârís Hiltôn as she picked up the shinies one by one.

Wilhelmina gestured to the kamuraorc, who hastily ran to the end of the perfume trail, film rolling. Pârís Hiltôn looked up at the lens, said "Hi," and continued to smile vaguely in that direction like someone who has too much money and not enough purpose in life. And while Tinkerbell gobbled up the last of the treats, Wilhelmina unscrewed the cap of the Pearie Ockcide Potion and poured the contents on the dog's tail. She then proceeded to shout in horror.

"Oh! Oh! Ms. Hiltôn! Your dog!"

"She's adorable," Pârís Hiltôn said serenely, as though she were in her own little sunshine-and-rainbow world and the rest of them weren't allowed in.

"But she's sick!"

Immediately she was at the dog's side. "My Tink? My Tinky-Winky? What's the matter with my puppy-wuppy?"

"Her tail's gone blonde!" Wilhelmina fussed. "She must have... er... dog flu," she concluded lamely. Dog flu? Wherever did she come up with that? Now she had to go with it, though. "Yes, the dog flu can be fatal! I'd better take her to a doctor!"

"I thought you were a doctor," said Pârís Hiltôn.

"What?" Wilhelmina said confusedly.

"You must be a doctor... you know about diseases. That's what doctors do, right?"

"Sweetie," said Wilhelmina as kindly as she could, "I'm no doctor. I'm sure we all know about a good number of diseases."

"Maybe I should go with Tinkerbell..."

"No! That's just fine!" Wilhelmina dug in her pocket and drew out the mirror she had purchased. "Here! Occupy yourself with this!"

"That's hot," said Pârís Hiltôn as she vapidly stared at her own reflection.

"How shouwd we get back to the hotew?" asked the orc.

Wilhelmina looked around, and her eyes settled on something that was black, shiny, and at least three times longer than it really needed to be. "How about by limo?"

[Kath]

Sai had not minded that Alli wouldn’t be very sociable throughout the flight. She had always enjoyed being able to sit by a window and watch as the world went by beneath her, and a lack of distractions would make that easier. So she sat in a window seat (for once blessedly empty), pressed her nose against the glass and remained happily amused that way for a good few hours.

She was so enthralled that she started when Alli spoke, not having realised that she was awake. She looked over and noted that the girl seemed worried about something, but by this time knew better than to ask what it was.

“Not long.” She replied. “We’ve been getting lower for a while now so . . .”

Her words were interrupted as the wheels of the plane suddenly hit the ground without warning. Sai and Alli were thrown forward but managed to catch themselves before they fell out of their chairs. From the screams coming through the floor, those below in the cargo hold weren’t so lucky. The plane came to stop a few minutes later, and Sai finally stopped clutching the arms of her seat. She saw Alli release her equally white-knuckled grip and the two of them slowly stood up, hoping their shaky legs would hold them up.

“I’ll go get the others out of the hold.” Sai offered, needing to get onto stable earth as quickly as possible (or at least as stable as was possible in Mordor). “You can go ‘thank’ our pilot.”

Alli nodded and headed towards the front of the plane. Sai climbed down the stairs that must either have travelled with them the entire journey or had just mysteriously appeared out of thin air, as there was no one around who could have put them there. She opened the door to the hold and as she did she was knocked over backwards as a body fell on top of her. Scrambling out from underneath Sai laughed as she realised it was Tom. The poor boy had been sitting with his back right up against the door so he could escape as quickly as possible. Hauling him to his feet she began to lead him away from the plane and his new fangirls followed right behind.

They made their way to the specified meeting point, Alli joining them about halfway through the journey. Depositing Tom, the fangirls and the box in front of Anakron, Sai and Alli waited for the rest of the group to arrive.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron almost smiled. Alli and Sai had returned early, with their most valuables and more to boot. Very good.

"I see you have Rowling's bad-boy (but no Rowling which doesn't matter as how could you since she is otherwise occupied) and Bloom's fangirls, Alli. Well done. And without Mardil's help. More than enough. Certainly more than one, or three. Not to mention your extra curricular activities. Ten points." Sai was casting her glance between Alli and Anakron, mystified as to what extra curricular activities Anakron referred to.

"Never you mind, my dear Sai; you have more than enough to concern yourself with, let me assure you." So speaking, he lifted his staff. "Let the Dweomer be activated as is most appropriate at this time in the case of Sai."

Suddenly Sai's kamuraorc stepped up beside her, staring at her with his big, bloodshot eyes all soft and gooey (well, ***** actually), grinning stupidly. "I've been meaning to tell woo, that woo awe the howse-apple -" Suddenly his eyes went big and his greenish face went completely green. "Ulp!" he said, and hurled all over Sai.

"Yuck!" Sai yelled.

The kamuraorc's eyes widened. "How did woo know the mating call of the female owc!?" He grinned and retched again.

Anakron clicked his tongue. "Control yourself, Lurge!"

"Sowwy, siw."

"Some of these anakronisms are just so appealing," Anakron murmured. "At least, Sai, you have done most admirably in disabusing JLo of her - ahem - slightly overabundant assets. Ten points."

Anakron turned to the Siamese Cat atop his staff. "Tell me, Sylvester, how do Panakeia and Valde fare? And don't spit while you talk."

The cat became furry and black and white with an oversized nose and eyes and couldn't keep his tongue in his cheeks. "She's falling for him but thtaying on her own two feet. He's getting all fowled up-" here Sylvester grinned.

"I said, don't spit when you speak."

"Thorry."

"There you go again."

"Thorry again," Sylvester grimaced. "Anyway, he's getting all fowled up with Drekkies."

"No doubt Panakeia will rescue him somehow, as he will no doubt need it once he has disabused Spockú of his Lord Foul Brow. Ah, I feel another dweomer coming on. Cat, return to your former state."

"Awww!" Sylvester bawled, and became part of the staff again.

"Panakeia shall try to flirt and thus hurl."

Alli's hand went to her hip. "Is that it?! How unoriginal!"

"Do not speak of unoriginal, as very soon, once Mardil can be found, I foresee you relinquishing Balrog fur through your food orifice."

Her eyes went wide with horror. "No! Not that! Anything but that! You're so cruel!"

"But of course. I taught the likes of you before I was ensconced in my current disposition. Now go distract yourselves with your ill-gotten most valuables. I promise you, Orlando and JLo are not happy and are hot on your tails. So tuck them and run. And Lurge, don't drool.

"One last thing, Alli and Sai, after you've taken care of Tom, Orlando, JLo, Lurge, and assorted mindless twits of the female gender, be back here spot on sundown. Kapiche?"

Off they ran. Not a moment too soon, as up came an entire crew of Trollywood sets, actors, kamuraorcs, and all assorted hangers-on thereof. And Bleater Quackson, of course.

"We're ready for the big scene!" Bleater said.

"Have all the bureaucratic red tape and actors' contracts been completed?

"Yes!"

"Roggie's and Queen Quon's as well?"

"Of course!"

"And J.K.'s?"

But of course! I never overlook any detail, even if it doesn't belong."

"Well then, get on with it."

Bleater turned to his crew and gave the order, then pointed at what was left of Mount Doom. "Roll!" he shouted.

On the southern slope was Queen Quon, using two clawed feet and one hand to climb while holding something in the other.... which happened to be gesticulating madly and screaming at the top of its lungs.

"Rowling, I presume?" asked Anakron.

"But of course! They wouldn't let me direct her films, so this is turn about fair play!"

On the north face climbed Roggie, also holding something in his fist. Only, this particular 'thing' was watching everything that happened with a bored look in his eyes, his chin resting on his elbow, disdaining to show the least bit of excitement regarding his predicament.

"Mardil, I presume?" asked Anakron.

"Yes! And thanks!"

"He agreed?"

"He said he always wanted to be an actor in a movie. Now he gets his chance."

"He doesn't seem to be enjoying it."

"That's the way he's supposed to play it."

Anakron shrugged and waited for the moment when the two monsters would see each other over the crest of what was left of Mount Doom; not to mention, what would happen when Mardil was confronted with Rowling.

[Encaitare]

“How do I know you’re not a pair of dognappers,” the driver asked suspiciously.

Wilhelmina held up the yapping dog, displaying its bleached tail. “Tinkerbell has the dog flu!” she told him. “I’m Miss Hiltôn’s spiritual advisor, dearie; we’re very close, and she’s given me special instructions to take the poor puppy to the resort hotel where she can see a doctor friend of ours. I knew this would happen, of course,” she added. “It’s been in the stars for months.”

“And who are you?” the driver asked the kamuraorc.

“Uh… just fiwming, siw. Hewe to make suwe Tinkewbeww is tweated pwopewwy.” The orc glanced nervously at Wilhelmina and she nodded ever so slightly. Maybe the orc wasn’t a complete loss.

“Okay, then. I’ll take you to the hotel.” The driver opened the door, and Wilhelmina, the kamuraorc, and Tinkerbell (and Mr. Swanky, deep in the recesses of Wilhelmina’s hat) got inside.

“Thank you, young man.”

“No problem,” he said, getting into the front seat and promptly changing into an orc. “I’ll get you there in no time – I drive fast.”

[the guy who be short]

Fléin emerged, or so it seemed to the baffled orc, from nowhere. In one hand, at arm's length, he held a net with something large and round within. In the other arm, shoved against his chest and pressed to his body as well as held in his hands, was... gold. Lots of gold. The orc felt something wet splat on his foot, only to find that he had started drooling.

"Oi, you sod! Get over here!" the Dwarf bellowed across the field at him. All the birds around the park took off in fright, and the bandy-legged little creature snuffled across the grass to him. He noticed that the round thing-in-the-bag had started wriggling around at the noise, and approached with not a little apprehension.

"Carry all this, will you?" Fléin shouted at him over the twittering of Sparrow, and dropped all the gold on the ground. "And don't try and steal any... I've counted it all up.

The orc took possession of the gold - in the form of sceptres, crowns and necklaces, mostly - while Fléin bashed the Sparrow on the head to render it unconscious once more, shutting it up. He could feel the orc's curiosity, but decided to ignore it in the hope that the orc would know better than to disturb him.

"What'th that thpar-"

"WHY?"

"What?"

"Why, why, my orc, do you insist on bantering?" The Dwarf shook his head so ferociously that Sparrow woke up again, and added his twittering to Fléin's frustration, forcing him to shout. "Why must you speak? Just act. Your purpose is not to speak."

He threw a disgusted look at the orc, who duly started picking up the gold, and then turned it to the squeaky Sparrow. "And if you don't shut up, Jack, I'll bash your head it and spit roast you. Bringing you back alive wasn't part of my contract." The bird too shut up, and Fléin suddenly felt a lot happier.

Five hours later (he had had to wait for a bus, after all) he was back at the resort, a bird in the hand, and showing it to Anakron.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli nodded appreciatively at Anakron's mention of her extra curricular activities. She was pretty sure that she knew what he was talking about... but wasn't sure if he did. Actually, she wasn't sure if she did... or if he knew what she knew that he knew and thought she didn't know. It got very confusing sometimes, trying to keep straight what only she knew, as well as how many "knews" went in what sentence and if she'd gotten them in the right order to convey the correct meaning, what she'd shared with a few people, and what people were perceptive enough to pick up without help. Just to be sure, she nodded again and grinned.

As she watched the rest of the scene unfold, she thought it high time for a hot drink. It was getting cold and she'd been in a miraculously good mood for several hours now. Why hadn't she been brooding? Eh, it wasn't important. She had other things to think about. That dream, for one. Was that a flash of red in the crowd? No... of course not... now she was just being paranoid.

Somewhat relieved that the fangirls had found new eye-candy (Mardil was looking appealing to them and Tom was looking terrified to her), Alli led him to a small cafè she'd spotted while she was zoning out during Anakron's narrative.

"Here." She offered Tom a cup of coffee strong enough to knock him off of his feet and ordered a small cup of Earl Grey for herself, with just a bit of lemon. She turned and her attention caught on a cloaked figure in the corner. Not Khamul... she thought. Too tall. Also, he didn't try to kill me on sight, and that's tradition. We don't break tradition... it's too fun.

She continued to look at him for a moment before walking over, Tom behind her, still looking shocked and slightly frightened, and speaking.

"Excuse me... do I know you?"

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

The man looked at Alli with that hint of malevolence associated with all mysterious new characters. Turning away, he said "No, we have never met."

She persisted. "Well, maybe we've never met but I know you from somewhere, don't I? Your accent now—it seems quite unusual for Mordor. Where do I recognise you from?" She smiled coquettishly. The small boy behind her stared away uncomfortably.

He looked at her again but kept his mouth shut. It had to be an inquisitive teenage girl, didn't it? Even with this ridiculous black cloak that he was wearing, the man could not escape this sort of attention. Perhaps if he hadn't been in hiding he would have toyed with her a bit; but he was in no mood for that kind of behaviour today. "My odd voice is a consequence of a sore throat I suffered whilst arguing with a group of particularly obnoxious people. You do not recognise me, missy. Why do you suspect me?" This he said, getting very defensive and thus appearing even more suspicious than he had initially.

"Don't toy with me" said the girl; and while the man pondered the coincidence of her using that phrase after he had consciously been trying not to toy with her, he let his guard down for the quick follow-up: "My name's Alli, what's yours?"

"Eo—mmm....." he mumbled pathetically. "Um, yes. My name is Aimé."

"Aimé?" she replied incredulously. "You can end this charade, mister. I know who you are." Her look of triumph suggested wit, elegance, a touch of sweetness and a lot of vanity.

The man bowed his head sheepishly, forgetting for the moment that Aimé was an altogether nice and genuine name in the time and place he had come from. He stared at the tea-cup and reflected on his time in Mordor. It had not been brilliant fun. Sure there were good aspects about being here: he had been lucky enough to have a couple of chats with Plato, of all people; and his enjoyment of rap and country music had been more than adequately catered for. But good relationships were so hard to find here among the Orcs. And now this inviting young lady had fallen into his hands at a time when it was necessary to shun all others in order to maintain his freedom. It was just so unfair.

"I'm terribly sorry, miss, but I must leave" he said as he stood up. The girl just kept that funny look on her face, which irritated the man something awful. He displayed one of his bad habits in response, sticking his tongue out at the girl, and swirled around dramatically to storm off. But the girl glanced at a clock on the wall and stood up quickly, herself.

"[Expletive deleted]" she exclaimed, "I appear to be running late. I'll have to get out of here too. Grabbing the terrified young boy by the arm, she strode over to the as-yet-unidentified man, who was nearing the exit.

"Did I say leave? O I do believe I meant to say that I must stay here until you are out of sight." He tramped back over to the table and slouched down into the chair in a sulk.

The girl (along with a few objective observers) shook her head in bemusement and left.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

From the distance there emerged a small form that raced toward the party. At first they thought it was a squirrel or possibly a wolf. Aime or Eomer, the party was still not sure what he was to be called, cried out that it looked like a small dog. "No!" replied Alli, "It's not a dog, although it is oddly shaped like one. I think instead that it is a....I think....a professor!"

Sure enough, as the figure grew near they could make out that while it had the face of a pug, it had the body of a normal Man. Upon his head there was a fedora and at his waist there hung a whip. He stopped before them and bowed deeply. Pulling himself erect he cried:

"I have thought of a profound question! Why do Dwarven women have beards? Is it because:

a) they want to keep warm

b) they need somewhere to keep their soup

c) the author felt that beards on Dwarven women was the best way to transmit Faerie to the reader

d) that's just the way it is?"

[Durelin]

As they raced their way back onto the highway in their PT Cruiser, they showed each other their winnings. Panakeia brandished Kirk’s toupee with glee, and Valde held out the conveniently pre-cut strip of cloth with much less enthusiasm.

“I was a fool. I didn’t read the directions carefully enough.”

“It’s not your fault,” Panakeia said, trying to make him feel better. “It’s just that you’re a man. You know how it is…”

“Yes, I do know what it is like to be a man,” he replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes to make it clear that he did not fit the male stereotype, in most cases.

“That’s not quite what I meant,” she responded with an eye roll that far outmatched Valde’s.

“I know,” he said, in a remarkably Han Solo-like way. “There.”

“There what?”

“There’s our exit.”

Panakeia swerved over several lanes of traffic in order to reach the exit ramp, coming dangerously close to the Jersey barriers, which Valde had always thought was a football team until he got such a good look at them. When they arrived back at the resort, he started to wish that they had stayed with the Jersey barriers.

“It’s Queen Quon!” Panakeia exclaimed, but quickly fell silent in order to park the car in a designated space.

“And Roggie. But where’s CoDzilla*? Oh, wait, nevermind, it’s Bleater Quackson. Most likely he’s made a replacement in order to use up his budget.” He hopped out of the car, and motioned to Panakeia. “Come on, it’s safe. It’s only rated PG-13.”

So they made their way toward where a vast array of production equipment was set up, and Quackson himself was sitting in his director’s chair, taking the long way around, distancing themselves from the filming. Sure enough, Anakron was amidst that mess. It also seemed that Alumìne Umfuìl and Sai Onara had already arrived; Valde was disappointed, as he thought that he and Panakeia had made good time. A large crowd of young girls who all wore their hair the same way were screeching nearby. Roggie’s fangirls, perhaps? As long as they only admired his gloomily handsome features at a distance, he would be happy.

“Greetings, Grand Anakron,” he proclaimed as he approached Anakron. “Panakeia and I have arrived largely successful and unscathed.” He glanced at the monstrous forms of Queen Quon and Roggie. “Are we interrupting anything?” He asked sarcastically, holding the precious cloth strip in the palm of his hand and holding it close to him, not ready to unveil it yet. Anakron may view the world as a B-rated sci-fi film, but Valde would stick to his tragedy.

But then suddenly another man approached. At least, Valde considered him enough of a man to be called one, though his face appeared as if it were some kind of dog’s that had been hit head on by a very large truck. He had never seen a dog carry a whip, much less wear a hat (obviously he had never been to San Francisco), and so he decided that calling what Alli proclaimed to be a ‘professor’ was indeed a specie of man, or a man-like specie. After an absurd question about Dwarven women, Valde was convinced that this man belonged at the Cultivation Center next week, as he had observed something about a ‘Tollerthon Convention.’

“d,” he answered simply. “Here, take this.” He handed the man with canine tendencies a flyer that he had picked up at the Cultivation Center for that Tollerthon Convention, and then turned back to the Anakron.

*(CoD = CaptainofDespair)

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli had a lot to think about now... That dream... That man... It was obvious, of course, who he was. She'd never expected to actually meet him and converse with him. She'd been trying for a while now to figure out how she was even going to manage to take out Màrîo should the chance arise that he was proven guilty. But how could she prove his guilt when all of the people thought he was pure and innocent as the wind-driven snow? Any suspicion that she cast would be far more suspicious than anything he'd done... he was a hero. If he was guilty... nobody yet knew it. But he had to be... Hookbill the Goomba and Roggie of Morgoth had both been attacked. It was a miracle that they weren't killed... Alli wanted to know who this guy was and why in the world she had such a bad feeling about him. In the mean time, she'd had another dream, this one odder than the first.

Sing hey! For the Scot at close of day
who chases the bad Màrîo away
A loon is he that will not sing
O! Eomer is a noble King! O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain,
and the brook that leaps from hill to plain;
but better then rain or rippling streams
is Eomer that smokes and steams.

O! Water cold we may pour at need
down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed
but better is beer if drink we lack,
and Eomer fighting at your back.

O! Water is fair that leaps on high
in a fountain white beneath the sky;
but never did fountain sound so fair
as the voice of the innocent one, Eomer!

It was just odd. Eomer smoking and steaming? Smoking maybe, though smoking was well-known to be bad. Steamy though? Perhaps Alli was a Seer (yeah right) and her dream was portending a future romance?

Alli sat quietly thinking all of this, blocking out the noise of the world around her (Anakron and Co. watching Roggie and Queenie, as well as screaming fangirls and Tom smirking slightly for no apparent reason). She had her legs crossed comfortably beneath her and her hands resting lightly on her knees. She breathed deep, coughing a little over the Mordorian fumes, but ignoring them.

Was she supposed to fall in love with Eomer of the Rohirrim? No freaking way... Well... maybe... But because of a dream? This wasn't some story. Her life wasn't just something that a totally random and attention deficient college girl made up as she went along. This was real life. This was Mordor, for Mordor's sake! Dreams shouldn't be taken seriously.

Just as she decided that she ought to ignore all of her dreams from now on because they were totally pointless, Eru appeared before her, clad in all silver and shining with a brilliance never before comprehensible. Alli looked around, afraid that the fumes really had gotten to her and noticed that nobody was paying Tolkien's portrayal of God the least bit of attention. She turned to him, averting her eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"Averting my eyes, oh Lord." she called, still not looking.

"Well stop it."

"But Lord, I am not worthy."

"You've been reading hymns, haven't you? Look at me."

Alli looked. Eru looked surprisingly like a llama. She felt it most prudent not to mention this astounding revelation. Maybe she'd tell Sai later.

"Lord, why do you appear to me now in the midst of Mordor? And why am I the only one that can see you?"

"Listen!" LlamaEru boomed (or was that blatted?). "Stop ignoring the dreams I'm sending you. I've tried twice now to inform you that the Scotsman is innocent. Bloody heck, pay attention to your creator! Do you want the world as you know it to be destroyed?"

Alli looked at her surrounding... she was in MORDOR. Eru stopped her before she could comment.

"Do you want the world OUTSIDE of Mordor to be destroyed? Hmmmmm?"

"So... Eomer's innocent. Is that all?"

"Yes." And with that, Eru disappeared and Alli was left to wander toward Sai. She waited patiently for Anakron to speak.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron had been waiting patiently for Alli's epiphany to conclude. When it did, he spoke.

"Fléin. You have succeeded in your most unusual quest. However, you were liberal with violence to your quarry. Granted, it was neither theft nor murder; however, there was the threat of murder not to mention severe battery. Eight points."

Anakron turned to Panakeia. "You have the quarry of choice. However, you achieved it by theft. Zero points. You have failed this test. You must make another attempt between now and the end of the fifth and final test, but not right now. It would be most unwise, as the next test will be much harder to pass, and we might as well not waste time on an easy one if the harder one has a much greater chance of ruining your hopes of leaving Mordor. Understood?"

Panakeia dropped the toupée to her side and pouted.

"Most convincing, m'dear."

Anakron turned to Valde. "You, sir, have one Spockian eyebrow. It was also achieved by theft. The deception was quite within bounds, but the theft was clearly against my word. That you have only one is irrelevant, though you should have two, regardless of what that silly Elempí said. Nevermind him. Zero points. You also must make another attempt to pass this test. But not at this time."

"Wilhelmina. I see you have a hat, a ferret, and a little dog, too. You were most wily in separating the pooch from the padiddle who owns her. You did not use theft, nor murder, nor violence, and as I said, deception is within the bounds of the test. However, you still have failed. You should see how it is that you failed. By what means did you separate the dog from the owner? Two things: glittery jewels and a mirror. Both items reveal that this dog here is not the most cherished possession of the padiddle, nor even the second. The padiddle in question happens to care for gems and jewels more than for her pooch; but she cares more about her face and appearance than about either; more's the pity, seeing as the face she has is not really that great in terms of beauty and seemliness. Be that as it may, you will have to take this test over again as well."

All three failures stepped up together and pointed at that which was in Roggie's fist. "What about him?" they asked in unison.

"Mardil, m'dears, has not even begun to do the least lifting of a finger to achieve his quest. Perhaps he is in one of his moods, silly as that would be. Or maybe something has happened to his mind. Whatever it is, the controlling mechanism that governs the wisdom and intelligence in the young man, is for the time being absent, and is expected to return to him at any time. Until it does, Mardil will probably not be much help nor fun nor a passer of tests. Hmmm......"

Anakron had stopped speaking because he was watching the scene upon the mountain. Roggie and Queen Quon had spotted each other. Worse, Rowling had spotted Mardil and had fallen into a fit of hysteria, as if Mardil was some evil entity from the worst of her nightmares. It couldn't possibly have been Roggie, now, could it? Queen Quon roared and beat her chest (with the one hand not occupied with carrying the screaming Rowling, which is somewhat of a shame, as it certainly would have shut her up). Roggie reached behind him and pulled out a black, flaming whip. They were about to exchange blows when a third roar came from the opposite side of the mountain. It was CoDzilla with all his nuclear heated breath.

"Where'd he come from?!" screamed Bleater Quackson.

"Oh, he's been hanging around hereabouts," Anakron drawled. "I thought his presence might lend a certain excitement to your monster battle."

"But- but- he'll change everything!"

"Since when has that stopped you?" Anakron retorted. "Now be quiet and watch."

CoDzilla breathed flame on both of his two opponents. Roggie lit up.

"But what will happen to Mardil?" Alli cried.

"You should have asked Illamatar while you had a chance," Anakron replied.

But the Offending Party member seemed to be protected by some spell the Balrog had cast over him. Meanwhile, Queen Quon's fur caught fire, and Rowling became a living, screaming torch. Well, make that a wick on a torch, because Queen Quon was acting rather torch-like herself. She danced on the volcano, melting the stones beneath her apish feet. Roggie lashed her with his whip, which caught her and dragged her to the gaping crater between them. CoDzilla breathed fire again. Roggie flamed hotter. Queenie fell to the ground with a thundering thump that caused the ground to shake. In another moment, she had fallen into the crater, shrieking in fear and rage. Roggie jumped in after her. CoDzilla looked wide eyed at the crater (which was a strange thing to see a reptilian monster do, with his inexpressive red eyes, but he did it; believe me). He stomped to the edge of the crater and breathed his fire down into it. The crater had been turning from cold gray to a glowing red since Roggie had jumped into it; now it changed to a fierce, hot red. CoDzilla dropped in, and the hot crater began to boil.

"Goodbye, Casino and Resort," Anakron murmured, "I will not miss you."

The volcano heaved. Magma flowed over the edge of the crater, in all directions.

"I suggest that we move a little farther back from the scene," Anakron said.

All those within earshot did as he suggested, looking back nevertheless with wonder at the cataclysm before them.

To make a longish story shorter than it might be, Elempí cut to the chase and explained that he could write all kinds of description about how the magma flowed down the mountainsides, how the casino and resort were engulfed in its river, and how screaming hordes of foolish betters fled as fast as their feet could take them, and some of them escaped. But that will have to do, for we have a main point to get to. And here it is. The magma rivulets actually just about made it to the feet of the Offending Party and the others who stood with them. At the farthest point to which the magma had flowed, something strange had happened. Each little stream finished in a finger-sized golden ring, looking very hot and very heavy, but very cool to the touch, for Anakron picked one up.

He held it up and said, "Who would like one?"

"I'll take it!" Bleater cried, his hands outstretched greedily.

"I always knew where your heart really lay," Anakron intoned, and handed him the ring. Bleater put it on. The finger on which he put it disappeared.

Bleater's eyes went wide. "My finger! It's gone."

"No, fool, feel it."

Bleater felt it. Then he grinned. "It's there!" Then his grin disappeared into a look of disappointment. "But it's only my finger. What good is that?"

Lurge, Sai Onara's orc, picked up another ring and put it on his finger. His head disappeared.

"But what about Mardil?" Alli asked. "Is he, um, well, dead?"

"No." Anakron replied. "He is safe as long as Roggie keeps him."

"Well, I have another question," Alli continued. "What did Bleater pay my Roggie to take a part in this flick? I know he doesn't give two maggots for a Troll, if you'll pardon the pun-"

"I won't," said Anakron.

"-but what did Roggie agree to?"

"Becoming the new Lord of Mount Doom."

Alli's eyes went wide and her mouth formed a perfect "O".

"And now," said Anakron, "it is time to move on to the Fourth Test. Fordim, Aimé, Offending Party, all of you must come with me. We have a flight to catch to a certain village." Anakron stopped. "Oh, and Bleater, go tell CoDzilla he'll be needed too."

"What's the village called?" Fléin asked.

"Dol Gaurgauroth."

[littlemanpoet]

The flight of the Offending Party landed in Dol Gaurgauroth, a pleasant little village; well, at least as pleasent as could be arranged in Mordor.

There were just two individuals missing; but that was quickly rectified, as CoDzilla came stomping up from the south (in which direction Mount Doom roiled and Roggie reigned), Mardil in paw. CoDzilla set Mardil down. The Offending Party and hangers on stood lined up before Anakron.

"You shall make of yourselves a happy village, named (for conveniences of plot) Dol Gaurgauroth. Choose an occupation for the time being, and settle down. On the morrow you will see what has become the Fourth Test.

"Oh, and I have one more individual to drop off at this particular place. Dweomer release!"

Before the eyes of the OP, Anakron seemed to split in two. Out from Anakron walked a balding, bearded, and bespectacled nincompoop who smiled stupidly at everybody else, trying hopelessly to fit in as quick as possible.

"This, my friends, is my abstemious alter ego, Elempí, a most embarrassing figment, no doubt you can see right away. He is also our 'red shirt' for this occasion. Now get acquainted."

The Offending Party and hangers on looked at those others with whom they had been thrown together for this Fourth Test. Of course, there was CoDzilla, Aimé, and Fordim. Also to be found were Hookbill the Goomba still healing from various injuries. The others were Mormegil, Nilpaurion Felagund (who, they noticed, seemed stranger in appearance than the rest; but that shall be gotten into later on), SPM, and Feanor of the Peredhil.

Alli looked at the latter very suspiciously and said, "Anakron, why are all these people, and only these people here with us?"

"They have been (con)assigned to Mordor, of course."

"But Sir Anakron," said Valde, "everyone in Mordor has been so assigned. What difference these?"

"These have been involved in a most notorious pastime in the future, and have therefore been brought here to play out their worst and best nightmares in your company. I think by now you know what is in store for you. Your goal is to survive, plain and simple. Nighty night." With that, Anakron swirled his cloak around him and suddenly seemed to not be ther at all.

Panakeia felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see a bespectacled grin aimed directly at her.

"Hi! I'm Elempí! Nice to meet you. What's your name? What's wrong with your hair? Why do you wear so much make-up? I'll bet you're beautiful without it. Who's he?" This last was directed toward Valde Delego, who had begun to 'stage left' in their direction somewhat possessively.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli looked at Feanor of the Peredhil in a way that seemed to convey a bit of every emotion except immediate liking.

"Hi, Feanor." She said without much friendliness. She thought it the nice thing to do, if not the thing she cared most for.

"Hi. Call me Fea, please, not Feanor. The whole Peredhil thing was just me being a presumptuous fifteen year old that felt the need to add an Of The to everything. I wrote this really lame story once--"

"I don't care." Alli cut off sharply. "I don't mean to be rude, but I think that it would be far ruder if I actually let you continue in this vein long enough to let you think that I cared before springing it on you. Better to know early, right?"

Feanor looked at her with a bit of a questioning smirk. Uncharacteristically, she refrained from saying the first thing that popped into her head.

"Good. Glad we've got this straight. Listen... if you do anything, Fea, to screw up my chances of getting home, you're going to have me to deal with. I get cranky when I get stuck in situations that I don't like."

"It's happens." shrugged Fea, unconcernedly. "You just tell me what you want me to do and I'll seriously consider it for a few seconds before completely ignoring you and following my own agenda. And um... my agenda currently has zilch to do with you. And just so you know? If you don't want somebody to talk to you, you shouldn't initiate a conversation with them. You know... just for future warning. And if you want to snag one of those guys, which, by the way you're wearing your pants too low and your shirt unbuttoned a bit too far, you are, you're not going to do much a job with it if you act like a [deleted] to everyone you meet."

Alli blushed and cringed. She deserved it, she knew, but that didn't make the sting hurt any less. She shouldn't have been mean to this Feanor. With mere words, the pretty lass could make her feel the lowest of lows. Look, she could do it now: "Alli felt the lowest of lows."

Illamatar above, it was like listening to herself shoot down somebody else... only she'd deserved it and they usually didn't. Alli didn't look forward to an unspecified amount of time living in the same village as Feanor of the Peredhil. What if... what if Mardil? No... she wasn't going to think of that.

Alli watched Fea walk away from her and looked on as she struck up conversation in turn with everybody present.

"Hey Elempi." she smiled, shaking his hand. "Glad to finally meet you. The correspondence through all of this time has been most appreciated. Fordim, most sorry to say, I'm considering a transfer, but not to your school. I guess you'll still not be giving me that A you promised when I schpealed about feminism on your Hobbit thread. Mardil, I've heard your name. I'm familiar with your ancestors. Pass on my regards to the family, should the occasion arise. Hookbill, I'm glad to see you're doing better. No worries... the fiend responsible will surely be brought to justice. Mormegil, it's been ages. Remember that werewolf game? Fun times... We slayed them something fierce... Ah, Nilp. Or is it Alice today? I seem to remember seeing an Emily recently... how goes it with you? Saucie... most glad to see you." She bowed slightly, barely angling her torso from where it had been, but the small motion seemed to convey infinate respect. Alli looked on jealously. Did this girl know everybody? Ugh... how was this fair? Next thing you know, she'll go talk to... "Aimè, I'm glad to see you. This shall be fun, no?"

No. No. Alli told herself. This wasn't possible. How could this... this... this stupid know-it-all girl show up and start talking with everybody? How could she possible have the sort of people skills required to talk equally comfortably with everybody present? How the freak did she even know these weird people? They weren't Offenders. Doubleyooteeyef did Anakron have up his sleeve this time?

Suddenly a very oddly convenient rock flew through the air and knocked Alli out. Her body lay motionless on the hard ground for several moments as the follow song played for her alone:

Oh, give me a home where the dwarven folk roam
Where the hobbits and elf children play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day

Here, here does he range
Where the bad guys like Mario slay
Where seldom is heard a soft-spoken word
And the skies are freakin' cloudy all day.

Alli woke up at random, miffed that nobody had notice her get knocked out by a large rock that had come from nowhere. What in the world was with these stupid dreams?

"Illamatar (http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/llama.php), should I be paying attention to this dream too? Hm? This is some ultra-important vision that I just had?"

"Baaaaaa."

"What?"

"Oh [deleted]."

"Illamatar, you swear?"

"What?"

"You swore."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"Are you arguing with your Creator, missy?"

"No, sir."

"All right then."

With a poof, the disembodied voice disappeared without actually answering the question.

Oh this is going to be loads of fun, thought Alli sarcastically. First my side-plot turns corporeal, then Illamatar shows up to tell me that my dreams are of immense importance, but won't explain what, and now Anakron's got random people that seriously don't look Middle Earthian showing up. And I do NOT like the way that Aimè and Mardil are looking at this Feanor chick. And she's just soaking up the attention. Ooooh, she fumed. Adjusting her pants and re-buttoning her shirt (who was this girl to judge her anyways... it had been necessary to dress trashily to get back!), Alli vowed that no matter what this Fea girl tried, she would upstage her.

"No you won't. Baaaa." came from the sky. Alli grumbled unintelligibly at her Maker and waiting quietly next to Sai in order to figure out just what was going on. She knew that she needed to talk to "Aimè" again, but that could wait. After all... she didn't want the group to know exactly what was going on... knowing her luck, they'd all just gang up on her and kill her without bothering to listen to a single word she had to say.

Sai reached over and squeezed Alli's hand for a moment, giving her a reassuring look. Only Flein noticed. The rest of the group was too busy with its own issues.

[littlemanpoet]

The villagers stayed up late discussing the finer points (no pun intended ... at least at first) of Dwarven women's beards, getting to know each other, making friends and enemies, and generally choosing sides.

Next morning they were up late, and straggled out of the cottages they had chosen for themselves, to the center of the village.

There they found a newly built gallows. Hanging by the neck from it was none other than Elempí, his tongue blackened and hanging out of a ridiculous smile. His spectacles still bespected his visual orifices; however, written in blood on both lenses was the number '3'. The villagers noticed that Elempí's thumb and pinky had been removed from both hands. So had his big and pinky toes from his feet. The villagers were beginning to sense a theme.

"Three what?" one of them queried.

In answer, Elempí's blackened tongue fell out of his mouth and began hopping around, a set of vocal chords wagging along behind it. Somehow, they got a sound from this misapprehension that sounded something like "wer ..... w ....vzzz", a sound that it repeated over and over again.

Finally, one of the brighter ones in the assemblage said, "I think this means there are three werewolves."

"We must lynch them!" said another.

"Brilliant," came a sardonic voice from behind them. Anakron sat on a cushy lazyboy, his feet up, eating popcorn and nursing a six pack. "Just understand that here in Mordor, because of the Dweomer, the lynchings are always multiple, and there are cobblers amongst you. Yes, notice the plural. I think I'm going to really enjoy this."

"But this could take days!" Panakeia cried, thinking about the rapidly disappearing time she had to do her make-up test.

"Maybe, maybe not. Those who remain of the Offending Party after two or three days (I still have to decide how many I'll make you toil through) will be excused, and the rest of the village will be free to continue to decimate each other, or flee, or bury themselves in the mud, or run to Roggie and beg upon his gracious mercy. Proceed.

"Oh, and one more thing. Do not assume that fellow members of the Offending Party are not werewolves." He grinned malevolently, and continued to much and quaff.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

This was the most hilarious thing that Feanor of the Peredhil had ever experienced. She'd seen it coming, to be honest. She knew far more about everything than was strictly prudent to let on. She laughed really hard as she once more saw Alli staring at nothing that seemed to say "Baa."

Alli was slightly less amused. This wasn't good. No, this wasn't good at all. She was going to die. That was all there was to it. How could she ever escape Mordor at this rate? Anakron was actively trying to get them killed. Well, you know what? She had bigger things to worry about. She rubbed her head where the rock had hit and remembered all of the stupid songs and poems that had recently run through her head without her say so.

"Okay, so Mario's a bad guy. Well you know freaking what? Mario isn't here right now. We're playing a very lethal game and Anakron's probably--" here she muttered something too vulgar to even be appropriately [deleted]. "Wait... so what do I know? The Scotsman is innocent. Eomer of the Rohirrim is innocent. Wait... that's real life. That's Mordor. This is Dol Gaurgauroth. This is entirely different." Alli currently had no clue what she was doing.

She swore very colorfully in her customary way. She'd just had a thought. If Eomer of the Rohirrim is innocent and Illamatar had outright told her that she needed his help in real life, then she couldn't very well let him get killed in this deadly game. She hoped hard that he wasn't a werewolf, because she was about to start lying about how much she knew. Whether he was innocent or not, she absolutely needed him to survive.

She'd need to think hard about this. Maybe she'd take a nap. Maybe that'd be a bad idea. She could really use the sleep... her dreams hadn't been restful of late and she was getting exhausted. She needed a dreamless night... but they'd probably kill her as she lay.

"Anakron," she called out. "If we're killed in the game, does that mean we actually die? Because I'll be very put out if I die."

Waiting for his answer, she stared at Feanor of the Peredhil as the girl started talking in a very odd sort of way.

"I'm the Seer." said Fea. "You should kill me. I mean... I'm a wolf. You should hug me. Kiss me, I'm Irish."

Tom Felton looked at her in a way that suggested that he'd like to do all three. Alli groaned. This was going to be memorable.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin stood around awkwardly before heading off to talk to Wilhelmina. All these new people worried him. Wilhelmina was safe, and was standing off to one side, talking to Mr Swanky.

"How's he doing, Wilhelmina?" he asked softly as he approached, moving out of the gaggle of people introducing themselves to one another.

"Eh?" she replied non-descriptively.

"Mr Swanky? Since Queen Quon... fell," he euphemised.

"Oh, he's been doing fine. That kitten you brought into this world seems to have distracted him sufficiently."

"Really?" he asked, surprised. "I hadn't given a moment's thought to it. Where is she then?"

In reply, Wilhelmina pointed at her hat.

"Listen, Wilhelmina..." he started, but stopped abruptly. Had he just imagined that? Had Sai just slipped her hand into Alli's?

They spent so much time together too. Horror of horrors, could they be... lesbians?

Fléin was immediately repulsed. Mahal hadn't created female dwarves to be with female dwarves. It was bad enough that they flaunted their gender for all to see, these Humans - but this! It crossed his mind for a second that Mahal hadn't actually created Men, nor had he meant for Dwarves to feel for them, but he dismissed this. Evil was only evil when he wasn't commiting it.

"Yes?" the whimsical voice of Wilhelmina floated over him, bringing him back to reality. He looked at her and frowned, lost in thought. "You were saying...?" she continued.

"Oh. Oh... Nothing of importance, Wilhelmina. Let's go meet these new people, shall we? Get a sense of what's what?"

She signified her consent, and the pair wandered off together, Fléin keeping half an eye on Sai and Alli. Maybe he had imagined it, after all. Alli was staring hungrily at Aimé, while trying hard not to appear to be staring hungrily at him. Who should they introduce themselves to? "That man covered in boilers and bathtubs seems quite an interesting chap," Wilhelmina answered his unvoiced question conversationally. Perhaps they were forming a psychic bond? He revelled at the though.

The Saucepan Man, or Spam, as he was commonly known, did turn out to be quite an interesting chap. He had apparently been named for his helmet of saucepan (Fléin was reminded of the Cap-Tin Sparrow), but upon his way to Mordor, there had been a poor translation of some sort. He wandered off into metaphysical possibilities and quantum physics, leaving the two a little lost, but much comforted in their intellectual new friend. He could be a strong ally in this village. Once his little spiel was over, they discussed this and that long into the night, and he thankfully kept both his feet firmly on the ground.

-----------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, faced with horror the likes of which they had not contemplated, they huddled together instinctively. Already, clans were forming.

Those potential-lesbians looked quite suspicious in Fléin's eyes. They probably had some sort of satanic deal with Morgoth himself, usurpers of family ideals that they were. Potentially. He'd be keeping an eye on them, that was sure enough.

"Wait a second... Will we actually be killed? That wasn't in the contract!" he heard Sai yelp. And so it began.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Eomer of the Rohirrim (in after days, Aimé of Mordor) woke up, and instantly wished he hadn't. He had thought the Black Land was horrible, but the pain of this miserable little village was now dominating his consciousness. Or maybe that feeling was down to a night spent sleeping in a bed about as comfortable as a grave. Eomer did not care to think too hard about it; his mind could be occupied only with the bizarre events of yesterday.

He had been swept off his feet from the wide hostile land of Mordor into the midst of this Ridiculous Party Gathering (hereafter referred to as RPG) and he wasn't sure if he should accept it. "Why am I here?" he wailed, a little too loudly. It caused a very tall blond fellow to stare weirdly at him. This guy looked right at home among the fear, suspicion and acute paranoia; he was enjoying it! Eomer supposed that the man probably lived in Dol Gaurgauroth. He didn't know him, anyway. But of course! Eomer didn't know anyone in this place. Except...

He scanned the group and found the girl. Running lightly towards her, he noticed a sort of fog forming around him. He stopped, and the fog started to disappear. Strange, thought he, and went for the girl again. The fog returned, enabling Eomer to retain a curious kind of invisibility, and ensuring that his movements could not be recorded. Sweet.

"Alli" he called as the fog disappeared: now visible, he saw that he had reached the girl, who looked somewhat different today.

"Oh...yyyes, dear! How are you?" She smiled a smile which could be described only as devilish. Eomer started as he realised that he had been mistaken.

"Excuse me, miss" he said. "Only, you do bear a resemblance to Alli; and she's the one person I know here."

"Oh you poor thing!" the girl replied. "In that case you must get to know me." The smile never left her lips, but now her voice lowered to a husky whisper. She stared deeply into Eomer's eyes, in a way that professional hypnotists can only dream of [not that I'm suggesting professional hypnotists desire to gaze into my eyes—or am I?] "You mustn't be led by that Alli girl. She will be a bad influence on you, won't you let me tell you why? My name is Fea."

How could Eomer resist? So far, Alli had hunted him down, claimed to know a deep dark secret of his, brought him into this RPG catastrophe, and left him alone among these strange terrifying people. Conversely, Fea had been nothing but sugar and spice and all things nice. She took his hand, and led him to the village wishing-well, subconsciously intentional, if that.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"You see, m'dear," Fea said, patting the wall of the well beside her. He sat, a bit of tartan peeking out from beneath his cloak. "Alli is just a kid. I know her well, though she does not know me. She just wants to go home. She wouldn't mind learning what it's like to be in love. But she is still a child. In time, I imagine that she will calm down and become slower to judge people, softer-spoken, and curse less. Now? Yes... she is a slave to her teenage-girl hormones. She's not yet learned to control them.

"What matters is that she means well. She is sometimes foolish, but she always regrets it, even if her pride will not let her apologize. Don't let her arrogance make you distrust her... she could be a powerful ally."

Fea realized that her defense of Alli could be construed as wolfish-comaradery, but she did not care. Alli's life was important... not hers. Actually, that wasn't true at all. Fea really liked her life most of the time, especially now that there was this one guy that... wait... That's Shire, not Mordor. In any case, Fea didn't want to see anything happen to Alli because of misunderstanding. She spoke again.

"'Mer, you should talk to her. She'll flirt. She'll seem shallow sometimes. But she'll tell you interesting things if you can earn her trust. She knows very much and has the most impressive connections with the Mordorian underworld. The reason, 'Mer, that she seems so inaccessable is because she wants you to think it of her. She's been hurt. She doesn't trust people."

"How do you know this?" murmered Aimè, entranced by Fea's words. "How do you know so much of Alli?"

"I have sources." Fea smiled softly, her thoughts hidden, but with a look of sweet contentment making her features look far more angelic than their usual devilish humor allowed. Aimè could not even find a smirk. "Ah, if you'll excuse me..."

Fea released Aimè's hand now and walked up to the crowd again, arms extended.

"'Ello, my loves, my doves, you have no idea. I've been having the most fascinating thoughts. I've been plotting like you wouldn't believe. You should be nervous. Those of you that are wolves, of course." She smiled in a way that conveyed a bit of bonkerdom. She didn't look all together sane, much different than she had just before with Aimè when her features had held amusement, flirtation, concern, and curiosity, all in turn. Aimè looked on in wonder as she propped her thumbs on her belt buckle, resting her palms on her waist. She shifted her weight to one side and looked nothing short of gorgeous as she teased the folk of Dol Gaurgauroth. "I think that we should lynch Anakron."

Anakron stood and began to speak some sort of rule that no doubt forbade it.

"No, listen to me." she interrupted, shooing him away. "This entire thing is his doing. If we lynch him, he'd be deprived of his fun, we'd know for sure whether or not he is innocent, and we'd all be able to leave Mordor without a single bit of trouble. After all, the Dweomer works through him. Without a conductor, surely it is as a disconnected circuit?"

Fea winked at Alli who glared at her. Fea smiled at the girls contrariness, appreciative of her dirty look. It was one that should have been able to kill. Maybe some day she'd learn to harness that energy. Hopefully it'd be a day after she learned to control her temper.

The rest of the crowd looked at Fea, swayed by the confident tone of her voice, her looks, her seriousness, and the way she seemed to speak such logic. It was only the loony look in her eyes that kept them from forking Anakron with a pitch immediately.

[Kath]

Completely bewildered by this entire set up, Sai kept close to Alli, hoping she would have some idea of what to do. Unfortunately she seemed just as confused, as well as seriously annoyed by the appearance of Fea who had charmed everyone in sight the second she turned up. Feelings of loyalty and perhaps some pride that she had been the only one to get through her defences kept Sai on Alli’s side and so, for now at least, immune to the pervasiveness of the newcomer.

She had gathered from Anakron’s instructions and the gruesome death of his counterpart, that there were 3 wolves in among this motley crew of individuals, and that the way to complete this next task was simply to stay alive. As she mused over this, a thought suddenly occurred to her.

"Wait a second... Will we actually be killed? That wasn't in the contract!"

As people (using the term in it’s loosest sense) turned to look at her, she realised she had spoken out loud. Blushing she turned away, but not before noticing the suspicious looks that Flein was shooting at her and Alli from under his bushy eyebrows. Sai wondered if he thought the two of them were wolves, Anakron had said they could be among the members of the Offending Party, which was a scary thought in itself. She thought they were more likely to be some of these newer people. Surely she’d have noticed if one of the Party were a werewolf . . . wouldn’t she?

She noticed that this Fea girl was speaking again, suggesting that they lynch Anakron. She was tempted to agree, but wondered whether his death might mean that their chances of getting out of Mordor were scuppered, since he was in charge of it all.

Fortunately it seemed that some of the others agreed with her, or at least were put off by the homicidal look in Fea’s eyes. She certainly seemed overly keen on killing someone, and she never even said she thought Anakron was a wolf. Also, from what she'd heard back home about these 'games' she was sure that the innocent people were supposed to have helpers, people with special gifts who could swing the balance of power.

Due to her slight phobia of having to speak in front of large groups of people, Sai whispered these little observations to Alli (gaining another glare from Fléin for some reason - perhaps he thought they were plotting something?), who nodded and thought it over. Sai knew Alli was as wary of this new addition to their group as she was, and hoped that she would have some kind of plan to figure out whether she really was as innocent and helpful as she was trying to appear to be, or was just attempting to avoid suspicion.

While Alli was thinking, Sai gazed around at the groups of people mulling about. From Rowling's creations she knew the signs one was supposed to look out for in a werewolf, but those weren't really helpful when everyone around was in as human a form as they could manage.

From her right she heard a snap of fingers, and turned toward Alli, wondering whether she'd come up with anything or was frustrated with the inability to do so. Sai sincerely hoped it was the former. She really didn't like the idea of being killed.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli had come up with an idea. Just as quickly, she'd forgotten what it was.

She'd listened to everything that Sai told her and glared prettily at Flein when he looked suspiciously at her. She'd come up with the most brilliant strategy in the history of Tol-in-Gaurhoth scenarios that would guarantee a win. And then, like I already said, she forgot it. She smacked herself in the head and only managed to make herself cry out in pain when she nailed herself in the bruise from the rock. Another vision showed up, this one of J.Lo. in a shower. She was getting really sick of this stuff. Illamatar (http://www.smokymountainllamatreks.com/images/bananaman-llama-2.jpg) was really bad at telling her when she was having real visions and when she was just having weird thoughts. At least the Scotsman was out of her head. But now he was in front of her. And she had to keep him alive. Even if he was a wolf. Illamatar (http://www.smokymountainllamatreks.com/images/jj-llama-2.jpg) had said so, and one didn't ignore a direct order from the deity that half of the forum thought was God.

She whispered back to Sai, her mouth close to the girl's ear to keep unwelcome strangers from reading her lips.

"We need Aimè on our side. His importance to the side-plot is unimaginably huge. His death would be a blow to all of Middle Earth and especially to me. I really need to find out why Eru thinks he's so important. I can't let him die. Will you help me?"

Alli was a little bit concerned that Sai was a werewolf, but it was too late now to worry. If the girl was a werewolf than Alli was in more danger than she could easily get herself out of. After all, they were sharing a cottage. Flein glared again when he saw them whispering. Alli stuck her tongue out.

"Apart from keeping Aimè and ourselves alive, I'm lost. No ideas from you?"

[Kath]

"Sure I'll help." Sai replied, turning her head to Alli's ear. "But as for ideas I really don't have any. Unless we can figure out some way to determine who are the wolves and who aren't I don't really see what we can do. I'd say lynch one of these newcomers every day. We only have to last out 3 days at most and that way the whole Offending Party stays alive. But to do that we'll have to convince the others that we're not werewolves and that they should go along with that idea."

She sighed and shook her head. It was a little hard to think with a dead body around and suspicious glares shooting all over the place. She wondered whether a meeting of two such stares would cause some kind of explosion, and then shook her head to rid herself of such useless thoughts.

"I'm sorry. I really have nothing. Maybe we should just stand back and see how this plays out. Oh, and maybe you shouldn't hit yourself. If we want the others to take us seriously it might help to play the part of a sane person."

[Celuien]

Celuien's post

Panakeia couldn't help being troubled by Elempí's gruesome and mysterious death. What a horrible way to die. She shuddered. At the sight of his corpse, her mind drifted back over their brief acquaintance.

"What's your name? What's wrong with your hair? Why do you wear so much make-up? I'll bet you're beautiful without it. Who's he?"

"What a lot of questions!" she had replied in exasperation. "Panakeia of Harad, nothing, because it's the only proper way to appear in public, I am, and," she looked around, "he's Valde Delago." Panakeia didn't think she liked him. Still smarting over her 0 points, she was not charitably disposed toward Anakron at the moment, nor was she inclined to appriecate the appearance of any of his alter-egos, no matter how friendly they might appear. Especially when he was criticizing her carefullly developed toilette.

Valde stood beside her. As he introduced himself to the odd newcomer, Panakeia took his arm, and felt a strange wave of nausea wash over her. "Strange," she muttered to herself. "Well, Valde, how goes it? I'm a little disappointed by the outcome of our last adventure, but it's nothing we can't overcome." The sick feeling rose with each word. "Nothing we can't beat as a team." That was too much. As delicately as possible, she turned her head to the side and leant over.

"Are you alright?" Valde and Elempí cried together.

Struggling to recover, Panakeia returned, "I don't know. I think so." Smiling at Valde as best as she could under the circumstances, she tried to say, "I'm fine as long as you're here," but couldn't make it past the "as long as" before giving into a wave of retching.

"There is something wrong. Maybe you'd better go rest awhile," Elempí offered kindly. Valde nodded in agreement.

"Yes, I think I will," she stammered. "I can't imagine what's wrong." She fled to hidden corner in the village Inn to rest.

And so she found Elempí the next morning, along with the rest of the village. For the first time in her life, Panakeia was truly frightened. She had heard tales of werewolves long ago, as a child in Harad, but had never thought of them as more than tales. Now it was terrifyingly real. And she didn't know what to do. Not being able to trust anyone was nothing new to her - she hadn't trusted anyone since she was 19 - but, just now, she wanted to be able to trust someone very badly. Valde? At the very thought, the queasiness returned to her. How very, very odd, she mused. I was fine a second ago.

Who was the most likely suspect? Panakeia was hardly inclined to doubt the other members of the Offending Party. After all, no strange deaths had followed the group until now. It had to be one of the newcomers. She looked them over, a hard glint in her eyes. One of them, a ragged, scruffy looking character, seemed more suspicious than the rest. It didn't help that he wore a tattered fur T-shirt and sat gnawing on a bloody bone. Nor did the signs he carried with him help his case. One read, "Dangerous Carnivore. Beware." The other said, "I'm a Werewolf! Lynch me! No he isn't. Yes he is. (Lynch rate: 67%)." This was the enigmatic Nilpaurion Felagund. And he seemed the best choice to Panakeia. Innocent or not, he was bound to cause confusion, and maybe even turn members of the Offending Party against each other, rightly or wrongly.

She heard Sai's suggestion: I'd say lynch one of these newcomers every day.

"Yes. That makes sense to me. No sense in turning against each other now. We have to get out of here." With a glare at Nilp, she turned to stand alongside Sai and Alli. "I won't be attacking anyone in our group. At least, not unless they attack me first."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nilpaurion Felagund's post

'Ah, Nilp. Or is it Alice today? I seem to remember seeing an Emily recently... how goes it with you?'

'Blink blink,' the eyelids replied.

'Scratch scratch,' the head and hand asked in unison.

'Yawn,' the mouths opined.

And, then, one of them screamed.

He had suddenly been transported to . . . a pair of his eyes--the red one with three black dots in it--turned to a sign.

'Welcome to Dol Gaurgaurhothr.
Population: Changes pretty fast.'

'Blimey. I'm still stuck with this guy? I thought I left him in Mt. Doom,' someone to his left said. His head turned in that direction, but he saw only a drunk man wearing what looked to him like an aluminium head-dress--Aluminium Hatted Man, he named the character, aHM for short--, conversing with a small-pink clad monkey holding what seems to be a pistol. No, that couldn't have been them. Where did that voice come--

'I'm hungry. What's for breakfast?' a female voice to his right said. He turned to the direction of the voice again. But he saw only a male-type Man. Even if that man could speak in a female voice, it couldn't have been him. His vocal chords was at least two metres away from him. Plus, he was his airway was constricted by a looped rope hung from a strange wooden cantilever.

Then where are the voices coming from?

'Oh, look, a bone,' the female voice said, and he felt himself being dragged in a direction he didn't intend to go. Suddenly, he stopped, and he found himself sitting down. He heard the sounds of a nineteen year-old gnawing on a bloody sheep's shank to his right.

He felt someone glaring at him. He turned, and saw a middle-aged female mortal with blonde hair of a questionable shade. Her seemingly violet eyes, had they had mouths, would surely be screaming bloody murder.

'Would someone please lynch us?' the creepy voice to his left said aloud. 'I'd rather be dead than stuck with him like this.'

He suddenly recalled that voice. Once, he had heard it only in the confines of his mind. It was then he realised.

Nilpaurion had three faces.

'Hi, Fea! I'm here, Emily!' another familiar female voice said behind him.

Make that four. Oh, wearing glasses would be so difficult now . . . But his nearsightedness and astigmatism weren't his primary concern now.

How do I escape from here? he thought. Think, Nilpy, think!

'Wait a second,' yelped Sai--how did he know the name? 'Will we actually be killed? That wasn't in the contract!'

That's it! Hey, isn't that Ms. Sai Onara, the lass I met in Gondor while looking for a cure for multiple-personality disorder? Never mind that! So, what was my idea? Well, since I'm of the Elder race, dying would only bring me to Mandos, about a pleasant day's walk from my childhood home. Yeah, that's it! I just have to die. Nilpaurion's strange red eyes glanced from side to side, hoping that the physically manifest alter-egos would not notice the decision made in his mind by the other half-unnamed alter-egos that made up Nilpaurion Felagund's governing council. Now, how do I pull this off . . .

'Your attention, please!' he cried as he walked to the centre of the town quadrangle. There was a hush as all eyes turned to him, some screaming bloody murder in various degrees of violence, some snorting, 'What an attention-seeker!' while others just stared with their lower eyelids dropping as if they were jaws. Nilpaurion wasn't exactly a model Elf, or an Elven model for that matter, and the three new faces that suddenly sprouted on either side and the back of his head didn't help matters.

[At this point, the narrative brakes, and then shifts into poetic gear.]

Ascended Finrod's son and heir.
With dreadful voice he uttered there:
'Be you friend, or foe, or just a guest
Of Barrowdowns, or on a quest
To fare away from this sad part
Of Middle-earth, Dark Land's black heart,
Neither law, nor love, nor league of Hell,
Nor any Troll from Dunland Fell
May save you if you do not vote
For Nilpy Feg, with brains of oat;
For he is obviously a wolf--
Uh, wait a mo: What rhymes with 'wolf'?

[Here the poetic part ends, and the narrative continues.]

All eyes blinked at least once; some did so twice, and a few other thrice. When they had finished blinking, he saw something in their eyes that made him smile. They were all too ready to lynch him. But he frowned when he looked deeper. They only wanted to rid themselves of his atrocious poetry, which seemed to be on par with Vogonwë's (of Entish Bow fame). Hmph, not appreciating my poetry. I should send the lot of you to Mordor, or something. Hmmm, maybe I'll post about that later. Oh, never me mind that! They're about to lynch me, and I don't care for what the reason, so long as they do it.

But suddenly, Emily sidled into the conversation, 'What? What does all that mean?'

All eyes blinked again, and when they had opened, confusion replaced the anger they felt at his horrendous butchering of lyric Art (short for Arthur, of course). Not a few were muttering, 'What did he mean? Some troll from Dunland fell on a nilpy peg--what's a "nilpy" peg, anyway?--while eating oat bran?' He had lost his 'Lynch me!' momentum. He had to regain it. Nilpaurion grinned sheepishly, or rather like a sheep trying hard to look like a wolf hiding in a fluffy woolen pullover.

'What it means, my dear villagers, is that I'm a werewolf. You must lynch me, lest I destroy your village. If you do not vote for me, that means you're not trying to help this village, so I'll vote for you. Is that clear?'

'Hey, Mr. ModeVayor,' a female voice cried from behind Nilp, 'is multiple voting allowed?'

Before Anakron could answer, the creepy voice declared, 'If that's allowed, then let's just vote for Nilp an infinite number of times.'

'I don't know,' said another female voice, this time from Nilp's right, her voice dripping with sensibility, 'isn't death by lynching a bit painful?'

But she was ignored. No Seer was needed to see that; Alice was usually ignored by everyone. 'I vote for

++Nilpaurion Felagund

toDAY,' Adam said.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina had been rather irked by the fact that Anakron considered her hard work on the Third Task to not be in accordance with his rules. But now there were other things to consider -- like the hanged man, and the likelihood that several of them might shortly be deceased. This was intensely disturbing; Mordor was a place of extreme annoyance rather than death these days, and they hadn't been warned that their attempt to leave might prove fatal!

There was one thing she knew: the girl, Fea, spoke with confidence, but she couldn't be right. As satisfying as it would be to lynch Anakron, they needed him to get out. Therefore...

"I agree with you ladies," Wilhelmina said, banging her walking stick on the ground for emphasis. We of the Offending Party have got to stick together. We haven't tried to kill each other yet, have we? I mean," she continued gesturing at several of her companions in turn, "Fléin's rather hairy, and Panakeia's a bit scary-looking, and Waldo there's always brooding about one thing or another, but that doesn't make them lycans. Not by a long shot."

Tinkerbell yapped irritatingly; Wilhelmina had decided that since the pooch hadn't been of any use to her, she could comfortably despise it.

"There!" she exclaimed. "Let's just say Tinkerbell's the wolf and be done with it."

[littlemanpoet]

"Anakron," Alli called out. "If we're killed in the game, does that mean we actually die? Because I'll be very put out if I die."

Anakron nodded.

"Wait a second," yelped Sai. "Will we actually be killed? That wasn't in the contract!"

Apparently the nod had not been sufficient, nor seen by all. "Yes, you can. The Dweomer controls the contract."

"I think that we should lynch Anakron," said Feanor of the Peredhil. Anakron stood and began to set her straight. "No, listen to me." she interrupted, attempting to shoo him away. "This entire thing is his doing. If we lynch him, he'd be deprived of his fun, we'd know for sure whether or not he is innocent, and we'd all be able to leave Mordor without a single bit of trouble. After all, the Dweomer works through him. Without a conductor, surely it is as a disconnected circuit?"

Clever little miss, that one.

"Fea, silly dear," Anakron purred as he sat back down on his lazyboy, "you are such a clever one. However, you overlook one fact that some of these others, most notably the members of the Offending Party, have probably ascertained on their own by now, that if I am lynched, they have no chance of getting out of Mordor. But scheme away, m'dear. 'Tis most entertaining.

"Oh, and two more things. As I have said already, you will not lynch one of these newcomers each day, Sai-" The eyes of all the newcomers honed in most antagonistically upon Sai. "-you will lynch at least two newcomers, or whomever, each day.

"So much for the first thing. The second is this: do not assume too much."

With that said, some of the villagers got down to business. Fléin began to sing in a most undwarflike manner:

"Oh citizens of Mordor, our village takes a blow
Elempí has fallen, unimaginable woe
What can man do against such violent hate?
How can we possibly retaliate?
A blind shot into the dark we must now take
For it is our lives at stake..."

As soon as he was done, SpaM said,
"1420! To the bottle we go!
Darn! He wazh one of my besht cushtomers too!

It sheems to me that a pint of Shpam's Old Potboiler izh in order. One of my finesht alezh, it izh. Really putsss hairzh on yer ches' ... Oops! Bad choice of words." SpaM raised up a bottle and quaffed liberally, much spilled down his chin. "There now. That'll calm the nervezh and hep ush get our thinking caps (urp) on. Now, who could have done shuch a terrible thing? Any ideazh?" SpaM stared intently at Mardil and Valde.*

"Well sung, Fléin," said Mormegil. "The best course of action is to analyse each villager and the werewolf will present him/herself inadvertently based on their responses. Everyone is a suspect currently and we need to hear some defense from individuals. I would like to hear from SpaM what with brewing and drinking naught but ale. Now I know that this doesn't imply guilt of murder but we would be wise at looking closely him. And also Valde is a Lead Tragic Actor and that casts doubt on him."

"What with brewing and drinking naught but ale, you shay!" retorted SpaM. Shince when did thish become a val- val- appro- (urp) good bashish for an accuzhashin of murder? Indeed, my tend- tend- liking for the bottle inev'terbly aidzh me in enjoying a mosht peashful night's slee(ur)p. Mosht nightsh I am incap- incap- unable of even shnuffing out the candle, let alone carrying out a grishly murder.

"But what about yourshelf, Maundering Mage? Shince you are sho keen to casht asper- asper- (ur) say bad things with not a shred of evidensh, perhapsh you could explain why we shouldn't be looking to you in thish grim matter?

"SpaM," Mormegil replied, "I am suprised that you didn't listen more carefully. But I shall not repeat myself, as you will probably miss it a second time as well. Suffice it to say that I was questioning your character not accusing you my friend. Now if you find a nasty character there you will likely find nasty deeds.

"As to your questions in regard to me, by all means you should be looking at me, as I said we should be looking at all people. As is well known my nightly routine consists of study, meditation, and the concocting of spells. After which I retire rather early to bed and sleep rather soundly till just before dawn, unless I am woken by your lot making enough noise to raise the dead.

"Given our current siduash'n," SpaM replied in a most erudite manner for one half drunk late in the morning, "I would shay that mentioning anyone'sh name izh tanta- tanta- (urp) the shame thing azh an accerzash'n (o'coursh, shtaring intently izh, nothing of the short ). You ashed me to 'shplain myshelf an' I did. I would ha' thought that my friendly nature wazh well known throughout the village.

Now, mage, it sheems t' me that thozhe early nightsh provide plenty of soap - er - I mean shcope for grishly night-time activitiezh wi'out leaving you tired. And p'rhapsh itsh no coinsheedins that the victim wuz a beshpectickled, one whoozh philoshophoshickulshizing might distrack you from your shtudiezh."

And so went the conversation as the sun reached toward the heights.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli felt herself agreeing with Sai and Panakeia. She did not want to see any of the Offenders (no, not even Mardil) lynched. She wanted very much more than revenge to see where this story was going.

She especially didn't want to die and just slightly under that especially, Alli wanted Aimè, Tom Felton, Sai, and maybe Mardil (she wasn't sure yet) to get out of this town alive. Fea could die. She might feel a little bit bad, but not that bad. Fea's fea had all sorts of fun things to do once it was done inhabiting this Mordorian equivilant of herself. She had morning classes to occupy her (Alli learned this by listening to the girl get into a long discussion with a brick wall), homework to procrastinate on, that extra course she was taking, those extra events that occasionally sprang up, and now, there was this guy that she kept thinking about at the most inopportune moments... like the middle of a lecture in class. She also had some writing or something that apparently she got a huge kick out of. Weirdo.

But the point, to Alli, was that if Fea died, she'd just go on with her life. If Alli died, she was dead. A corpse. Not even a SimulatAlli. She had a thought... she'd have to check on something.

In any case, Alli really didn't want to die. She really didn't need to die. She was one of the good guys. She might be about as warm and fuzzy as a rattlesnake sometimes, but that didn't stop her from being a useful member of the Offending Party, able to get in and out of trouble quickly, with much to show for it and little lost because of it. Her standoffish attitude, though perhaps (sp?) wrong, was no reason why she was not a really good choice of somebody to keep alive.

And if her pleas of "Hey, I'm innocent and therefore important to keep alive, let's kill the strangers first." didn't work, she could always throw out something along the lines of "If I die, nobody will ever learn just how great of a sub-plot I'm unwittingly involved in."

She started as Fea, now out of the spotlight as easily as she'd gotten into it, spoke in her ear.

"I hope you survive. Life would be most boring without you around."

Alli looked at her oddly. There seemed to be a glint in her eye. Maybe it was just that Fea-gleam. Nothing new... just Fea being Fea. She couldn't help but agree with her.

[littlemanpoet]

CoDzilla could see everything from his enormously high vantage point, and he noticed the ganging up of the girls of the Offending Party.

"Hey!" he roared as quietly as he could, "see those three? Alli, Sai, and Panakeia? See how those three are cahooting? Maybe they're the werewolves!" Then Wilhelmina came to them, banging on her stick, and joined them too. "Oh. There can't be four werewolves, can there?"

CoDzilla shut up for a while. Suddenly the Dweomer took effect and CoDzilla suddenly shrunk and fell into a very handily close by pond of salt water, and became merely CoD, swimming in his little pond; not to be left out of the doings of the village.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Maybe we're werewolves." repeated Alli mockingly. "Or maybe we're just girls. Remember? The gender that can't go to the bathroom without an escort? The gender that apparently has to approve of the guys that you like? The gender that walks into your room without knocking and lays on your bed, expecting you to drop what you're doing and actually respond when they look at you with this weird look and say "So???"? This gender? You're wondering why we flock together? It's like a puzzle, and there's a piece missing, apparently from your brain. You know what will fit there and make it all make sense? Kotex! Kotex fits. Wear it."

Alli didn't like it when guys (or monsters, though occasionally they were one and the same) made stupid observations. Of course women travelled in packs. They didn't need to be werewolves, necessarily, but it helped that they usually had to plan their lives around a monthly cycle. Werewolves had the moon, girls had their own issues. Alli dreaded the day she would meet a PMSing werewolf.

Spitefully, Alli knelt by the little pond and spoke to CoD.

"Did you know that this pond is the most polluted in all of Mordor? Yeah... your entire existence is being chemically screwed up right now. Pretty soon, you'll have three eyes, fur, and you'll permanently have Bon Jovi songs stuck in your head. Enjoy, little fish."

[Celuien]

The bizarre transformation from CoDzilla to CoD startled Panakeia. Even more so Alli's attempted conversation with the fish. What could Anakron possibly be up to now? Did CoD have special information about werewolves, being a movie monster himself, or was this just another distraction?

Suddenly, Nilp jumped to his feet. Throwing the bare, tooth-marked bone to the ground, he screamed, "I'm a werewolf! Can't you tell? Lynch me now." He pulled out a long quill pen. "Here, I'll make it easy for you." Nilp scratched a message into the dusty ground. ++NILPARION FELAGUND "I'll vote for myself." Then, Nilp's frame contorted wildly, engaged in a battle with itself.

"Stop that. You'll get us killed." His left hand reached to slap his right. And his right hand snatched his left.

"That's what I want, Adam."

"You're both crazy."

"Shut up, Alice."

As Panakeia stared, Nilp (Adam? Alice??) began to roll, writhing on the ground, mumbling and shouting incoherently.

"Do you see what I mean? We can't afford this distraction. I'm sure that some of you will want to attack SpaM. But at least he talks sense, even when rather, ahem, inebriated. So if he isn't a wolf, he can help us find them. Though some of those quiet ones are making me nervous, (she glared at those who had yet to speak) I really think we should get rid of Nilp now." Though she spoke with confidence, Panakeia really didn't like this business at all. It was with a heavy heart that she wrote

++NILPARION FELAGUND

on a sheet of paper left near the site of Elempi's demise. As she did so, Nilp left twisting on the ground, ran up, shook her hand and said, "Thank you." Panakeia groaned, almost certain that she was making a mistake. But it was too late now.

[Kath]

Sai watched in amusement as Alli conducted a somewhat one-sided conversation with the newly shrunk CoDzilla. She felt much more at ease now that there were more people who agreed with the idea of avoiding lynching any members of the Offending Party. However, it seemed that there were to be two lynchings each day now, and if none of those lynched were revealed to be wolves the focus might still turn inward.

But, if they were going to keep on with the idea of lynching the newcomers they were already doing well, with two votes for the schizoid Nilpaurion Felagund already - including one for himself!

Pulling a piece of paper and a pencil from her pocket, Sai quickly made a list of who was in the village and those votes that had already turned up, hoping that a bit of organisation might help them with this particular task.

Panakeia ~ Nilpaurion Felagund
CoD(zilla)
Alli
Fea
Nilpaurion Felagund ~ Nilpaurion Felagund
Wilhelmina
Aimè
Tom Felton
Mardil
SpaM
Fléin
Mormegil
Valde
Anakron

She wasn't sure whether Anakron was allowed to vote, but put him on the end just in case. Pulling Alli away from the pool and back to the group she showed them all the list.

"I suggest that we organise who will vote for who if we've got to do a double lynching. Panakeia, you've already voted for Nilpaurion Felagund so that's begun one bandwagon, but who should we start the other on?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fea walked over and responded to Sai.

"I think that we should band-wagon Saucie. I mean... SpaM. See, it's tradition for me to fight for his early death. You can't break tradition, right? But my reasoning is better than that which I outwardly display: He's very clever. He could write us into a corner easily and we'd never know. If he's a wolf, we're not going to know it until it's too late. He'll never appear as anything but innocent... the only sure way to know is if he's killed, and we'd want that early since if he's lupine and we kill him late, he'll have had plenty of time to lay traps and manipulate our thoughts to where he wants them."

Alli was annoyed to realize that she agreed with Fea again. She spoke up.

"Fea's got a bit of a point. What we really need to know though, is if there's a Seer amongst us. I mean... I'm sure there's a Seer amongst--" she waved her arms to convey that she meant everybody in the village, "us, but if there's a Seer amongst us" Now she just meant the women present "then we could form a group as... wait... that'd be a bad idea. It would work perfectly if we were all innocent... but odds are, and knowing my luck, at least one of us is just asking to be killed."

"Kill me." laughed Fea.

"Shut it." snapped Alli.

Fea stuck out her tongue and Alli flipped her off. Fea laughed at her. Alli glared and considered smacking her. Fea was too irreverant for her liking. It was like she wasn't afraid of what anybody thought. That was good sometimes, but right now, people's thoughts dictated survival. Fea was being really stupid. Maybe she was just really tired.

"Fea, go to bed." Alli ordered. Surprisingly enough, Fea agreed. Sai and Panakeia (and a slightly nervous CoD that kept eying the water he was in dubiously) watched the argument curiously.

"Okay... good idea... I think I'm going to go take a nap now. I skipped the class that my alter-ego was supposed to go to for that purpose. I suppose I should carry it out."

With that, she disappeared into her cottage and within moments, the village could hear her muttering in her sleep.

[Kath]

"Ok. So we're going to try and get SpaM and Nilp lynched? I'm alright with that I suppose but what about mormegil? He clever and sober, and from what I've heard of him he's just as likely to try and take control over everything."

Instead of the calm discussion she hoped would follow, everyone suddenly started arguing. Accusations were flying between the females, some of them nothing to do with werewolvishness. Sai realised that no decision would be reached if this continued, so she stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Those in the near vicinity leapt backwards and stared at her in either astonishment or annoyance (depending on how close they'd been). Thankfully though, they all shut up.

"We're not going to get anywhere like this. How about a vote. All those who would prefer to lynch SpaM raise your right hand, and all those who want to raise mormegil raise your left hand."

She stood back a little and raised her left hand, and as she did so she saw the dwarf, Fléin, move towards the little group with his left hand raised.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Eomer sulked. He was in no mood to be particularly nice to anyone. Sure, he would be polite to them if any of them felt the need to talk to him, but there's a huge difference between being polite and being nice.

It appeared that this Anakron Wizard, or whatever the Angband he was, had turned some people into Werewolves, or some other convoluted plot. Eomer was fairly certain that he hadn't been affected by the magic, or whatever. How then could he find the Wolves, and be of assistance to the group? He spluttered in grim laughter as he thought this: Why on Middle-earth would he want to help others? What had they ever done for him other than make his life even more uncomfortable and unpredictable than it had been before? Nothing. He sat still and pouted.

He looked again at that blond chap, that 'Mormegil'. There was something about him; Eomer had a strange feeling about him, almost as if he had crossed swords with him before, in a dream perhaps? He was exceedingly wary of him. Look at him, bullying that 'SPM' fellow, trying to take control of the group. Very suspicious, Eomer thought. And there's always that 'Nilp' weirdo. Check him out, raw meat and blood dribbling down his chin; a wild look in his eyes. Kill him and improve the civility of this village at least.

And then he looked again at the young ladies in the group, specifically Alli, but he forgot not the glint in Fea's eye. If I were a Werewolf, Eomer thought, what would I do? Put on a cloak of fairness, of course. Try my utmost to 'feel fair' despite my evil interior. Well, those two are certainly actively employed in making themselves look fair....or maybe just hot. I suppose there is a difference—but the general intent could be equated.

I do wonder. Was that argument they had just for show? Are they trying too hard to look good? Are they....Werewolves?

Eomer knew this for certain. He was going to hide and try to discourage votes that way. He resumed sulking.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin watched the girls carefully over the next few hours. They had a little club, it seemed, but they couldn't all be wolves. Still... Sai and Alli kept whispering too each other, putting hands on shoulders and such. It was disconcerting. It was worrying.

So, when Sai suggested the lynching of mormegil, he was hardly in the mood to listen to her. Even if he wasn't a werewolf, Fléin could be quite sure mormegil wasn't a lesbian. Unless... no, he was just being paranoid. It was impossible! No, mormegil would live. He'd vote for either Sai or Alli.

He was just about to shout this out to the group, all of whom were arguing viciously amongst themselves, when he heard mormegil's voice rise over the hubbub. "Honestly, lynching me? The entire idea is as ridiculous as that stupid Bilbo!"

Fléin found himself suddenly quivering with rage. He could feel himself reddening. "What did you say?" he yelled at the apeman, rushing through the crowd to face him, shoving aside Sai and Valde in the process. "What did you say?" he spat in the mage's face.

"I said it was as silly as Bilbo, that stupid little hobbit who thought he was an el-"

"Stupid? Stupid?" One or two people around them were staring now, but Fléin certainly didn't care. "Do you know who that stupid hobbit was? What he was? Can that little ape brain of yours even contemplate the horrors he went through, the bravery with which he acted? The only Dwarf-friend in all history... STUPID?"

Mormegil had been paling visibly throughout the tirade, and was about to reply as unshakily as he could manage, but quickly checked himself as the Dwarf pulled his axe off his back and waved it in his face.

For his part, Fléin was more than ready to gut mormegil now for the dishonour. Unfortunately, just as he was about to do so, a piercing whistle nigh deafened him, and he turned around to face the source of the interruption.

Needless to say, he found himself in accord with the potential lesbian and threat to family values and ideals on the subject of mormegil. So rash was he, that he voted immediately, loud and clear for all to hear. Mormegil must die.

++Mormegil

Behind him, he heard SPaM agree with him, and he too cast his vote for the hideous apeman. "Now wait a second," mormegil argued, "how can we trust that drunkard? His vote should be repealed on grounds of inebriation!"

"Shame!" the Dwarf roared, and all turned to look at him. "Shame on you, mormegil Apeson, for the lies you spin. You would accuse SPaM here, when all can see that he is perfectly incapable of murder."

"But-"

"Do not interrupt me!" the Dwarf raged, temporarily assuming the form of a mad axeman. "Not only is he completely drunk, he's covered in bathtubs! How do you think he could even move around with that weight on his shoulders? Impossible! Next you'll suggest the Sun is at fault for setting on this cursed village."

Mormegil had nothing to say in his defence.

"Well, if that's settled, I'll be back in two hours. I have a project to be getting on with," Fléin stated and walked off. The rest of the village watched him leave the little settlement and walk straight into the surrounding forest. Some regarded this as a sign of wolvery, some of insanity. Only Wilhelmina and SPaMfully trusted his sanity and dwarvery, though neither of them were hugely reliable sources on sanity.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim laughed to see the villagers run about in such confusion at the sudden turn of events. It was a deep laugh, like that of a large dog-like creature, which quickly turned into something very much like a howl. He hid the sound with the back of his furry hand. At first this raised many eyebrows, both Spockian and not, but Fordim was quick to point out that he did have the head and countenance of a pug, and that it was to be expected that he would from time to time sound like a member of the genus canus.

He sat upon the ground and surveyed those gathered about, assessing who or what might be a werewolf.

Panakeia he decided could not be a wolf just because of the way she looked.

CoD(zilla) probably was a wolf just because of the way he looked.

Alli: wolf.

Fea : wolf. Or maybe innocent. Could be the cobbler. Possibly even the seer. Maybe the hunter.

Nilpaurion Felagund : innocent but slippery: should probably be hanged.

Wilhelmina: wolf.

Aimè: Scottish -- deserves to hang whether wolf or not. Haggis!? Deep-fried Mars Bars?!?!?

Tom Felton: never heard of him. Hang him.

Mardil: wolf.

SpaM: who knows...who cares...

Fléin: probably innocent but maybe not. Good candidate for a hanging either way.

Mormegil: definitely a wolf.

Valde: never heard of the man...probably can't be trusted.

Anakron: wolf! wolf!

Realising that he had got nowhere with his thinking Fordim did what he always did when confused in a game of werewolf:

++THE SAUCEPAN MAN

He then wandered off to find a fire hydrant, or a convenient tree, both of which, he found, were in short supply in Mordor....

[the guy who be short]

Only an hour later, Fléin returned to the group, bearing what looked like the beginnings of a fence and a heavy sack. All debate died away as everybody turned to look at him, fascinated.

"What have I missed, then?" he rumbled, and was treated to a mumble from ten different people, from which he gathered that only one other vote had been cast, Fordim for SPaM. He glared at the Dogman. What was this, anyway, the village of freaks?

Panakeia asked the inevitable question. "Why have you got the beginnings of a fence and a sack? The werewolves are already amongst us. A fence won't help at all."

Fléin turned his glare to her. "This," he announced majestically, "is not a fence. This," he paused again for effect, provoking a sniff from Valde, "is a numbering device."

There were general murmurs of confusion, but the Dwarf continued speaking over them, so that they died down rapidly. "It works so: For every one of us, there is a stick and a stone. Sticks and stones, you may know, may hurt our bones. Each stick and stone has a name engraved upon it."

"Now, the sticks are to be stuck in the ground in a row. Each person is to collect their rock. When you vote for somebody, you place your stone under their stick. A simple method to keep track of what's going on."

"What do we do with the stick and stone after somebody's been lynched?"

"The stone," Fléin answered with a smile, "is flung at the accused, whereafter the stick may be thrust through their body."

There was an uproar at this comment, especially from those looking likely to be lynched, but the system was reading adopted. Fourteen sticks were shoved into the ground, with two stones around mormegil's, two around Nilp's, and one around SPaM's.

The debate soon continued.

[Kath]

As the stones were placed around the sticks a splashing sound was heard. Everyone turned to CoD's pool, only to see Nilpaurion Felagund, the self-picked candidate, leaning over with a hungry glint in his eyes, and one of Fléin's sticks in his hand. He was chasing CoD around the pool with it but his unfortunte lack of hand eye coordination meant that he was somehow poking himself more often than CoD. Sighing Sai took the stick from the madman's hand and threw it off into the distance, watching as he ran after it. Crouching down by the side of the pool she decided it was time to try and get another vote in.

"CoD, if you can hear and understand me, splash once."

One splash.

"Great, you know what's going on - the double lynching and everything?"

One splash.

"Ok, so, who do you want to vote for. One splash for Nilp and two for mormegil."

One splash.

"Thank you."

Standing up Sai added one stone to the pile around Nilp's stick. She quite liked Fléin's sticks and stones idea, except that she felt the system would be too easy to tamper with. Just in case, she added CoD's vote to her list and officially announced her vote for mormegil, writing that down as well as adding a stone to his stick.

Panakeia ~ Nilpaurion Felagund
CoD(zilla) ~ Nilpaurion Felagund
Alli
Fea
Nilpaurion Felagund ~ Nilpaurion Felagund
Wilhelmina
Aimè
Tom Felton
Mardil
SpaM ~ mormegil
Fléin ~ mormegil
Mormegil
Valde
Anakron
Fordim ~ SpaM
Sai ~ mormegil

So, equal right now but plenty of people left to vote. Moving into 'irritating in charge mode' Sai set about obtaining votes from those who had yet to make one.

[Durelin]

Valde raised a quivering eyebrow.

By observing the people around him, he would have thought that this was some simple game produced from the warped and overrated genius of the overbearing resident of a pointlessly well-funded barrow.

Suddenly two plus signs emerged from his mouth, along with the words, “Captain no space of no space Despair,” ignoring the bow he grasped and the quiver of arrows slung about him.

He sincerely wished that the Anakron would be hung, but he actually would much prefer to see him mauled by wolves. And he knew that SpaM spewed nonsense with a clattering racket, and something from one of his past lives told him that this Mormegil person was up to no good. But alas, when his life was so terrible, his every waking hour so miserable, he simply did not care whose neck adorned what noose, and he quickly went back to prank calling dairy cows about making them into shoes.

(That short look into the mind of Valde Delego could have been avoided if you had simply let your eyes take you to this obnoxiously bolded statement: ++CaptainofDespair)

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Eomer sulked. He was not enjoying this at all. Moreover, his fingers ached, because he had not had access to a guitar and thus could not play bar chords. This was particularly gruesome because, much like continuous drinking of alcohol will evade hangovers, continuous playing of bar chords (which was strongly encouraged by the Mordorian authorities) would stave off the inhumane physical effects of playing bar chords. As a result, Eomer's fingers were now totally deformed, bruised and bloody. He was feeling extremely sorry for himself.

He looked up and caught Fordim staring at him. What a freak, thought Eomer. Who's he trying to impress with that snout? And he had the temerity to look disgusted at Eomer! Well, insofar as such an odd face could look disgusted. Eomer shuddered and turned away.

He practically jumped out of his boots as he noticed that Nilpaurion Felagund had crept up behind him. With long straggly hair and a wholly mischievous look in his eye, he winked at Eomer.

"Hello, good sir" he said in a curiously cultured voice, which sharply contrasted with his filthy and bloody appearance. "Might I campaign for your vote?"

Eomer just gaped at him. "You want me to vote for you? But....you'll be killed if you get votes. Are you out of your mind?"

"That is such a complicated question I would advise you not to let me explain the answer" said Nilp, all the while making strange and unsettling faces at Eomer. It was as if a bunch of people were trying to coexist in that head. "Shame about your fingers; here, hold this against them." He tossed some raw meat to Eomer but Eomer was too bewildered to act. The slab of meat—which was not especially dainty—landed on Eomer's delicate hand, forcing him to yowl in pain.

"If I vote for you will you leave me alone!" wailed Eomer. Nilp just winked again, and scuttled off.

What an odd person, thought Eomer, as he kissed his poor fingers better. When he was quite over the shock of the injury, he walked over to the Dwarf's Stick'n'Stone arrangement, and cast his vote.

++NILPAURION FELAGUND

As he did it, he thought that the Offending Party Members would all vote for a newcomer. Would the newcomers be clever enough to strategize against this? "Hopefully no-one would vote for such a handsome and poorly man as myself" he mumbled, still sucking his fingers.

As he walked back over to his favourite 'alone place'—a crumbled wall quite near the well—he overheard someone say "Whoa! Check that guy's fingers! How sick is that!!!" Eomer didn't make eye contact, but he at least took some pleasure in knowing that whoever said it deserved to be assigned to Mordor.

"Not like me..." he sighed.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fea looked a lot more with it after her long nap, Alli decided. She looked slightly concerned for unidentifiable reasons, but other than that, she was pretty chipper. Alli watched her take a stone and toss it from hand to hand a few times. In a short amount of time, attention was on her. Sai questioned her.

"Have you decided who to vote for?" Fea looked confused for a moment and then realized where she was. Sleeping through the middle hours of the day was slightly disorienting, she realized.

"Yes..." she said hesitatingly.

Carefully she set her stone in place. She wasn't confident about her vote, but she at least knew who she didn't want to kill.

++Mormegil

"As I lay half asleep, I thought of something as though it were from another lifetime. I saw an image of Mormegil garbed in fur with sharpened teeth and a demonic glint in his eye. I saw myself as a wolf beside him, conversing in low growls. I saw his martyrdom and I saw the werewolves ruthlessly slaughter the villagers. I've seen what he is capable of. I know that I have never been a werewolf... not in this reality that we live in... but I cannot help but feel like my thoughts had some sort of meaning."

"Are you the Seer?" the crowd clamoured.

"The what? Oh, Seer... no... remember, I wasn't actually asleep, therefore it wasn't a dream, therefore it's occurrence has no importance except that I can use it as an excuse to vote for him."

Alli didn't like this logic at all, but was at least happy that she didn't see any Offenders dying. Maybe tomorrow she'd vote for Feanor of the Crazedhil, but until then, she'd made up her mind.

++Nilp

"Yes... Nilp." said Alli. "He's crazy. We can't trust a crazy person. Even if he's innocent, he'll no doubt vote out of sheer lunacy and his lack of logic and compassion could mean the difference between our escape from Mordor and our untimely demise."

Aimè nodded at her choice and Nilp ran up and kissed her. Alli smacked him and said "Down boy." He wagged his tail.

"Good, good," he muttered. "That's four. Vote Rate 25%. Lynch rate uncertain. Shut up Alice. No you shut up Adam. Be quiet, both of you, do you want us to die? Yes."

Alli looked at him and rolled her eyes. The rest of the group fully understood her vote.

Tom now spoke. "I'd like to vote for all of these ++FANGIRLS."

He gestured toward the hundred or so drooling lasses that stood some fifteen feet behind him. Another hundred or so ogled Mardil and many dozen others stared longingly at the mysterious Aimè. Forty-two looked hungrily at Flein.

"You know," said Fea... "If we vote off a few dozen fangirls every night, we'll never even have to kill each other. We'll be rid quite a plague of idiocy, we'll all live, and... well... it'll be sort of like watching The Darwin Awards. If we kill them before they can procreate, we'll be helping ensure that the gene pool isn't tainted by them. We'll never be haunted by guilt that the reason that our grandkids are dumber than rocks is because we let these idiots reproduce and their offspring hooked up with ours."

[Encaitare]

Well, well, well, thought Wilhelmina as she noted that Nilpaurion Felagund had received yet another vote. She tried to reason out whether she should support that bandwagon. It was never a good idea to gang up on people, she knew, but Nilpaurion, or Adam, or Alice, or whoever he was, did not seem to be in a state of mind that had ever known sanity.

If Nilp was really a wolf, why would he want to get lynched? Therefore he had to be an innocent. But he might be a wolf pulling a clever bluff, knowing that people would think a wolf would never vote for himself. Therefore, he had to be a wolf. But a wolf wouldn't be so reckless, especially not so early on. Therefore, he had to be an innocent. But neither would an ordo, who would want to stay alive long enough to help catch the other wolves. Therefore, he had to be a wolf. Or perhaps he was completely crackers, and thought it would be better to get killed off now before the wolves got him. Or perhaps that made sense -- he wouldn't want to risk being slain, or even turned into one of the beasts?

"Inconceivable!" Wilhelmina said, shaking her head in confusion. Although there was no way of knowing whether he was actually a wolf or not, he was bothering her to no end. That kind of confusion and uncertainty would only throw them off the trail of getting the rest of the lycans.

And with that, she cast her vote for

++ NILPADALICION FELAGUND

"Thank you very much, ma'am," Nilp said to her with a courteous bow. "You've made the right choice." He gave her what he probably thought was a winning smile, but was really just a baring of blood-stained fangs.

"I'm sure I have," said Wilhelmina, taking a small degree of comfort in the fact that there was someone else in the world a bit loonier than she.

[littlemanpoet]

"The sun has set upon the proceedings," Anakron intoned, and got up from his lazyboy. "And no, I am not going to vote, for I am not part of the villager, per sé. I am the Grand Anakronist, and that is enough. Let it be known and understood that Hookbill the Goomba and Mardil have chosen not to vote.

"We do have two villagers who have received the most votes. Nilpaurion Felagund, and Mormegil. Lynch away." Anakron resumed his chair and popped popcorn into his mouth in eager expectation of the grisly lynchings of the two top vote getters.

The crowd of villagers stared at Anakron (except for the fangirls who all continued staring and drooling at various hot hunks as if thinking, "This is it? Now we have to do it?" They suddenly all seemed rather reluctant to go through with it.

Elempí's blackened tongue and vocal chords were hopping around again, yelling at the top of their missing lungs: "Assume nothing! Assume nothing!"

"Oh hush, you," said Anakron. The tongue quit hopping and moped.

"Fléin the Dwarf," observed SpaM, who had sobered up appreciably as the day had lengthened, "has provided us with the means for the lynching. And we cannot exactly use the gallows, as nobody as bothered to remove Elempí's body from it. Anyone willing to do so?"

They all looked at the maundering, fly-bitten corpse, and shook their heads 'no'.

SpaM picked up the first stone and heaved it at Mormegil.

"Hey!" cried Mormegil, most unoriginally, backing away in a most sane manner.

"Stand still so we can hit you!" yelled Nilpaurion Felagund.

"Idiot! You received more votes than I!"

"So throw a stone at me!" Nilp retorted.

"Make them both shut up!" cried Hookbill. Suddenly sticks and stones broke many bones, and names had nothing to do with it.

Soon there were two mangled corpses lying beneath the gallows.

"Well done, my pretties," Anakron drawled. "Now bury all three bodies. We're not uncivilized here; at least, not yet."

Darkness fell.

[the phantom]

After giving the order for the burial, Anakron turned and walked towards a large hut in the middle of the little village. Mardil hurried after him. Upon reaching the door, Anakron turned and faced Mardil, who had caught up. "Well- are you going to explain just what in Mordor you've been up to?" asked Anakron. Mardil smiled and nodded. "And should I assume you have completed challenge number three?" Mardil nodded again. "Well, come inside and tell me everything at once, then."

"It's getting late, Anakron," objected Mardil. "Couldn't we just make sure challenge three is taken care of tonight and leave the full story until the morning?"

"No, absolutely not!" said Anakron. "I think you've been rather rude, avoiding contact with me and the other escapees all this time. I think you owe me the full tale tonight," said Anakron as he entered the hut.

"All right then, I'll summarize it for you," said Mardil as he followed Anakron through the door. The hut was one large room with a bed, a table, and two chairs. Anakron motioned for Mardil to sit as he sat down and pulled his chair up to the table. Mardil took his seat and immediately began talking.

"It all started with Roggie. As you remember, he carried me to Mount Doom along with Sai and Alli, only he wasn't nearly so gentle with me."

"Yes, yes, squeezed you quite a bit, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did, but I'm glad. You see, I had never been so close to death before. Or, well maybe I have, but the other times it was over so quick and with the adrenaline and all it didn't have that much of an impact on me. But this time was different. I had time to think about it. One of my knives was held in such a way that a lethal squeeze from him would deal him a deadly dose of cold virus, but that didn't make me feel any better. I mean, taking him with me wouldn't bring me back to life. I was in a situation that I was not in control of, and you know how I hate that."

"Anyway, after a bit, a roadside advertisement happened to catch my eye. I think it was for some sort of video game system. It said 'Life is a game'. And that got me thinking. If my life is a game, and I die right now in Roggie's hand, then I have lost the game."

"Well, Mardil," interrupted Anakron, "That's always true. If life is a game then you lose when you die."

"No no no, that's not it!" objected Mardil. "Everyone dies, but it can't be that everyone loses, right? I mean, what kind of game is that? No no, dying is just the end of the game. Whether you won or lost is determined by how many points you scored before you died."

"And how exactly do you 'score points'?" asked Anakron, rolling his eyes as he settled back in his chair. "A cute brunette is worth five, a foreign model worth eight, and a wealthy sexy actress worth ten, I suppose?"

Mardil grinned and shook his head. "Very funny, Anakron, but I'm not talking about that sort of game."

"Then what are you talking about?" asked Anakron.

"I'm talking about doing what you are supposed to do, what you should do, and what you can do. For some people, that isn't much. They aren't in a position to do much of anything. But me, on the other hand. I could really do something great for Gondor! That's what I need to do in order to win."

"Why do you want to play this game, anyway?" asked Anakron.

"What do you mean by that?" returned Mardil.

"What I mean is, why are you worried about winning this game? Why don't you just do what you want to do? Have fun, relax, lay out in the sun, hop in the hot tub with some cheerleaders, you know?"

"I don't know," answered Mardil. "I'd certainly like to do that. That's all I've done since coming to Mordor, and I looked forward to doing it even more once I got back home- that's the main reason why I wanted to leave Mordor. But after being close to death, I sort of... I don't know... rearranged what I thought was important."

"Say no more, Mardil, I know exactly what you mean. I was just wondering if you truly had a thought altering experience, and it is now clear to me that you have." Anakron leaned forward onto the table. "Now- tell me what sort of things you did while at Mount Doom. I know you were up to something."

Mardil smiled broadly and leaned forward, and began talking in a low voice. "Mount Doom was the perfect place for me to cut some deals and send messages. As you know, it is illegal to carry a message in or out of Mordor without direct permission from the King, which is for me more than anyone else impossible to obtain. However, the casinos and resorts of Mount Doom are home to quite a few organizations that specialize in illegal activities, like message carrying. So, I got someone to take a message to my father and he returned an answer."

"What did he say?" asked Anakron anxiously.

"He's preparing for my return. His staff and speech writers are preparing a campaign that denounces the King for sending me to Mordor despite the fact that I did not speak an anachronism. He will also start an ad campaign blaming the King for all the corruption that has engulfed Gondor's government, as well as the weakened state of the military."

"Is he preparing fighting forces, just in case?" asked Anakron.

"Oh, yes, but it's being done quietly, and we hope it won't come to that," answered Mardil.

"What else did you do while staying at Mount Doom?" prodded Anakron.

"I forged a key alliance with a head of state and took over a powerful criminal organization," answered Mardil with a tone of general boredom.

"And how did you manage that?"

"Well, Roggie and I had to work together on that movie you put me in, and while we were together we got to talking. I admitted that my initial hostility towards him was very much based on stories of balrogs in the past, who were always pure evil. Roggie, however, is different. As soon as I saw him interacting with Alli that evening he carried me to Mount Doom, I realized he had some amount of goodness in him. After getting to know him, I found out that Melkor had duped him into servitude, and that he was happy when Angband was destroyed. Anyway, to make a long story short, Roggie and I reached an understanding, and after he was appointed the new Lord of Mount Doom, I made a little treaty with him. He pledged the support of Mount Doom and the surrounding area to me and my father, and in return I will, when I have taken hold of my destiny, make him Prince of Mordor. He will no longer be under the authority of the Grand Anakronist. But you won't mind, Anakron, because by that time you won't be the Grand Anakronist anymore- you'll be relaxing in Minas Tirith with servants at your disposal. So, did I do well?"

"Yes, yes, you did," said Anakron. "That explains the 'treaty with a head of state' thing, but what about the part with you becoming the head of a criminal organization?"

"Oh, I nearly forgot. I bumped into Khamul in the hotel. You know Khamul, right?"

"Of course!" snorted Anakron. "He's one of the three remaining Nazgul, and wields more illegal power than any other being in Middle Earth."

"Precisely!" said Mardil. "I arranged a talk with him, and he agreed to hand over his organization to me in exchange for a couple favors. Favor one- I didn't kill him. As you know, my family has a history of killing Nazgul. I have a couple of knives especially designed for it, and he knew it. Favor two- I told him I'd allow him to retire to Minas Tirith to stay in the Hospital for Recovering Evil Wraiths. As you know, he was downright horrible for centuries, but have you noticed that the last couple hundred years he's been doing illegal things such as money laundering and tax evasion far more than killing and stealing? I think Sauron's corruptive influence is beginning to wane, and he also thinks that is what is going on. He wants to try and find himself again- the way he was before Sauron and the ring Sauron gave to him."

"Well," said Anakron, "That's great and all, but what are you going to do as the head of a criminal organization? I didn't think you were that sort of person."

"I'm not. I'm going to use it's resources and influence to help my father and I, and when we have accomplished our goal I'll destroy the organization for good!"

"Excellent, Mardil, I assume you have detailed plans for everything?"

"Oh yes, never fear," said Mardil.

"But what about the third challenge," reminded Anakron. "I cannot let you leave Mordor unless you complete all of your tasks by the end of the final day of the escape. That's what the rules say. Now, you say you completed the challenge, correct?"

"Yes, I did."

"All right then. What did you take, and who did you take it from?" asked Anakron.

"During the making of that movie, I got to rub elbows with one of the other stars, J K Rowling. I coaxed her into giving me her most prized possession- the plot to her next Harry Potter book!"

Anakron's jaw dropped. "You're kidding!"

"No, I'm not."

"Then, you know what Professor Snape-"

"Yes."

"And if he's a-"

"Yes."

"And what all the horcruxes-"

"Yes."

"And if Malfoy-"

"Yes."

"And if Harry is-"

"Yes."

"And if he-"

"Of course."

"Wow! Are you serious?"

"Ask J K."

"All right, I will. I hope you don't mind, but I simply must, in the interest of running a fair escape, check your claim," said Anakron apologetically.

"I don't mind at all," said Mardil. "Look, I'd love to stay and chat, but it's really getting late. The werewolves will be out in another hour or so."

"Oh, thanks for reminding me!" exclaimed Anakron, standing to his feet. He shuffled over to his bed and pulled from beneath the mattress a small green stone. He tossed it to Mardil, who caught it.

"What is this?"

"This stone forces werewolves back into their human form when they get within ten yards or so of it. That way, if the wolves try to come after you, they will turn back into humans as soon as they crash into your hut," explained Anakron, "And I know you can deal with three humans quite easily," he added, eying Mardil's vast array of weaponry.

Mardil walked over to the door and opened it. "Thanks," he said over his shoulder before closing the door.

[littlemanpoet]

Dawn arrived and, unlike the previous day, everyone was up with sun, anxious to see what the werewolves had done.

"doubleyouteeyef!" said Alli.

Strewn across the entire village were the bodies of all the fangirls, in various states of manglement.

"It would seem that the werewolves have done us a favor," remarked Panakeia.

"Well, that knocks down the number of innocents a good bit," CoD said, who had miraculously developed the ability to speak overnight. "So much for lynching the lot of 'em."

"So who are the werewolves, benevolent as they have been in getting rid of the worst sort amongst us?" said the completely inebriated SpaM.

And so the discussions began.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin's voice was loudest in the ensuing conversation. "That CoD simply cannot be trusted!" he yelled over and over again, ignoring the shouts he received in response. The pond where the fish dwelt drenched all those nearby as CoD thrashed about in response to the accusations, most of which nobody could hear due to the volume of the debate.

"Quiet! Quiet!" the voice of Sai chirped to no avail, barely audible. "Please... be quiet! Please!" Then, she was queit herself for a second, followed by a piercing whistle even louder than that of yesterday. Fléin was sure he felt part of his brain melt in protest.

Silence followed, and everybody turned to look at Sai on the outskirts of the group. "Well, now that I've got your attent-"

Two wails cut her off. Tom Felton and Mardil - the two who had been standing closest to Sai - were the twin sources. It was soon ascertained that Sai's whistle had deafened them, and they were led off to sit on the side and learn to lipread, if they could.

"Well, that's suspicious and no mistake," Valde announced with the air of one stating the obvious. They all turned to look at him, and he duly feigned ignorance of their confusion.

"Well?" Alli interrogated.

"Hmm... what's that?" Valde continued his theatrics.

"How is deafness suspicious? Wolves have a better sense of hearing than humans."

"All the easier to render them deaf with!" Valde exclaimed triumphantly. "Yes, I'm certain of it."

The noise of mass debate erupted once more at this comment, with the two accused staring on, clueless.

"Quiet!" Sai screamed over it all, and this time they all fell silent instantaneously. Nobody wanted a repeat performance of The Whistle. All heads turned to her. "If this is to work," she said slowly, "we need to act like civilised people." Fléin sniffed at her, but she ignored it. "We need a judiciary system."

"We have a democracy!" various voices cried out.

"Yes, we do, but we have no judicial process. All we have is a rabble of noise that nobody can hear over. It's ridiculous. I can't cope. We need a System."

"What I propose is this: We form a circle, right here, opposite the sticks and stones that hurt our bones. When somebody wants to make an accusation, they step forward into the middle of the circle and present their case, unimpeded. Thereafter, the accused may offer his or her defence."

There were murmurs of approval. Fléin had to admit that the girl had brains, even if she did choose to disguise the fact most thoroughly. Then again, he thought chauvinistically, lesbians were almost men, and men were, of course, far more intelligent than women.

A short while later, a circle was established, and everybody had a log to sit on. CoD had a space at the corner of the circle. Special arrangements would be made if he wished to present a case: a small plastic bowl was placed next to his pond.

--------------------------------------------------------

Fléin was the first to present a case, against CoD. He wandered into the centre of the circle and attacked the fish for at least ten minutes. There was no way, he told them, that they could trust a creature so prone to transformation. From beast to fish to talking fish, he seemed to morph every few minutes. Being a lycanthrope was probably as easy as sleeping for him.

There was a general murmur of agreement from the group. Fléin particularly noticed Valde vigorously nodding his head. Though CoD was given the chance to defend himself, most people were too bemused by the presentation of a talking dinner to actually listen to what he said.

[the phantom]

For a while it looked like there would be an all out war in the village, but soon cooler heads prevailed, and the villagers voted to take a twenty minute break in order to consider the recent happenings. Twenty minutes had come and gone however, and still the group was not all present.

"Well, there's SPaM," said Sai as SPaM came stumbling up the path from the tavern, "But we're still missing Mardil."

"Yes, and that Fea girl," added Wilhelmina.

"I think I saw the both of them headed over that way," said Panakeia, waving in the direction of Mardil's hut.

"Yeah," sniggered Fléin, "I'm sure they're having a nice little chat."

"Yes, yes," agreed Valde, "The two of them looked like they were getting quite cozy after dinner yesterday."

"I'm going to go fetch them back," said Alli through gritted teeth. She began walking briskly towards Mardil's hut.

"Wait, I'll go too," said Sai, hurrying after her.

When she reached the door, Alli pounded on it as hard as she could. "Mardil! We're all waiting for you!" From inside the hut came the sound of clinking metal, shuffling feet, and unintelligible whispering.

"Just a minute!" called Mardil's voice. "I'm almost ready! I'm just picking up some things in here. I'll be there shortly!"

"Well, why don't you let me help you?" asked Alli fiercely.

"No, no, that's really not necessary!" answered Mardil. "Look, why don't you run along and-"

"Oh, don't be silly, Mardil, Sai and I will help." Alli pushed the door open forcefully and took in the scene. Mardil was standing in the middle of the room, halfway through pulling his shirt on. His light leather armor and cloak were lying in a heap on the floor along with his weapons, as well as a navy long sleeve t-shirt and a leather jacket, both of which belonged to Fea. Fea was seated on the table clad in a tight black t-shirt and faded jeans and was pulling her socks and shoes on.

"Come on, Alli, let's go back like he said," suggested Sai, anxious to avoid any sort of conflict. Surprisingly, Alli allowed herself to be led away in silence.

------------

"Well Mardil, I certainly hope you're proud of yourself," whispered Sai as Mardil sat down next to her. Alli was sitting apart from everyone else on a tree stump.

"I am proud of myself," said Mardil.

"Excuse me? Why in the world would you be proud about-"

"Spare me the lecture and take a look at this, Sai," said Mardil cutting Sai off and shoving a small black book into her hand.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I spotted that Fea lass reading it on several occasions, but only when she thought she wasn't being watched. Every time someone came around, she'd stow it in her jacket. But, as you can see, I managed to get it from her while she was occupied with, well... me."

"Well, that's very clever and all," said Sai as she thumbed through the pages of the book, "But what good does this do? The book's cover and pages are blank."

"They just look blank, m'dear," said Mardil. "I did a bit of spying and figured out how to read the book. Whenever Fea pulled it out, she waved her hand over it like this, and said 'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good'."

Sai gasped as golden words appeared on the cover of the book. As they became more clear, she read them out loud. "The Phantom's Comprehensive Guide to Slaughtering Villages."

"So, what do you think?" whispered Mardil.

Sai began flipping through the book, its pages now filled with writing. Much of the book was highlighted. The highlighted sections said things like the first priority is always killing the seer, it is nearly always a bad idea to kill a fellow wolf when there is another choice, don't make kills that leave an obvious trail whether it is false or not, and don't lie- tell truths that don't lead to the truth.

"Well," said a shocked Sai, "This is some pretty good evidence."

"Yes it is," agreed Mardil. "Let's go ahead and present our case right away."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fea grimaced over the dead bodies of the fangirls. She'd grabbed her jacket on her way out of Mardil's, pulling it on and shoving her shirt back into the bag that it had fallen out of. Now that she'd had a hot cup of tea to soothe her mood and a clean pair of socks to sooth her obsession with cleanliness, she was ready to combat werewolves again, whether the villagers agreed with her plan or not. She reached into her pocket for her dusty guide on how werewolves think (knowledge of this historically helped to fight them) and found it missing. She must have lost it when she was visiting with Mardil and learning about the politics of Gondor. Fea was a New York girl, after all, and was always interested in foreign politics and customs. But the book was gone... she'd have to be even more resourceful now.

Alli watched in wonder and intense hurt as Fea lit a fire and added some sort of shimmering powder to it. She held back tears as the flames leapt high, spraying sparks at all those close. The group backed away hastily, abandoning their seats and leaving Fea shrouded in smoke and glittering fire. She was sillhouetted starkly and seemed not to fear the flickering danger bare inches away from her. She chanted in a language foreign to all present.

Shapes began to appear in the fire. Fea greeted them with a crazed grin as she continued to conjure.

"Lycaeus, trickster of the divine, I welcome you more than did Zeus. Peter Stubb, may your horrifying ways be more productive to us than they were to you in Cologne. Thiess, you are welcome to us. Vereticus, regards. Raimbaud of Auvergne, welcome. Romulus, Remus... Fenrir Greyback, Sinfjotli and Sigmund."

The villagers, Alli not least, watched in horror as Feanor of the Peredhil called past and present werewolves to her. Condemnation was inevitable.

"We must kill her!" screamed Alli in fear and confusion. In terror of the werewolves before her, Alli even forgot what she thought she had witnessed behind Mardil's door. "Before she brings death to us all!"

"No!" shrieked Feanor, lost to her own arrogance and impatience. "They will not kill the villagers! I will not let them! They owe me their existence in this place... they will not turn on me!"

"Then just what is your plan, oh great one, that you can call upon magic and witchery in order to summon ancient legends long passed into the forgotten histories of our worlds.. and that you can steal so easily the mythology of other cultures for your own pedantic uses!?"

"How do you not expect them to kill us all? Mardil was right about you!" shouted Sai over the roar of the fire, madly brandishing Fea's handbook.

"You do not understand!" cried Fea. "My logic is undeniable!" Mardil looked at her with a pitying smirk. Her eagerness to learn had played right into his hands. He'd gotten her guide. She was a lycan. There was no doubt of it in anybody's minds. "No, listen to me!"

The group was moving in. Fea was protected only by the lethal heat of the fire and, of course, the large and impressive group of werewolves that were standing beside her.

"We will kill them, one or more each night! We will not sacrifice our own, we will sacrifice those already gone! Do you not understand? It is for the good of the village. They cannot kill more that the three wolves already present could. Our death toll will not go up each morning, however we will be able to slaughter known werewolves every night until this nightmare ends!"

Alli was quite certain that Fea was certifiably insane.

"++FEA" she screamed. "And ++ALL OF THOSE DAMNED LYCANS!" While she was quite certain that she wasn't allowed more than one vote, she was also pretty certain that breaking rules had been assigned to Mordor at least once, so she didn't really mind doing it. And her vote for Fea couldn't possibly have had anything to do with the betrayed tears that freely flowed down her cheeks. She couldn't possibly have let her emotions cloud her judgement. After all, it's not like she even liked Mardil, right?

[the guy who be short]

Fléin watched, dumbstruck, as Mardil and Sai took centre stage and came out with point after point after point against Fea. Her little book of mischief alone was enough to warrant instant condemnation; it had been passed around the circle twice and was currently on its third circuit. Fléin thought it might be a bad idea letting the other wolves read it, but it was necessary that everybody see the evidence.

Once it was over, nobody spoke for a while. Then Fléin jumped up and cried "That's more than enough evidence for me!" He strode over to Fea's post and placed his stone there.

He was followed by SPaM, who once again cast his vote with the Dwarf. But Fléin was puzzled to see the others sitting still upon their stumps. "Come, Men! We have a wolf here, without a doubt!"

Again a pensive silence, but this time it was broken, after a minute, by Wilhelmina. "Well, Fléin my dear, you do have a point but I see two small flaws with your plan."

The Dwarf nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"Firstly, we must multiple lynch. If we all vote for Fea, I don't know what Anakron will do - but it won't be pleasant, I can promise you that. So we need a second candidate with at least one vote."

The Dwarf nodded. "Fare enough," SPaM said, indicating his assent.

"The second problem," Wilhelmina continued tranquilly, "is the fact that Fea's run off."

The villagers looks around, stunned. Fea had indeed slunk off - there was an empty stump right there, where she should be! What were they to do now?

[Celuien]

Panakeia was throughly miffed. The efforts to identify werewolves in the village had been unsuccessful. And now she awoke to more death. Not that she missed the fangirls. Their constant shrieking throughly irritated her. Nor had they been interesting in purchasing Panakeia's beauty products. Orli didn't buy his cosmetics from her, so why should they? Nevertheless, she was frustrated by the village's failure. Not only was her pride injured by the fact that she helped lead the charge against an innocent (if insane) Nilp, but the nagging thought that she might not survive the next few days was growing.

Why did the wolves eat the fangirls? Panakeia had heard rumor of a powerful Seer in the village's midst, gifted to identify the wolves in dreams. This individual was the most dangerous to the lycans, yet they had made no move to attack. Unless, of course, they thought the fangirls were collectively the Seer, hiding by trying to act as silly and frivolous as possible. Or maybe the werewolves had just been hungry and picked the most obvious snack - there was no other way for them to gobble down so many villagers at once. Or maybe it was completely random.

The conflict starting between Mardil and Fea upset her. A line she had heard Valde (at the very thought of his name, her stomach began turning somersaults again. Must be the stale coffee, she thought) muttering popped into her head. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." Surely Fea wouldn't permit Mardil's attack to go unchallenged. If she started a Mardil bandwagon, that would open the way to attacking other members of the Offending Party. Not that she particularly cared for the Gondorian noble, but Panakeia was aware that she was not the most popular member of the Mordor (attempting) escapees. Once any of the Party earned votes, none were safe.

Should she vote for Fea, then? Panakeia was tempted to do so. Fea might become influential later and start a Mardil bandwagon. Lynching her now would preclude that possibilty. But something about the girl spoke to her innocence. Was her odd behavior enough to cast a vote in her direction? Panakeia already had the answer to that question in the form of Nilp's fresh grave. No, Fea would be safe from her, at least for today.

This is annoying me. Circular thinking, danger all around, and not even a decent salon in the whole place. Must...get...out. Suspecting that she at last had a glimpse into the mind of a fangirl, Panakeia found herself absolutely clueless. She decided to go after the safest candidate. Snatching Sai's whistle, she blew a loud, screeching note and stepped into the circle.

"Listen, everyone," she said. "We've made it through one night. We just need to survive tonight and maybe tomorrow. And we've nothing to go on to spot the wolves from the deaths of the fangirls. We have to have a double lynch, thanks to Anakron." She rolled her eyes at the mention of his name. "No one wants to kill innocents. So what I say is this. Fléin, as mush as I hate to say it, had a point eariler. For our second lucky candidate, let's lynch CoD. He's a monster turned fish, for crying out loud. So he's already proved his talent for transformations. Maybe he can turn into a wolf too. And if the fish isn't a wolf, at least we've saved ourselves some work. No need to bury a fish. We can eat it! Broiled cod!"

"No. Not broiled." said Mardil. "Florentine is much better."

A smirking Tom Felton said, "Bah. Eat it raw and wriggling." He was promptly pelted with wadded-up papers.

SPaM opened a bleary eye. "Anyshting's goos (urp) wish (urp) wine."

And as CoD splashed wildly in protest, the conversation turned to an argument over the best way to cook a seafood dinner.

[Encaitare]

"Now, nobody worry," said Wilhelmina calmly, standing up to address the group. "I'm sure Fea's just gone off to do something completely not related to lupine behavior. But in the event that she had, perhaps we ought to lynch her, as she seems quite mad."

Mutters of "Seems?" and "No kidding" drifted across the circle.

"We do have to lynch someone else as well, though," she continued. "And I would suggest SPaM for that position."

"Balderdash!" the drunkard slurred. "That'sh rid-- ridi-- that'sh shilly. How could I be a lyca-- oh, buggrit -- a wolf?"

"You could just be using the drunkeness as a cover!" she accused. "Trying to get us to think you're harmless, while you slaughter in the night! Or," she said, "I could be entirely mistaken. Either way, I think those bathtubs you wear upon your person are rather unusual. Might I recommend that you avoid the eggshell in future? It doesn't suit your complexion."

"Egadsh, woman!" cried SPaM. "The only mad pershon I shee here ish you!" Then he shook his head and tried to focus his gaze. "Although I do shee three of you. All three of yoush! There'sh the wolvesh!"

"Poor man," Wilhelmina said with pity, casting her vote for ++SPaM nevertheless.

[Celuien]

Panakeia blinked sadly at SPaM, curled up with a bottle of tavern beer in one of his bathtubs. What a shame, she thought. I'm sure he's brilliant when not hitting the sauce. I wonder why he does that? Wilhelmina's suggestion of drunkeness as a cover for lupine traits was not entirely convincing to her. SPaM's alcohol driven escapdes only made him more conspicuous, the last thing Panakeia figured a wolf would want to be. Though she thought she could understand why an innocent would take to drinking. The pressure of living in a werewolf infested village, however briefly, was too much.

Then another idea came to her. But she feared to give voice to her thought. Werewolves might be listening. Instead, she merely said, "Really, I don't think we should lynch SPaM. He doesn't seem like a wolf to me. Just an innocent, hapless drinker. And who knows? If we get him away from the tavern, he might sober up into a useful ally. Here. Let's get things rolling." She picked up her stone and cast a vote for ++CoD. A loud splash from the pond informed her that the fish was not pleased.

Then she tiptoed up to a newly snoring SPaM. Panakeia carefully took the bottle of beer from under his arm and poured the contents into an empty bottle from her sample case, then refilled the beer bottle with Formula 250 Energy Boosting Drink. I hope that helps some. Just sugar water, but it is better than booze. Then she grinned at CoD. Tapping the beer, she said, "Marinade, my friend. Marinade." CoD turned a dull, angry eye toward her. As he tried his best to splatter the pond water over her dress, she walked impassively out of range to await further developments in the village.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

“Well, I’m a cobbler,” said the rather defensive Hookbill as he moved behind a chair away from one of the villagers. “I’ve been here for three years. I’m not a new character, or even a cameo.”

“Then why,” enquired the villager, “does your post title say ‘Hookbill’s Cameo?’”
The little man stopped and thought. Too many questions so early in the morning, only four o’clock pm! Did these people have no respect? “You’re not supposed to be able to see that.” He mumbled eventually looking at his shoes and seeing an interesting pattern in the creases of the leather.

“Well, I don’t like this,” continued the villager, now getting rather annoyed, “You had better not meet me again, or you’ll be sorry.” The villager stormed out leaving footprints in the floorboards and breaking the door as it was closed. Hookbill slowly sunk to the ground and hummed to himself until a brick flew through his window and hit him on the head.
Awaking some time later, Hookbill found a note attached to the brick, ‘Shut up’ was written on one side. On the other was ‘Welcome to Dol Gaurgauroth. Please enjoy our snack bars’. He sighed and got back to work.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron slouched in his lazyboy, fanning himself with a left over piece of autograph paper taken from a fangirl corpse.

"Tut tut!" he said. "This is all getting rather undemonstrative. Where is the famed Alli? Where has Fea gotten off to? The Tragic Lead Actor has been rather quiet. And Mardil has been conspicuously quiet ever since he flamed up suspicion against Fea. Aimé is hiding again, and Fordim has gone sniffing after strangely scented opinion polls, no doubt.

"But that is nothing, my listeners, to compare with your sudden lack of creative imagination as compared with the last three challenges. What has come over you? The threat of death instead of mere failure to leave? What difference does that make?

"Assume nothing!"

Anakron lapsed into silence after this mirthful diatribe. The remaining villagers eyed him with obvious malice, clearly wishing they could lynch him. Anakron grinned as he snacked.

[the phantom]

"Well, Mardil, when are you going to cast your vote?" asked Eomer, flopping down beside Mardil during a village recess. "You're the one, after all, who led the way in accusing Fea."

Mardil took out one of his knives and began twirling it. "Oh, I suppose I'll go ahead and vote when everyone gets back."

"For Fea?" asked Tom Felton, scooting over closer to join in the conversation.

"No, probably for CoD," answered Mardil.

"Why not Fea?" asked Tom.

"For one thing, she's almost certain to get lynched anyway. Second, she's hot."

"I know what you mean, Mardil," agreed Eomer. "There's a shortage of hot women in the world. It would be a pity to damage one so hot as that without absolute proof."

"But she's as likely as anyone to be a wolf!" said Tom. "The object here is to kill wolves, not keep ladies alive. We need to vote for her."

"I'm sorry, Tom," argued Eomer, "But my noble Scottish spirit simply will not allow me to kill a young damsel without more proof than this."

"You're Scottish?" asked Tom, noticing Eomer's kilt for the first time.

"Of course," answered Eomer.

Tom leapt away from him in disgust. "I can't believe I was talking with a Scot- filthy mudblood! Wait till my father hears they're letting Scots into Mordor." Tom stomped off mumbling curses under his breath.

"What in the world was that about?" said Eomer in surprise.

"Oh, it's probably just in-a-rut-casting syndrome," answered Mardil. "It happens to actors who really only play one role all the time- they begin to, out of habit, act like their onscreen characters in real life."

"How horrible," shuddered Eomer.

"Yes, yes," agreed Mardil. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go get something to eat. When I get back, I'll cast my vote for ++CoD."

"Wait, wait!" called Eomer as Mardil began walking away. "Before you go I want your opinion on something. Since you aren't voting for Fea, does that mean you like her werewolf summoning plan?"

Mardil started laughing and turned back to look at Eomer. "Her plan would be excellent if not for the fact that she summoned far too many wolves. The amount of wolves she summoned, if incorporated into the village, would lead to an instant werewolf victory since there would be more wolves than innocents. Right now the count is nine innocents and three wolves. If we're going to summon wolves, we wouldn't want to summon any more than five, and we'd need to then lynch two of them today, but seeing as so many votes have already been cast, I don't think we could pull that off."

"So you think it would be foolish to support the plan?"

"Most definitely," said Mardil emphatically. "Now, I really need to go. If I don't hurry, I won't be back in time for the start of the next round of arguments."

[the guy who be short]

Fléin could hardly believe his ears. Here was solid evidence against that Fea harlot, and the entire village was ignoring it! What the - what was the Mordorian equivalent of Hell? - what the Mordor, then, were they playing at? As if owning a book on Werewolfing weren't reliable evidence pointing to one's guilt!

As much as he regretted saying so, his belief in the innocence of his fellow Offending Party was escalating with the suspect voting. Wilhelmina voting for SPaM had been a huge surprise - and had almost broke his heart. The woman of his desire voting for his only male company. Where could that have come from? They were best friends just yesterday. He felt Wilhelmina was hiding something.

Mardil was also acting quite oddly. It was he who had discovered the book of mischief - yet he didn't think it incriminating enough to vote for Fea, instead casting a vote for that fish. What was up with that?

Panakeia too voted for the fish, despite all the evidence arrayed against Fea. Fléin felt he was the only one sticking to sanity and logic, though he did, of course, have the perpetually inebriated SPaM by his side. Better a drunkard than nothing.

And, of course, Alli and Sai were... Well. There was definitely no trusting them.

That only left Valde to reside in; yet the man was so easily detestable that Fléin decided it wasn't worth the bother. He sat moodily on a stump, staring at a stick and contemplating suicide. Or homocide. The latter was more appealing by a factor of several million. He sighed.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli sat alone and unhappy on the outskirts of the group. She wanted to sit by Sai... the only one that she felt she could trust in this whole group... but she was by Mardil. Fea was still gone... it was a good thing, truth be told. Alli wasn't sure if she could handle her emotions at this point.

Now Illamatar (http://stuff.mit.edu/afs/sipb/user/sly/llama.gif)arrived, clad in purple spandex and baaing fiercly. Alli looked around and was passively miffed that nobody else could see him.

"You know, O Lord, that if people keep seeing me converse with empty space, they'll call me a loony and kill me?"

Illamatar looked at her with pity.

"Do you really think they care what you're doing?

"Way to crush a girl's confidence, O Lord. What have you to tell me now?"

"Jennifer Lopez has been rendered harmless."

"What?" Alli was confused. Since when were a pair of buttocks considered dangerous? And what in the world did this have to do with anything?

"She is harmless. The girl with whom you travel has taken care of her unwittingly."

"You mean that Sai is innocent?"

"Of course."

"But... I don't understand... J.Lo. isn't in the game... she just happened to..." Alli stopped, something dawning on her. Shortly after her epiphany, she looked at Illamatar.

"Do you understand?" he baaed.

"Sai is innocent of all crimes in Mordor. J.Lo. has been rendered innocent though she does not play in this game. Mario...?"

"A bloody great threat to the world. You must ally yourself with the Scotsman."

"I'll take care of it. But what does Sai have to do with my side-plot?"

"You'll figure it out."

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Rather far away, in another dimension, in another time, place, and thought process, Fea had rather been enjoying herself. After she disappeared, she'd gone to a gathering of friends, expecting laughs, but not the boys that arrived.

Her night had grown longer than she'd expected after this, infused with laughter, flirting, and stories by starlight until past midnight, when she decided that homework was in order and socialization for the day was at an end. She'd meant to return to the village quickly, but she had to admit that this diversion had really been a lot of fun.

Now, after classes were over and the opposite sex was sufficiently out of her mind, Fea returned to the little Mordorian village and wondered about her previous logic at releasing a bunch of werewolves on an already werewolf-infested village.

She looked around, catching a lethal glance from Sai. She had to give the girl credit... she certainly stood by her friend. Though at the moment she sat by the guy that her friend was upset over. Fea wondered what was going through Alli's head. She wondered what was going through Sai's head. She especially wondered what was going through Flein's head. What was going through Mardil and Aimè's heads was easy to figure out... if they were any more obvious, there would be a stream of drool involved.

She casually stood, twirling a heavy staff. While she didn't have as much strength as would be needed to defend herself against the entire village, she suspected that she wouldn't require it. She knew that she would soon die... she had accepted it as soon as the phantom had requested permission to accuse her of guilt. But she wasn't going to go easily. She was going to do something to make the Offenders gasp in shock. She didn't know what it was yet, but she hoped pretty hard it wouldn't end up being anticlimactic.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Tom was busy in his little bit of space moping over his recent encounter with a Scotsman. Aimè was the enemy in his book. He wondered if Aimè knew why Tom hated him so much and wished him so much ill will... it didn't matter. What did was that he could not speak with nor look at the Scotsman without feeling a certain growling menace unfold deep within him. He was pretty certain that it had something to do with the way Aimè was now eyeballing Sai.

Aimè couldn't have Sai... Tom wanted her.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Alli saw Fea as soon as Illamatar disappeared. She hated her with a passion. Arrogant. She was arrogant. And the worst part was, she was perfectly well allowed to have such a high opinion of herself because everything that she believed of herself was true. It was most annoying. She seemed to believe that she could get everything she wanted.

Well... maybe she could and maybe she couldn't, but apparently she was capable of getting exactly what Alli wanted, even though Alli couldn't manage it.

It didn't matter any more... she would soon die. Alli would soon die... Mardil would soon die...

Life is short and full of pain, she thought. Fleeting... grief-stricken... nobody is meant to be happy, least of all me.

She fell into a bit of despair over the trust that Illamatar had placed in her as well as the basic stress of having to keep yourself alive on your path along your only chance of ever finding your way back home while being somewhat in love with a guy with whom nothing seemed to be going right and who apparently had been undressed in a confined space with another girl very recently. Silent tears forced their way through her stubbornly focused eyes. Her whole body shook as she tried to repress her emotions. Finally, she gave way to the tears and curled up defensively as she cried, hoping that Illamatar was right when he said that nobody cared what she did.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Tom strode over to Sai, offering his hand and when she made to shake it, brushing hers with his lips. She blushed slightly and Tom grinned deep inside.

"Will you work with me, pretty girl, to rid the world of werewolves?"

His charm seemed at first to be working. He was well pleased with himself. Sai's attention suddenly shifted. She pulled her hand from his and went to Alli. She put her arms around her friend and whispered soothingly as Alli sobbed into her shoulder.

"It's okay, Alli... it's okay... it'll all be okay..."

"No..." she sniffed. "I don't understand it. I mean... I understand it, but how can he expect me to... how can I possibly measure up? I can't take the pressure. I'm not good enough. I'm so afraid... I'm so afraid..."

Sai had no idea what was going through Alli's mind, but she suspected that she was comparing herself... possibly to Fea. Unsure of what to say, Sai fell silent. She held Alli as the girl released all of her bottled up emotion through flowing tears.

"Now then," said Sai quietly once Alli had finally stopped weeping. "Didn't that make you feel better?"

"I suppose..." she sniffed, her head on her friend's shoulder. "But even with the emotion gone... I still have to find a way... I still have to... I'll never be able to live unless I see this through. It's too important for me to ignore. I've never felt this way before. I've never felt like I had a purpose... a special role in life. I never thought that I would need Aimè like I do. Who would have ever thought?'

Sai was truly confused now. Surely she meant Mardil? Surely Alli was in love with him and had broken down over his seeming indiscretions with Fea?

"You... you mean Mardil, right dear?" she asked hesitantly.

Alli looked at her and another tear leaked out. She wiped it away impatiently.

"No... I meant Aimè. I must speak with him. And it must be privately... I have so much to tell him."

[Kath]

Sai was now completely, utterly and totally confused. So confused in fact she was even willing to use three words that meant the same thing in one sentence. First she and Alli had walked in on Mardil and Fea doing . . . something. Not being one to judge Sai had been as restrained as possible with Mardil after Alli had run off, and was glad for the reprieve from taking the moral high ground when he presented her with Fea’s book of wolvery. Then there was Fea and her conjuring of past wolves. Sai wasn’t sure whether she had really thought that would help her case or whether she had simply given in to the insane impulses within her. Then Tom with his sickenly charming behaviour toward her. She couldn’t believe she had nearly fallen for it, and had been extremely glad when Alli had suddenly collapsed as it gave her an excuse to get away, even if her escape was accompanied by yet another ominous glare from Fléin.

Not that she was glad Alli had collapsed of course. The poor girl was obviously distraught over something though Sai couldn’t get a word of sense out of her. She had assumed all day that Alli’s foul mood had been caused by the event with Mardil and Fea earlier, as well as having to deal with the two of them on their own. But now she was going on about Aimè and having to get him alone to talk to.

Whatever the case Alli certainly wasn’t going to stay still until she had got what she wanted. Hating to see her friend upset like this Sai pulled Alli to her feet and led her off in the vague direction that she had last seen Aimè heading in. Coming across him after only a few moments she left Alli with him and headed back to the circle, again ignoring the glances the guy was sending her way.

She stood for a while in front of the sticks and stones that had been steadily added to that day, and tried to work out what she should do. There hadn’t been many votes so far and for that she was glad. The fact that their two lynchees the day before had both been innocents had shocked her. She thought it was perhaps a kindness that Nilp was dead, he had seemed a pretty unstable sort of chap, and morm would have continually irritated her until she would have been glad to see him dead, so maybe it was better this way. Nevertheless with who knew how much time they had left in this place (well, except Anakron who didn’t really seem in the mood to share – you could tell he had siblings) she would have preferred that two wolves had died. At the very least she would have felt safer.

Sighing, Sai sat down and waited for Alli to return. While she would never listen in on a private conversation, she did want to know what on earth all this with Aimè was about, and why Alli kept having conversations with thin air. That comment she’d make about trying to look sane had obviously not sunk in, and Sai was sure that a lot of these troubles had begun with the arrival of Fea. Rolling her stone around between her palms, she stared at Fea’s stick, and wondered whether it might be better for all concerned if she were to be lynched today.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli spoke hurriedly to Aimè, filling him in on everything that had been going through her head before her epiphany and everything that she was now certain of. She was very relieved that Sai hadn't stuck around... while Illamatar had mentioned her innocence, Alli wasn't yet certain just what her place in the side-plot was. Nevertheless, Alli had hugged her tight before she left, whispering "Thank you." in her ear.

Now she looked at Aimè who seemed a little shell-shocked at the suddenness of everything.

"Does it all make sense now?" she asked.

He looked at her oddly. "No."

She explained it all once more, using smaller words. He looked at her oddly again, using narrower eyes.

"And you're certain of all of this?"

"Yes."

"How do I know that this isn't a joke meant to play me as a fool?"

"You must trust me. No... I would never accept that as proof. Here... a token, to show that I mean what I say."

They chatted for a bit longer, making clear to the general audience that the writer was going to hang on to the suspense as long as possible by keeping details under lock and key.

Aimè held the small object up to the light, keeping it tucked into his palm and out of sight of all others. Finally he smiled and threw his arm around Alli who grinned happily.

"So we'll need a way to let each other know when it happens. Something that people won't expect..."

Aimè pondered for a moment before speaking.

"I love you."

"Pardon?"

"I love you, Alli, I love you. It's a good way of putting it, don't you think?"

"Aimè, it's perfect... especially when you say it in that accent of yours. I don't think I can mimic the accent, but the phrase works quite excellently. And when either of us says it, we'll know for certain, correct? No saying it except unless we really mean it?"

"But you'll know before I will."

"That's true, maybe, but I trust your intuition. You understood the importance of the little fat Italian hobbit before I understood aything. You might just realize other such important things before I do. Shall we practice?"

"I love you, Alli."

"I love you, Aimè."

And so they walked back to the group, their plans still secret, with confident grins and the words "I love you" still floating mysteriously between them.

[littlemanpoet]

Despite what seemed like unfinished business between various members of the village, not to mention of the Offending Party, the sun set.

Anakron rose.

"Feanor of the Peredhil and CaptainofDespair, otherwise known as CoD, have been elected for lynching.

"Before you proceed, I have this to say. All of you assume too much. Now lynch 'em."

Anakron turned with a swish of his cloak and a doff of his wide brimmed hat, and entered the cottage with the sign "Grand Anakaronist" over the door. Nobody had noticed that sign before, but there it was.

"Now then," said Valde, "how do you suppose we should lynch these two?"

Feanor of the Peredhil stood before them. "I would like all of you to know that I am prepared to die. I've been expecting it. I knew all of you couldn't resist. The envy amongst you is palpable. I've got it, and you don't, and you can't have it, so you might as well kill me."

The villagers fell into a rage and attacked her with bared hands, and fought with each other to get at the girl. Finally, quite a few minutes later, they backed away. Mob dynamics left them. Sanity returned. They looked in astonishment at what they had done. It was not pretty. Nor did it swivel back together and turn into a werewolf.

"We had better bury her," Fléin said.

"You get her head," said Mardil, "I'll pick up her arms."

"I got a leg over here!" said Sai, waving it about triumphantly.

"Ugh!" Tom Felton said, and lost his supper.

Once they had retrieved the entire mass of that which had been Feanor, they dug a shallow grave and tossed bits and pieces in until nothing of which was Feanor of the Peredhil was above ground.

"Yuck!" said Wilhelmina. "I need to wash up." Everybody else agreed. They went over to the little pool and saw CoD swimming in circles, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

"Hey! CoD has to go too!"

"Cook him!" cried Panakeia.

"No! No!" cried CoD. "I don't taste good!"

"How would you know that?" Fléin asked.

"Regardlesh," said the village drunkard, "I shink we all need to get our beauty reshts and shtart off on the right foot tomorrow. Lesh hope that we have a werewolf in CoD."

"But then we'd all have a bit of werewolf in us!" cried Alli. At that very moment, two people popped into view and floated in the air behind Alli, one looking over her left shoulder, the other looking over her right shoulder.

"We do not approve of your behavior, my dear," they intoned in unison.

"Augh!" Alli cried. "Hovering parents!"

"Exactly what have you been up to? Why are you standing on that line?"

Alli looked at the ground where they pointed. Sure enough, there was a line painted white, and she was on the line. Alli rolled her eyes. "Hovering parents. They want to know exactly what you're doing on line. So they stand behind you and watch." She rolled her eyes even more fiercely.

"Sho," said SpaM, "you're one of thoshe offshpring who don't fully undershtand the difficultiesh of being a parent, or that part of being a parent ish a conshtant, never-ending and shometimesh irrational worry over their children, or that when they sheem to be shpoiling your fun they usually only have your besht intereshtishtishtish at heart."

"Oh!" cried Alli. "You must be one of those adults who seem to think that moody teenagers are going to care one whit about the difficulties of being a parent. If they didn't want to worry endlessly, they shouldn't have had kids. So there! No wonder you're in this Illamatar forsaken place!" Then Alli stopped a moment and thought that since she was having visions of Illamatar, it couldn't exactly be considered an Illamatar forsaken place. She closed her eyes tight and forced herself not to think about Illamatarology; it gave her headaches.

"That'sh fine by me," SpaM retorted. "Enough thingsh have been shent here to keep me happily amushed for many a day and I get a break from my kidsh. How'sh that CoD coming? All cooked up?"

"Yes," Panakeia said, "and so far it has stayed fish-meat." She cut up the fish into enough pieces for all the remaining villageres (except Anakron whom she had no intention of feeding), and they partook.

Fish did not turn into werewolf in their stomachs.

The sun finished its descent and night closed in around them.

As Alli walked to the hut she was sleeping in she cast a dour look over her shoulder at SpaM. "We're not done with this discussion, drunkard!" Her parents continued to hover, one on each side. She gave them a black look which could be interpreted as murderous, or just wishing they were somewhere else. They did not leave.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Hookbill wandered aimlessly about the village. This whole thing was very confusing for the little man. Mind you, making the decision between cereal and toast for breakfast was rather confusing for him. The looming gallows cast a cold shadow over him. He felt quite sick.

Eomer dashed past, knocking Hookbill over into the mud. Splat. Slowly he opened his eyes the catch a glimpse of Eomer dashing beyond his sight. Hookbill rose and tried to dust himself off, but only succeeding in spreading the mud around. He sighed and wandered along towards a small gathering.

A hand hit Hookbill on the shoulder quite heavily. He slunk down and covered his eyes saying, "Look, for the last time, I don't know who to vote for! Its all too confusing." the figure shook its head as the little man sat down in the mud and began to slowly rock back and forth.

[littlemanpoet]

Day Three dawned bright and sunny. Well, sunny for Mordor, which meant mostly cloudy with just glimpses once every six hours or so.

The villagers arose and gathered at the village square. It was easy to see who had been killed during the night. These werwolves were nothing if not unoriginal. Tom Felton was hanging from the gallows, all of his fingers and toes removed. He wore no glasses, so apparently the werewolves were responsible for the big, bloody "0" emblazoned on the middle of his forehead.

"Zero?" asked Sai, as confused as ever.

"No werewolvesh?" SpaMi asked.

"Then who killed him?" Mardil said, pointing.

"Anakron!" shouted Fléin. "It had to be! I say we lynch him!"

Cooler heads prevailed, however, and he was reminded that the Grand Anakronist's person was necessary for the Offending Party to achieve its goal.

"But I needed him!" cried Alli. "I had plans for Tom! Now he's dead!" She got all teary eyed and began to murmur unintelligible words to the thin air.

[Encaitare]

"Hello there," Wilhelmina said to Fléin, who looked like he was very deep in thought, though his beard made it hard to discern the subtleties of facial expression. He glanced up at her but said nothing.

She tried again: "Pondering something, then, are we?" Still, he did not reply. "Goodness, someone's feeling a bit introverted today."

"There's nothing wrong with being introverted!" he growled like someone being forced to wear a Christmas sweater with pom-poms on it.

"I never said there was," Wilhelmina said primly.

Fléin asked the question that had been bothering him for some time: "Why did you vote for SPaM?"

The old woman shrugged. "Does there have to be a reason?"

"For stoning someone to death? I'd say there ought to be," he commented, choosing not to bring up the incident some hundred years ago when the Dwarves had approved of the stoning to death of all those who had died prematurely -- eventually they had realized the futility of this action, and chose to stone writers of generic, uninventive Tolkien fanfiction instead.

"I don't like bandwagoning," she told him, fiddling with a feather in her hat. "I like bands very much, and I like wagons just fine, but the two put together often end in disaster. Trumpets falling off the back of the cart and bumps in the road making flutes get stuck through the bass drum and things."

Fléin cracked a sardonic smile. "That's not what bandwagoning is."

"Isn't it? It makes perfect sense to me." Mr. Swanky chose that moment to emerge from Wilhelmina's hat and climb onto Fléin's shoulder.

"Argh! Take him back, Wilhelmina!" he cried. "That animal has no concept of people's personal space!"

"He's just trying to be friendly," she said reproachfully, plucking the ferret from his shoulder. "So what were you pondering, anyway?"

The Dwarf frowned. "Do you think Alli and Sai are lesbians?" he asked gloomily.

Wilhelmina made a scoffing sound that couldn't quite be expressed through the letters of the English alphabet. "Why would you think that?"

"Oh, I don't know..."

She eyed him sternly, completely ignoring the fact that he was rather a bit older than she. "If you've been sitting here imagining those nice young girls doing naughty things, then you can take your fantasies elsewhere, mister."

Fléin spluttered in shock, a sound that also could not be adequately expressed through the English alphabet without afflicting the transcriber with some degree of mental illness. "Of course I wasn't! I was just... never mind." He sighed heavily, feeling very misunderstood. "I hope we don't kill another innocent today."

"Who do you suggest we vote for, then?"

"Actually, I was thinking about something Anakron said. About how we assume too much."

"Oh? Do go on, my dear Dwarf."

[Celuien]

Panakeia spent a troubled night tossing and turning in her sleep. Her dreams were not comforting. Nilp/Adam/Alice floated in a cloud of flying dust, chatting with Mormegil about stone throwing techniques. The fangirls ran behind them, bodies reassembled in curious contortions, legs dangling from their shoulders, arms from the hip. And Elempí was there, looking as fresh as on the first day they met in Dol Gaurgauroth. He grinned.

"Hi. Good to see you again. How have you been? I've been fine. I still think you should change that makeup you're wearing."

"How can you be fine? You're dead. I saw."

Elempí just grinned at her again. "Romance in the air. How sweeeet and rosy. Isn't it great? Wouldn't you like to have one too? Sure you would. Where's Valde?" Panakeia started, though she didn't know why. There was something odd about Elempí's statement, other than the fact that he was supposed to be dead and that Valde was none of his business anyway. "I think Anakron's annoying, don't you? Well, I should go. Been nice talking. Bye."

"Wait! There's something I have to ask you." But it was too late. Panakeia awoke. "What a strange dream," she murmured. She unbarred the door to her room and walked out into the gloomy village square, only to discover the latest casualty. And she started to sob. "It's just no good, no good at all."

SPaM asked, "No werewolvesh?" And then something went 'click' (or was it a snap?) in her head. No werewolves? Is that what he was trying to tell me? Of course, that's it! Her hand flew to her pocket, and she pulled out the Drekkie guide. There, there it is. Episode 56 (http://memory-alpha.org/en/wiki/Spectre_of_the_Gun). She started to laugh, a bit unsteadily, but she laughed all the same. She waved the book aloft.

"Look, look everyone! It's all a trick. We're not really here, here isn't really here. Nothing's here. It's all in our heads. Think about it! How could wolves kill all those fangirls without our hearing it? And? And alter-egos don't just materialize out of thin air, then talk after they're dead. All of this is just one of Anakron's tricks." She looked around. The Grand Anakronist's cottage stood to her left. "See. That wasn't there before either. I'm sure of it. How could a cottage show up out of nowhere?" Truthfully, Panakeia didn't know if the cottage had been there or not. But in her present mood, there was no use telling her otherwise.

SPaM tapped Fléin on the shoulder. "I tshink she's gone batty. She should have visithed the tshavern more oftshen."

Panakeia continued to laugh, her voice reaching a high-pitched crescendo. "Look, it's not real. And if it's not real, nothing can hurt us here, right? As long as we believe it isn't real, we'll be fine. I'll prove it." She ran forward, racing for the row of sticks and stones.

"Someone really should stop her," offered Mardil. Valde stepped forward, hurrying to catch her. He arrived just in time to prevent her from casting a vote for herself by grabbing her wrists and dragging her away.

"No, no! Stop that! Don't you see? If we die here, we aren't here anymore. We're there, wherever we really are. But we're not dead, just out. Escaped. I want out!" The last words were a scream.

Fléin snickered. "She has gone batty." SPaM shook his head and took out a bottle of his strongest tequila. "Have shome of thish," he offered. Pointlessly, as it turned out. Exhausted, Panakeia collapsed on the street.

***

Running, running, through the dark. Something frightening, terrifying with claws and teeth, was behind her. There was a dim light ahead, a light that meant safety. Just a few steps more would bring her there. Panakeia entered the circle of light. And found herself standing in front of a burned house with a young girl moving in the charred timbers.

"Oh no, not this again." She looked for a place to hide. Panakeia ducked under a bush and as she did so, a small, warm hand brushed her shoulder from behind. Gasping, she whirled to come face to face with...herself.

"Hello, Panakeia. Been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Wait. You're me?"

"In a manner of speaking. I, my dear, am your conscience. And I am seriously displeased." The younger Panakeia glared.

"Displeased? Whatever for?"

Young Panakeia sighed. "Have you forgotten? Was it that long ago that you, we, vowed never to enter the family business of, of, scamming?" She shuddered in disgust. "And look, just look what you've done to us! And worst of all, what about this latest business in the village? How could you participate in something so horrible? Casting votes for who was to die and who wasn't? You should have just stayed out of the whole thing."

"Well, you haven't exactly done much to stop me."

"No, I haven't. Because you left me here sleeping. Dreaming." She paused. "And what beautiful dreams they were. I stood with a vast company, singing songs of peace, love and brotherhood." She started to sing a little melody. "Come on people now. Smile on your brother. Yes, it was beautiful. Then I heard a strange sound, like a cat crying, and I woke up here to find out about all of your terrible deeds."

A cat? "Anakron!"

"I don't know. But I've been trying to come back to you ever since. I almost succeeded once. The last time you were here. And I've had some influence. Remember when you wanted to rescue Alli? And when you came to Valde's aid? That was me." She smiled in triumph.

"You?"

"Yes. And that's just the beginning. We're going to be back together again. A team."

"I don't know. I've been getting along fine without you all these years."

"Fine? You call this fine? Maybe you don't mind being a charlatan, but I don't like what you've done to our reputation. And I'm going to do something about, like it or not." Young Panakeia came closer to her current self.

"No, no. Leave me alone!" Panakeia shut her eyes tight and struggled to escape through the hedge.

***

Panakeia's eyes reopened to Valde and SPaM leaning over her in Dol Gaurgauroth.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli had dreamt of Mardil that night. She woke up in a bit of a snit because of it. In her dream, everything that she was trying to blame on him was clearly her own fault. He was innocent and it annoyed her. She'd even seen him moping over her. That made her smile, at least. And then she woke up and found out that Tom Felton was dead. It had to be... it couldn't be... She'd have to contemplate this. Why had the wolves killed Tom Felton?

He hadn't done anything, really... at least not to deserve death. Not that Alli knew of, anyway. From her pocket, Alli pulled her cellular phone, hitting the number "2" on speed-dial.

"Khamul, I've got a problem."

"Speak away, young Alli."

"I need some information."

"I see you're being secretive."

"Always, Kam."

"What information do you require?"

"Are you familiar with one Thomas Felton?"

Khamul caught his breath and then laughed.

"Miss Alli, I should learn not to be surprised by you. I am indeed familiar with Master Tom. What information do you wish me to divulge though I should not?"

"Hello Tom." Alli heard a gasp from the background. "Khamul, you should really know that when a person is on speaker-phone, they can usually tell. And when you want to keep a secret about who's listening in, you shouldn't choke when you're asked about it. Tom, I take it it was a simulation?"

"Indeed." said the young actor, sounding sad that his ruse had been uncovered. "Did you think I really wanted to die? I've got more important things to do than rot beneath the grounds of an idiot-infested village. I simply allowed them to kill "me", be pleased with themselves, and we'd all get happily along with our own lives. Do you plan to reveal this?"

"No. I merely called Khamul to see what he knew about you so I could find out why the wolves would kill you. It's your own fault that I found out you weren't dead. But don't worry... your secret is safe with me."

Hanging up her phone, Alli wondered why Tom Felton had been careful enough to plan a simulation of himself in advance in order to stay alive. Oh well... she was sure she'd find out eventually. In the mean time, she grinned a bit over last night's death of Fea and her epiphany. Life was about to get really interesting and now she had Aimè on her side. The dreary sky had never seemed more beautiful.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin's talk with Wilhelmina had left him feeling better, but not by much. He still felt unable to trust her - the vote for Spiced Ham remained as mysterious as ever. He'd ended up not voicing his idea that perhaps, just perhaps, there were no werewolves. The zero and the assuming too much pointed to it, but... who else could be killing all these people in the night? Even he didn't believe it anymore. So he just made something up about the werewolves actually being kamuraorcs - they still hadn't left the offending party, and were filming everything for T.V. Wilhelmina had responded by setting Mr Swanky upon the nearest one before Anakron himself intervened. In the ruckus, Fléin had slipped off, uncomfortable around her presence.

Later, Panakeia going a little nutty had confused him further. One other villager, at least, was thinking along similar lines to him. But oh, how they laughed at her! He wouldn't bring that upon himself, that was for sure. He suppressed the thought further still.

So he had fallen back upon plan two. Gathering the entire village, he had forced everybody to take a seat once more for a formal accusation.

"My fellow villagers," he started a little hesitantly, but gathered stength as he continued. "My fellow innocent villagers, I believe I have some evidence that may be important - though, there's not much evidence. But I have seen - things. Disturbing things. Things that lead me to doubt the purity of some persons in our village, that lead me to doubt their honest intentions."

"I will cut to the chase. Sai and Alli are lesbians."

There was a shocked silence as all eyed turned to the girls, sat next to one another. Sai jumped out of her chair. "But this is preposterous! It's nonsense! We're not lesbians!" she said loudly. The reaction from the village was mixed. Some started laughing at Fléin, causing him to redden a little, but a few faces turned questioningly to the girls.

Mardil stood up and walked over to Alli. "Are you absolutely sure, Alli?" he asked, clearly disappointed. "I mean, look at her legs!" he said, causing Sai to scowl at him.

"Actually," Alli responded, commanding silence from the murmuring circle, "Sai can speak for herself. I am a lesbian."

There were gasps all around. "But Alli!" Aimé cried, "I thought you loved - somebody," he finished lamely.

"Aimé, the world isn't all in black and white. There are many shades of gay." And then - only Fléin was at the right angle, standing as he was, to see it - Alli wink at Aimé. What was she playing at? "And if you must know, I've taken rather a fancy to Wilhelmina."

[Kath]

Sai had been angry at Fléin's condmenation of her and Alli, but not because he had assumed that they were lesbians, because he had assumed that all lesbians were evil and therefore ought to be lynched! Just the type of comment to come from a small minded chauvinist. She wondered whether she ought to tell him that dear old Freud would have told him that being scared of lesbians meant that he was insecure due to over or under stimulation in the oral phase of life as an infant, but feared that bringing such things into the conversation might cause even more difficulties.

Then she heard Alli proclaiming that she was a lesbian, and had to stifle a snort of laughter. She didn't know where the girl was going with this but wasn't about to interfere with what was clearly a new plan until she knew what going on. She saw Fléin gearing up for another attack but Alli's comment about having developed a liking for Wilhelmina seemed to bring the Dwarf up short.

She was most concerned though about the events of that morning, when they had been told (via various not so subtle subliminal messages) that there were in fact no werewolves. This information had been rattling round in her head all day but she wasn't sure what to do with it. Ignoring the growing tension around her she tried to think what it could mean. She murmured quietly to herself.

"Perhaps, if there are no wolves . . . well if there are no wolves lynching people is no use, so what happens if we don't kill anyone today? Would this 'game' end?"

"I don't know." Came Alli's voice from her right making her jump. "Where's that nasty little creep Anakron got to - maybe he can answer that."

[Celuien]

"What happened to you?" Valde queried. He extended a hand to help Panakeia to her feet.

The hand eagerly accepted, she stood and brushed the dust off her dress. "I'm not sure," came the doubtful reply. So far, she felt like her usual self. That is, if her usual self had been accustomed to places like Dol Gaurgauroth. At least she didn't seem to feel the effects of that nagging voice. Not yet.

SPaM thrust the bottle of tequila toward her. "Here. Drink thiths." To her surprise, Panakeia accepted. A few dainty sips later, she gratefully returned the bottle and sat down, her head in her hands.

SPaM smiled. "Strong sthuff?"

"Yes. No. I was just thinking." She looked around the village. "I know I was acting a bit off earlier. But I stand by what I said before. I don't think this place is real. Nothing makes sense."

"But sthill, Panakeia. Sthink of what you're suggthesthing. A colleshtive delushion?"

"I wouldn't put anything past that Anakron," she snapped. "Well, maybe one or two things. For one, I don't think he's a murderer. And if there aren't any wolves here, who else is left for the nighttime destruction? Just Anakron and his minions. But if this is all a dream of some sort, there haven't been any real deaths." Panakeia faltered for a moment, thinking over the past two sets of lynchings. "And I don't think he'd make killers out of us. Because, let's face it, if this is real, that's exactly what we all are."

Valde spoke up. "Maybe that is what he wants."

Panakeia shook her head. "No, there's something else. Elempí. He was harmless, nice even. And he's part of Anakron. I can't believe that Elempí could be Anakron if Anakron truly were that brutal. That's why I want to test my theory and vote for myself today."

"But suppose you're wrong. Then you die. Curtain down. Finis."

"I know. But if this is real, I don't know if I want to go on with blood on my hands."

"Don't do it. You can't afford to take the chance." With a shake of the head, SPaM concurred.

Panakeia mulled it over for a minute or two. "Alright. But I won't risk anyone else's life either. I refuse to vote." She raised her voice and stood tall. "Do you hear me, Anakron? I won't do it! It's not right!" Then, feeling a bit dizzy, she sat down.

And the voice in her head began to speak. Good for you. Didn't I tell you we make quite a team?

"Oh, shut up."

"Who, me?" Valde looked surprised.

"What? I'm sorry. Nevermind. Forget it."

You may be here to stay, but there are going to be some adjustments. We can't go soft all the time. Understand?

Of course. Now about that sample case of yours...

Panakeia groaned internally. This was not going to be easy.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli stepped forward with a big smile. Mardil's reaction had been fantastic, but everybody else's were equally classic. Wilhelmina had a truly odd look on her face after Alli's revelation. Aimè was wondering just what she was playing at... Alli hadn't informed him of this little extra. Sai looked as though she were trying to suppress laughter. Anakron was nowhere to be seen.

"Yes... I've taken a fancy to Wilhelmina, or as I like to think of her, Minnie." Sai's eyes were watering at the effort of not smiling.

"Minnie... I know that... well... I'm not the perfect specimen... After all, my waist is too thin, my legs are too long, my bosom is too ample, and my skin is just too flawless... but would you... would it be too much to ask for you to consider... to consider something?" Alli winked at Wilhelmina who seemed to be in shock. Flein was about to fall over, though he'd seen the wink. Did he have competition? Sai tried to hide her grin with a sudden spurt of fake coughs.

Mardil simply looked bemused now.

[Encaitare]

"Minnie... I know that... well... I'm not the perfect specimen," Alli said. "After all, my waist is too thin, my legs are too long, my bosom is too ample, and my skin is just too flawless... but would you... would it be too much to ask for you to consider... to consider something?"

Wilhelmina's initial shock turned to amusement as she caught Alli's wink. She decided to play along:

"My dear, you're very lovely, but I'm afraid I'm just too old for you," she said kindly. "I could very well be your grandmother -- how could we ever be together? I'm sorry."

She admired the way Alli faked holding back tears. "I understand," she said, putting on a brave face and smiling weakly at all of them. "I think I'd like to be alone right now."

They watched her run off towards her tent. Some sat in awkward silence; others, who had gotten the joke, were chuckling to themselves. And Fléin? He had at first looked disgusted, but was that jealousy she now detected on his face?

[the guy who be short]

Fléin had left the circle, desirous of solitude. He had found a small clearing not too deep in the nearby forest, and sat himself upon a stump. It was a pleasant space, next to a small but clear stream, and grass was growing here. The situation was just too confusing.

Panakeia stuck to her beliefs about the situation not being real. And Fléin couldn't help but concur - though he didn't think it was a collective hallucination. And there was something soft about that Panakeia, despite her razorlike exterior. She underestimated all of them. He was certain that Mardil could kill without a second thought. No, actually, the lad was smart. With a second thought, but without much remorse. He knew that he could kill. And if Anakron was too soft to kill, then he was a possum.

But there was something surreal going on. The hints were there - no wolves. And how could they kill so many fangirls anyway? Panakeia had a point there. No, Anakron was up to something. But he didn't know what. And what would happen if nobody voted?

And on top of all this, there was his love life, if such it could be called. Wilhelmina... sigh. It was too confusing, just too confusing.

Deep in thought, he didn't notice the small beaver that had climbed up the nearest bank until it nudged his foot.

He looked down at it. It looked up at him. And then, to his amazement, it talked.

"Athtlam iththun thvoob" it hissed up at him, or so it seemed. He looked down in puzzlement.

"Sorry?"

Once more, a similar reply. Fléin frowned. "A man is on the roof? What man? There is no roof here. Do you mean the village?"

The beaver hit its forehead with its paw, clearly exasperated. He had apparently misunderstood.

"Thath Sllam ith inn a roove!"

"That SPaM is in a groove? No, you're mistaken there, he's not quite buried yet."

The beaver attempted to get the message across once more, this time accompanied with frantic waving of the forelimbs.

"A flan is never good? Of course it is, you idiot. Oh, I don't have time for this, I need to think." He stood up and unbuckled his axe from his back. The beaver backed away, spittling all the while.

--------------------------------------------------------

Perhaps only thirty seconds after he had sat down, Alli rushed into the clearing at the opposite end.

"Fléin!" she panted. "Urgent... message... from Illamatar... says... trust the beaver!" By now she was opposite him, and catching her breath. "Urgent message. Trust the beaver."

She looked down, puzzled at the apparently squishy consistency of the ground, to find her foot in half of a perfectly sliced beaver. "Oh, buggrit!" she swore. "Eww," she added as an afterthought, cleaning her foot on the grass nearby.

Fléin watched the act, emotionless. "Did you say the message was from Illamatar?" he demanded.

Alli mumbled, Fléin thought in response at first, before realising she was talking to thin air. He caught odd phrases such as "Don't think it wise to tell him" and "Might think I'm" and "Idiot thought I was a lesbian."

Once this was done, she swivelled around to face him. "Yes, the message is from Illamatar. He... speaks to me," she sighed. "I'm an oracle of sorts, I guess."

Fléin snorted. "Ha! And why would the Great Llama choose to speak through a lesbian?

Alli snorted in response. "I'm not actually a lesbian, you idiot. I just said that to see the look on your face. What's so wrong with lesbianism anyway?"

"It's unnatural," he replied immediately.

She sidled next to him on the stump. "Fléin," she said softly. "Is it natural for alter egos to jump out of one's body and start talking. Is it natural for monsters to turn into fish?"

"No," he admitted.

"You're in Mordor, Fléin. Even if you can't accept the unnatural, learn to tolerate it. Is it natural for Dwarves to puke up cats?"

"No."

"There you go. By that logic, you're unnatural too."

She paused for Fléin to absorb this. He had to admit, she had him there.

"Anyway, who are you to judge what's natural and what isn't?" she continued.

Fléin sighed. "You have a point, I guess. Wilhelmina said something odd to me, by the way," he attempted to shift the subject.

"Oh? What was that then?"

"Well, I asked if she thought you and Sai were lesbians. And she said... what did she say? Ah, yes. 'If you've been sitting here imagining those nice young girls doing naughty things, then you can take your fantasies elsewhere, mister.' What's that about? Why would I imagine you two being naughty together? Are lesbians notorious for playing practical jokes? And why's it so wrong to think about it?"

Alli didn't reply for a while, trying to shape her response as well as possible. "Well... that's not quite what she meant by naughty things. You see, she meant... well..." She made a sign that it would be wholly inappropriate to describe.

Fléin's eyes widened. "But why would I imagine such a thing?"

Alli shrugged. "It's a male thing, at least for humans. They think it's hot."

Fléin frowned. "Why would it be so? Surely two lesbians together would maintain their temperature of thirty-seven degrees?"

"They think it's attractive. Hot means attractive."

"Oh. Stupid homophones. Why is it attractive?"

Alli shrugged. "Well, would you prefer one cake or two?"

"But women aren't cakes! And they would be lesbians. It would be like a cake entirely for show, one that you could not eat."

Alli shrugged once more. "To be honest, I don't really get it myself."

"Do human women not feel like this about their menfolk?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

They both sat in silence for at least five minutes, each one pursuing their own thoughts.

---------------------------------------------------------------

"Is that another beaver? I completely forgot about the beavers!" Alli cried, pointing to the bank. Fléin hastily stood up, gathered the two beaver halves, and shoved them out of sight behind a tree.

The new beaver sidled up to them. They both stared intently, keen to hear what it had to say.

It spoke.

Fléin heard "A man is in a groove." Alli heard "A span wide as the moon." They both sighed. This was going to be difficult.

"Beaver!" Fléin said. "Do you understand me? If so, nuzzle Alli."

The beaver rubbed its head across Alli's calf.

"Okay. For each syllable we get right, rub your head against her left leg - that's the one you're on. If we get it wrong, rub yourself against her right. Got it?"

The beaver nodded.

Eventually, they had got the message out of the beaver. A Slan is on the move. But what was a slan? According to the dictionary Fléin had on his body (he had bought it at the doors of Mordor to learn English before realising that, in Mordor, he automatically knew the language and had been conned) it meant "without place, year, or name of publication." So a mysterious... thing was on the move.

The beaver, meanwhile, was pulling at their legs to go back to the village. They followed blindly.

They rushed on, through the clearing, to the edge of the forest. Emerging from the treeline they found - Anakron, waiting for them. The rest of the village was out of sight behind some huts.

Anakron smiled. "So. A spy," he said simply. Alli and Fléin looked at one another, confused. The beaver, meanwhile, had turned tail and was running at full speed back to the forest. But before it could make it - Anakron aimed his staff at it. The cat yowled. Flash! Blue light. And the beaver was turned to stone.

Anakron turned to face the two members of the offending party. "Forget everything that beaver told you. She is a liar." He turned, and stalked off back to the group, leaving Alli and Fléin gawping.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

After Alli and Flein's heart to heart, she felt much more kindly to the Dwarf. He was, after all, even more a stranger in these proceedings than she. At least she understood quite a bit of human nature, even though it often annoyed her. He was left thinking about the average temperature of lesbians.

Now she was very curious to know why Illamatar had appeared to give her a vision that had nothing to do with her mysterious side-plot. Beavers? A Slan? Alli had a random idea, but she doubted that she was right. Though maybe... she'd speak with Flein once Anakron had put away his pokey-stick of doom and destruction. Alli had avoided death and dismemberment thus far... she didn't feel the need to turn into stone.

Walking back to the group, Alli shared a meaningful glance with Aimè and a wink with Sai. Mardil was gone.

Valde could be heard mentioning the suspicious nature of his disappearance... Alli knew better, or thought she did. She wasn't worried that Mardil would kill them all... but she still wanted to know what he was up to.

"Sai... will you come with me? If not, I can ask Aimè. I need to find out what Mardil's doing."

Sai looked worried... Fea was missing, but she was dead, so Sai knew that there wouldn't be a repeat performance of that particular fiasco. Slowly she nodded.

"Okay."

They walked to Mardil's cabin and knocked on the door.

"Please come back later. I'm in the middle of something." sounded Mardil's voice.

"Sure you are." muttered Alli rebelliously. She still hadn't managed to get over Mardil's perceived indiscretions. Sai looked nervous.

"What?" called Mardil.

"I'm sure you're in the middle of something. Who's in there with you?"

"If you must know, child, I'm trying to get some work done in here, so run along and play."

"Work is it? So that's what you're calling it these days? I'm so sure." Her voice took a sing-songy pitch as she made fun of him. "My name is Mardil and my idea of work is locking myself in my rooms with beautiful women. I have no morals so it's absurdly simple for others to condemn me. They don't even need an excuse. I'll kill and sleep around and break girls' hearts and whatever else floats my boat because I'm a stupid chauvanist like James Bond!" Alli finished at almost a yell, losing most of her temper and her maturity in one sentence.

Finally Mardil lost his temper a bit as well, shouting "If I have to tell you to leave me alone one more time I'm going to drag you into the woods and tie you to a tree!"

Alli yelled through the door. "You think you'd be able to do it so easily? Yeah right. I wouldn't let you. You'd LIKE IT too much!"

Aimè came up and put his hand on Alli's shoulder. "You okay?" he whispered. "Anything I should be worried about?"

"No... he's harmless enough... he's just being stupid." She wasn't smiling, but she wasn't crying either. Aimè's influence was helping to curb her emotional outbursts. She was beginning to owe him, if owing it could be called, for in this sort of partnership, neither of the pair owed the other anything but trust and equal commitment. "No..." she repeated. "Everything's fine. I just want to know what he's up to when he's pretending to be all macho. I have a feeling that he's very sweet underneath... I wonder why he tries to hide it so often."

Aimè patted her shoulder. "Guys are odd like that." he replied, shrugging. "Come on, girls... he'll be out when he's ready."

Alli and Sai walked with Aimè back to the circle, one grinning on each arm of his. He didn't seem much upset to have two pretty young girls as his escorts.

[the guy who be short]

After Alli left with Sai, Fléin receded back to the woods to think. Panakeia's ideas had gained strength in the village. Almost nobody believed in the wolves anymore, and as a result, nobody was voting. What would happen was anybody's guess. Indeed, many of the villagers had tried to guess, and each suggestion was - to Fléin's mind, anyway - as downright ridiculous as Panakeia's.

A sudden movement made him jump off of his stump and grasp his axe. He stared, eyes wide with wonder, as a dryad, frail and wispy, approached him. "Pray, put down your axe, good Dwarf," she said, and her voice was as the song of the Vanyar before the feet of Manwe upon the Hallowed Mountain, not that Fléin would ever know what that was like. He lowered his weapon.

"Are you an ent?"

"Nay, good sir. I am a dryad, a spirit of the trees. I am come to tell you that A Slan is on the move."

Fléin bowed his head. "My lady, I had heard this news before, though I know not what it forbodes."

The dryad's bell-like voice rung over his form, warming him. "Do you not then know who is A Slan?"

"Nay," he replied, bowing his head. In her presence, he felt uncouth and ignorant.

"My, you are uncouth and ignorant" the spirit replied.

"Tell me what A Slan is! Tell me what it means!"

"I must go!" was her response. There was a burst of wind, and the spirit seemed to dissipate.

Fléin rushed towards where her form had stood, only to see Anakron stalking towards him.

"There you are!" he said. "Most antisocial of you, staying here. Come back to the village with me."

Fléin had no choice but to be escorted away. He cast a last longing look around the place, searching for the dryad, but finding only two halves of a beaver.

Grudgingly, he returned to the village, but his thought was with the beautiful spirit - and with A Slan.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé (which had become quite a lovely and frequently-used nickname) remained quite moody. He had found a banjo of all things in one of the run-down cottages; almost like a slap in the face considering the horrific state of his fingers. Bar chords: the new fashionable drug, apparently.

The reason for this moodiness was more obvious to him now. Alli had made it clear to him that she—and not her alone—needed him. Aimé couldn't quite handle responsibility; and now he had a barely conceivable amount of the stuff (as he saw it). How was he supposed to take it? Whatever happened, he wasn't going to be happy about it.

And now he had heard about the crazed wizard's machinations concerning werewolves or the lack thereof or whatever it was that was happening in this village. Indeed, what was happening? And more importantly: Why was Aimé involved in it?

It wasn't all bad, though. There were a few pretty girls around. And what's more, one of them had even given Aimé a plausible romance to work with. Not that he was going to get too involved, though. The relationships between certain members of the Offending Party were very hard to decipher, especially the ones Alli was involved in. Aimé didn't know too much about them, and made it clear to the others that he didn't. He was outstanding in that he was so obviously 'to the side', a cameo, if you will, in the lives of these people.

One thing Aimé had experienced a lot in Mordor was after-date paranoia. This is something which, he argued, had its good aspects as well as its bad. It gave him something to think about. Alli gave him a hell of a lot to think about.

But he wasn't going to get too involved. He couldn't.

Right?

Aimé slouched by the well, and sighed in a rather melodramatic manner.

[Kath]

Mardil's reaction to Alli hadn't been entirely unexpected mused Sai as the two of them were led away by Aimé, especially after the recent shouting matches and the insults Alli had just thrown at him through the door. Mardil's response had been patronising and over the top and Sai couldn't blame Alli for the way she reacted, but it wasn't going to make things any easier.

It was getting close to lynching time now she was sure of it, but no one had voted and Anakron hadn't been seen inside the village all day. She was worried about what was going to happen when he found out that no one had voted. Would he just pick two people at random? Or would they finally be freed from the need to tear people apart that seemed to take them over each day?

She had sat down next to Fordim, but only realised when she started to sneeze. Cursing allergies and all of their varied symptoms she quickly moved away and saw Aimé over against a wall, looking thoroughly unhappy. She wanted to go over, and find out what was wrong, but wondered whether he wouldn't rather be left alone. While she was continuing this internal debate Aimé looked up with such a mournful expression on his face that she couldn't for shame leave him be, so she joined him in propping up the wall.

"Want to talk about it?"

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

'The way is shut.'

'Huh?' Nilpaurion said.

'The way is shut. It was not made for those who are mentally diseased.'

'Who are you?' he asked while looking all around the gateway, fearing that his alter-egos were playing some trick on him.

Out of the foggy air in front of the gate materialised a grim-looking spirit. He grinned creepily, revealing a row of decaying teeth.

'I am Mandos, gatekeeper of Mandos. The way is shut.'

'But . . . but . . .' he stammered, wondering how someone could be a gatekeeper of himself, or how a gate could keep itself. He dismissed the irrelevant thought, and tried to find a loophole. 'Wait, what about Fëanor?'

'He's really not here. He's in a Happy Farm at the feet of the Yellow Mountains.'

'There's a Yellow Mountains?'

'Why, yes, there is. There are Rainbow Mountains even.'

'Oh.' Nilpaurion was clearly baffled. 'But I'm cured already! See, no more alter-egos!'

'Liar.'

'Oh, dear.'

'See?'

'Don't I get another opinion?'

'Okay then . . .'

Moments later, Nilpaurion found himself in Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom. Around him were seated the Aratar, the eight Valar that really held power in Arda. Why they were needed when there was a more powerful deity--after all, he created Arda and everything in it--was beyond him. Well, there was that theory that Eru was a Warg (or a llama), and could not rule over humanoid life-forms. Hmph, specieists. Such people should be sent to Mordor.

'You asked for another opinion, right?' Mandos said. 'Well, you'll have seven of them.'

'What's with that crazy "Lynch me!" campaign?' asked Manwë. 'There's something wrong with your head, boy.'

'And he has that Lhunatic for a sister,' Varda added.

'Absolutely crazy,' said Aule.

'Stark-raving bonkers,' agreed Yavanna.

'Madman,' pronounced Ulmo.

'Mad Elf,' Oromë corrected. Another specieist, Nilp snorted.

'Boo hoo hoo! . . . Uh, what?' Nienna said. Now she's crazy.

'That's six votes. That's enough. You need to bring your torch,' Mandos said with the formality of a reality show host.

'What? But what about my TV shooooooooooooooooooo . . .'

. . .

Nilpaurion woke up. He was lying on something soft and comfortable. It was too bright here--wherever 'here' was--, and he found himself blinking as his eyes tried to adjust to the light.

'Welcome, Nilpaurion,' a strange voice said. He suddenly thought of men clad in strange black suits with wide foreheads and huge black eyes, doing impossible hand-to-hand fights. He angrily shook the thought off.

'Welcome to Dol Gaurgaurhoth.' Nilpaurion's eyes had fully adjusted, and he saw Anakron standing over him. 'Where have you been?'

'It's a long story,' Nilpaurion said diffidently.

'I'm already bored,' the Dweomer replied.

'Hey, get off my back, 'less you wanna bleed to death,' a creepy voice said from behind him--

What? But he was in bed! Who could be behind him? That creepy voice . . . He slowly rose from where he was lying and turned to see Adam Smith, or at least half of him, attached to his hips like they were Siamese twins. Well, this is interesting . . .

'And watcha lookin' at? If my arms could reach you I'd've throttled you by now,' said Adam unitalicisedly.

'I see, still insane as ever. Now, on to the game,' Anakron said as he sat back on his lazyboy.

Hmmm . . . If his first lynching has separated part of Adam from his body, then surely killing himself again would remove the obnoxious alter-ego completely.

But the villagers would now surely know that he's innocent. I need a new plan for this . . .

Wait, where's Alice and Emily?

~*~

Meanwhile, back in the ruins of MoUnT dOoM . . . errr . . . Mount Doom Casino and Resort, Alice and Emily were standing over the rubble, watching the tortuous lava flows surround them. They held hands as the molten rock slowly crawled its way up the hill where they had taken refuge.

'I love you,' said Emily.

Alice nodded. 'I'm glad that Fléin guy's not here to see us . . .'

~*~

A few minutes of re-acquainting himself with the village led him to discover that everyone had been questioning the veracity of the game. It seemed that the ModeVayor has failed to assign the roles, and that Dol Gaurgaurhoth was a hoax.

But the most important thing that he had heard was . . . nobody has voted yet. The DAY may be ending soon.

This is his chance. A life free of strange voices inside his head.

He takes it: 'I vote for

++Nilpaurion Felagund

again.'

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé started (as you may have inferred, he was a very twitchy sort) when he noticed Sai approach him. As she sat against the wall, Aimé summoned up a killer smile and, just as she asked him if he wanted to talk, he showed it; positively glowing, he smiled such a radiant smile that it took Sai's breath away. At least that's how he imagined it.

The reality was slightly more mundane, if still glad; because Sai smiled back at him and seemed a lot more comfortable. "I thought you looked rather unhappy" said she.

"Oh, it comes and goes" replied Aimé. "Sometimes, in moments of clarity and/or honesty I realise that I quite like being—if not sad then...wistful. Don't you know?"

"Oh yes" said Sai, looking ever so slightly confused but even more like she wanted to put her arm around Aimé's shoulder and say 'There, there!'

And so Sai and Aimé had their first important conversation, where stories were told, laughs were shared, and oaths of fellowship were taken (sort of). Aimé now trusted Sai totally; and he figured that, even if he shouldn't, he didn't ask for the responsibility which he had recently been saddled with. What bad thing was likely to come of this friendship?

Aimé looked out onto the village and espied a flock of pigeons. Now, the fact that Aimé quite liked pigeons has nothing to do with this scene. All he did was ponder how remarkable it was that such anakronisms would pop up at this particular time. It strongly reminded him of the practice of assigning things to Mordor purely for utility in, say, an RPG. It was like an anakronism-sibling, and it was certainly evident here in the not-too-busy village of Dol Gaurgauroth.

"Sai, you have cheered me up" he said, and hugged her. "Now, what the devil are we going to do now?"

[Kath]

"I suppose we wait for Anakron to turn up." Replied Sai. "Only that madman Nilp has voted and that was for himself, which means we only have one candidate for the lynching."

Aimé nodded, but didn't look too worried. Taking her cue from him, Sai decided to leave the panicking til after the event. Still, she couldn't deny that she was worried, and it must have shown on her face for Aimé took pity on her and began to chatter about what he thought of the various members of the Offending Party so far.

Sai was soon helpless as he gave her his interpretations of previous events (which he had only heard about) and how he imagined Fléin reacting to overzealous political correctness and Valde having no cameras on him. And as he began to impersonate Alli's mood swings Sai found herself sliding down the wall, barely able to breath for laughing.

Aimé stopped to give her time to recover, and stood there grinning as she tried to regain her breath.

"Thanks Aimé. I needed that. Now what do you say we get back to the others and find out just what's going on?"

They walked back, and found pretty much everyone waiting quietly for the outcome of the days events.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron walked into the village square; which wasn't really square but you had to call it something that didn't sound overly latinate. Without preamble he started right in on the issues of greatest import.

"All of the Offending Party have passed this test. Not one of you have cast a vote today."

Mardil was walking into the square and overheard this last comment. "But you told us that we had to lynch two people each day."

"Not so. I never said that you had to lynch anyone. Rather, I told you, after one of your number said 'we must lynch them', that in Mordor, because of the Dweomer, all lynchings in Mordor must be multiple. Never did I say that you must do so. Blame the moderator of this rpg if you like, but not me."

Mardil rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Technicalities."

Anakron smirked, then held up his staff. "Let the Dweomer be conveyed!" Suddenly, the ground swelled and rumbled wherever they had buried a fangirl, a nightly death, or a lynch victim. Fingers clawed at the air from beneath the ground. Girls screamed. Fléin retched rats. Arms pulled their own bodies out from beneath the soil until a host of fangirls, lynchees, and nightly victims were standing around, dusting their clothes of excess dirt. Even a beaver that had been two halves, became whole ... and stared evilly at Fléin.

"Juth waith thill a thlan geth heya, Thwoff! Th'a wonther thnow dothn't follow you!"

"Shut up you little orc," Fléin retorted.

"How's everybody feeling?" Anakron asked.

"Alive and well, no thanks to you!" cried Elempí.

"Tut tut, I merely convey."

"But how-" started Alli, "-how did they die if there aren't any werewolves, and how did they all come back to life again?"

"Through the secrets of the Dweomer. But this much I may reveal. The Dweomer functions as a conveyor of entities and items from another time in the future; but not just one single microsecond of time. Rather, the conveyance can be from any of a few million million seconds of time. Two nights ago, for example, the Dweomer conveyed a time when these fangirls were all no longer alive; and this morning, the Dweomer conveyed an earlier time, when they were alive."

Panakeia said, "So ... this village is real? This game?"

"Yes. But it was a very creative solution to the problem, even if it was not quite right."

Nilpaurion, here, was a special case, as he always seems to be, and even though he voted for himself, game's over. Sorry, too bad. Why do you want to be lynched, anyway, Nilp?"

"To be rid of my obnoxious alter ego once and for all, Sir Dweomer."

"Don't call me that. I only convey it. What makes you think being killed a second time will achieve this?"

"You mean it won't?"

"'Twould be far simpler for me to convey the Dweomer from a point in time when you and your alter ego are separate."

"You can do that?!?" Nilp asked, wide eyed.

Anakron held forth his staff. "Dweomer be conv- .... Oh." Anakron lowered his staff. "There is not point in time when your alter ego is completely separated from you. Sorry about that.

"And now to the point totals," Anakron continued. "Ten points for surviving; but subtract one for each individual you voted for that was lynched. Panakeia add one point for moral development. That is all.

"Oh, not quite all. These points do make a difference. Do not doubt it. That is all.

"Well, not quite all. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, meet here to be conveyed to Urukapolis for the final test. Good night all. Sleep tight. Don't let the CoDs, beavers, and betrayers bite. Elempí! Get over here!"

Elempí hurried after his master into the dusk.

[the guy who be short]

Night fell. Usually, Fléin would spend the dying hours of the day to write in his diary. Today, he could not concentrate for thoughts of A Slan. What was this locationless, dateless thing? It was moving, that much he knew. It was moving. And the world was stirring because of it.

Darkness blanketed the little village, and still Fléin could not rest his mind. His thoughts mulled over the dryad and beaver again and again. Beavers, he should say - he had tried to chase up the one he has accidentally slain, but it seemed to bear a grudge against him. Furthermore - and this was strange - it now followed the Anakronist wherever he went. The other beaver had been afraid of Anakron - and both of them, along with the dryad, were working together, he knew, sent by the same person. Anakron had done something to that beaver. The others laughed at the little rodent tailing him, but only Alli and Fléin shared dark glances.

The Dwarf made up his mind. Casting off the bedcovers, he wrapped himself in the warmest cloak possible and departed his hut. Though his vision was impaired, he whistled and shreiked in the tongue of the nightbirds, and they aided him until he had grown accustomed to the dark. He dared not risk a torch.

Something was wrong. He felt it. In a few minutes, he knew the clearing would emerge - but would there be anything of significance there? He stepped forward.

The clearing was gone.

The Dwarf mused. Gone was not, perhaps, the best word. It had been... cleared. Apparently by a nuclear bomb. The ground was scorched and black. The stream was dry. Nothing stirred, and not even the night creatures made any noise. Silence reigned supreme, silence and expectation. Fléin stepped forward.

The bareness of the land immediately worried him. But he consoled himself. While the destruction of the countryside was certainly Anakron's doing, he could not be here now. Even he needed sleep.

Fléin's stump was gone, blasted into oblivion. He had nowhere to sit, and stood around, lost. He had come here on impulse, not knowing what to find. The new landscape left him with a sense of dread and no enlightenment.

Several minutes passed in the silence.

Fléin turned to leave. He started moving off into the woods and eventually back to the village. Just then, a voice called out.

"Fléin son of Fréin?" it rumbled. It was low, harsh and gutteral, and somehow had an implacably odd character to it. It was perhaps too low - that was it, that was why it was odd.

Fléin turned. "Who is there?" he called into the denser treeline opposite to the direction the village lay in, whence he judged the voice to have come.

"I was bid to find Fléin Fréinson. Are you he?" Again, a gutteral quality to the voice that Fléin could not place.

"I am. Reveal yourself."

"Let go of your axe, Master Dwarf," was the only reply. Fléin only gripped all the tighter as a darkness detached itself from the general shadow and moved forwards. As it move, Fléin judged it to be the size of a small bear - and it moved on all fours.

It moved into the clearing, opposite Fléin, offering him a clear view, as far as he could see in the dark. It did indeed appear to be a bear - but with a most curious patchwork coat, like a Frisian cow. Fléin frowned.

"Who are you? Why do you seek me?"

"I am Pánða. I come to tell you A Slan-"

"-Is on the move. Yes, I know. But what is A Slan? Who is he?"

The bear appeared to think. "He is," he replied simply.

"That's Tom Bombadil!"

The bear did not reply.

"Why were you bid seek me in particular? There are many people in Mordor."

"You are one of the Naugrim. You have a choice: to join A Slan, or to stand against him."

Fléin frowned. "But I don't know anything about A Slan!"

"The world is changing, Master Dwarf. A Slan is on the move. And with him, the world shifts, the balance of the old order falls. You would do well to join A Slan."

The Dwarf was getting more and more confused. "Why do you not approach anybody else in Mordor?"

"They are sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. They are not involved in the conflicts of Nurnia. But you, Master Naugrim, are graced with that choice."

"Who is A Slan? What does he fight for? What forces does he have? Who are his enemies? What has this to do with Nurnia? Why do you not involve Men?"

Once more, the bear paused. "Well, you see, that's a toughie. You're really asking six questions there. I have told you about A Slan. He fights for justice, trust, peace. His forces are magnificant, and composed of all the good creatures in Nurnia. His enemies are the Fallen. Nurnia is A Slan's land. Men are not native to Nurnia."

The bear stopped, and Fléin tried vainly to absorb all of this. But the bear continued regardless.

"Though Men are becoming involved... You have heard of the wars in Mordor?"

"Wars? Yes, but the parents and teenagers struck a truce fifteen years ago. Though there are the incarnations of Depp."

"The parent-teen truce has come to an end. Those who were teens are now parents. The tide shifts. And yes, the good Depps are battling with us. The parents have pledged their support. There are a myriad other conflicts, of course. And some even say war is spilling into Gondor..."

"Impossible!" the Dwarf cried. "War has been sent to Mordor!"

"The eyes of A Slan do not lie. Men have been massing, preparing for war Without. Perhaps by this, the Dweomer may be broken."

Fléin started phrasing a question, but the bear turned its back on him and shuffled off. "Wait! I need to ask you-"

But it had reached the treeline. It turned its head back, and called "Go back to your hut, son of the Earth. Already we have spoken too long. Anakron will awake."

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé danced around blithely, roaming through the gloaming of Dol Gaurgauroth. He was feeling far chirpier now: after all, he was leaving this miserable place tomorrow. He spied a centipede on the ground and did a little jig around it, calling out 'Hey! Hey! Mister Centipede! Won't you dance with me?' Yes, Aimé was in a very silly mood.

He spotted a mouse hiding behind a tree and, jumping out in front of the poor thing, scared it off into the gloom, all the while shouting 'Come back! Come back, Mister Mouse! Won't you dance with me?' Yes, children, he really was being very silly indeed.

Then something made Aimé jump: a flash of red in the thicket. What could that be, he thought. Centipede, mouse, if the pattern continued, it must be something like....a fox! Yes, that would do. For the time being, Aimé quite forgot that foxes belonged in the Shire and not Mordor; he was just so used to dancing with foxes, you see. Aimé cackled, delighted with this horrendous joke he had just made.

But he stopped and held his breath. He heard a voice, and a humanistic voice at that. What could it be, he thought. As he ventured toward the source of the vocals, he felt a growing unease within him. Snapping out of his silly mood completely, he tip-toed up to the thicket, and peered between the trees. Then, he gasped in consternation.

-------------------------------------

Stealing through the trees with a majestic and highly dangerous speed, Aimé made his way back to the village. Frantically, and looking totally bewildered, he practically crashed right into a group of villagers. "Alli!" he spluttered.

They just stared at him as if they'd never seen him before. After a few seconds (though it seemed like all eternity to Aimé) Sai spoke to him: "Alli was just around that corner a few minutes ago. Aimé, dear, are you alright?"

Too flustered to address her properly, all Aimé could do was shout back "No! I...er...what it is...maybe...another time!" And as soon as he said it he realised how uncultured he must have appeared but he just had to grimace and get on with the task at hand. He sped round the corner, and came face to face with Alli and Wilhelmina, one of whom suddenly looked quite fearful, the other of whom just looked weirded out.

"Alli" Aimé said, between glances at Wilhelmina. "Alli, it's....it's....I love you." The young lady looked astonished for the tiniest instant, and then it dawned on her.

Again, though it seemed like forever to Aimé, Alli had actually been very professional. She quickly broke into a smile, and said "I love you too, Aimé!" She took Aimé's hand which caused him to get slightly lost in the moment, until he finally regained control of his faculties and hurriedly led her towards the trees, that mysterious gloaming, straight past a fair number of the villagers.

Wilhelmina ambled over and joined the group, laughed, and muttered something about youngsters.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli walked as swiftly as she could beside Aimè, trying to look as guilty as possible. The villagers mustn't know... they would panic. They must believe...

"I love you, Aimè." she cooed sickeningly, making it obvious that she did not want to be overheard. Villagers left and right rolled their eyes, snickering as the pair disappeared through the shadowed trees.

"Where?" Alli mouthed, careful to keep her words private. They were now far out of sight and sound of the villagers. He pointed to some bushes. She nodded and reached into her bag, pulling a small firearm from it. Aimè pulled his sword from beneath his cloak.

Suddenly raucus laughter burst forth from the trees, surrounding them like a swarm of Italian-sounding locusts. Alli crept through the strewn leaves and pine needles, crouched low and moving silently, her hand gun cocked and ready. Aimè held his sword dangerously, ready to strike. He circled the bushes from the far right.

Alli's scream broke the air when she was still a dozen yards from the shrubbery. Aimè's concentration broke and he ran to her. She lay spasming on the ground screaming, deaf to his words. He searched her for injury and found nothing. Finally a snake, long and perfectly harmless, slithered terrified from beneath her, undulating as far away as possible in as short a time as it would take a race car on steroids to travel around a two foot track. She had crept over top of it unwittingly and it had wrapped itself around her arm in retribution. Terrified of serpents, Alli had been able to do nothing but scream helplessly. She now laying sobbing, trying to breathe and not much accomplishing it.

Aimè gathered her into his arms and held her until she stopped shaking (which took an admittedly long time). Their opportunity had been lost. The flash of red and sound of Italian had disappeared into the forest by the time they were able to explore the area. They had lost Mario... they had lost such a perfect chance...

Now Alli leaned against a tree, hands braced on her knees. She could finally breathe, but she was ashamed of herself. The snake had been more afraid of her than she was of it, much though she wanted to deny it. She had lost them... everything.

"Not everything." came a Voice. Aimè jumped and looked around.

"It's just Illamatar." said Alli dejectedly. "He talks to me a lot. You know that. He's the one who told me that I'm a Seer. He's the one who gives me my dreams. He told me that you were innocent and that Mario was not. He told me... everything."

Aimè searched the air for a diety to bow to respectfully and failed.

"He'll not appear..."

"Too true." the Voice replied. "Alli, you mustn't feel sorry for yourself. Wallowing in self-pity is a bad excuse for action. You screwed up. Admit it and then go fix it. There will be time yet to kill Mario. In the mean time, revel in Sai's victory."

"Sai's victory?" Aimè muttered to Alli, confused.

"Yes." she answered. "She doesn't know it though. Illamatar told me. She made J.Lo. harmless. The diva had managed to contain the power of the full moon within... her posterior. Sai stole it from her for that Task. With the full moon gone... J.Lo. was rendered Ordinary."

"You mean... but you didn't tell me that J.Lo... I thought... Mario..."

"There are three, Aimè. Three. Now there are two. We'd have narrowed it to one... if only I hadn't--"

"Alli!" Illamatar warned.

"Come off it, Eru, you know perfectly well that I'm right. I screwed up. We could have... but now we can't... and you still haven't said who the third is."

"I'm not telling you everything. You must figure it out on your own. There is still time." With no change of scenery, the allies could tell that their Creator had left them. Well, not left them... but had left the area, if you take my meaning.

Aimè put his arm comfortingly around Alli's shoulder as they began to walk slowly back. "We'll find him. We'll learn the last one. We can do this."

"Yes... yes, we can." Alli sounded slightly less certain than she'd meant to. Aimè wasn't confident enough to reprimand her.

[littlemanpoet]

For some reason that escaped the understanding of the Offending Party, SpaM, Mormegil, Nilpy, CoD, the fangirls, and everybody else from Dol Gaurgauroth had gotten on the flight. Worse yet, it seemed that Orlando Bloom and J.Lo had caught up to them as well.

"Why are all these people here?" asked Panakeia.

"The Dweomer is at work. Sometimes it's not worth the effort to limit it. How would they say it in the future time? Ah yes: 'deal with it'. Such a world of meaning in three little words. Priceless."

"Where's Elempí?" asked Panakeia.

Anakron thumped his chest. "We are again one, more's the pity. Now then! Regarding the fifth and final test! There are three parts to this test, and therefore you might (if you're lucky) receive ten points three times. The first part is that you will take a week-long course in an area that has been determined to be of value to you. The second is that you will have a physical to ensure that nothing from Mordor enters the rest of Middle Earth that should not; and you will undergo any surgeries deemed necessary to achieve that end. Thirdly, you will undergo a psychological evaluation to ensure that you will function in a seemly fashion on the outside.

"Should you pass all of these tests with a sufficient number of points, you will be allowed to leave Mordor.

"One thing of special note. The University of Mordor registrar's office is notorious for suddenly cancelling courses and reassigning students to the next best course. Report to the registrar's office to find out what you'll be taking, then to the Hospital to find out when you will take your physical, then to the Psych Ward - um - I mean, Department, to get your appointment time for your psych eval. Any questions?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

“A Hospital? In Mordor?” exclaimed the rather unnerved Hookbill as he was dragged into the University hospital by the ears, “I don’t know anything about Orc anatomy. Or any anatomy for that matter!” He was cast upon a table and three Orcs sneered at him with eyes like green flame and faces like they had been burned by it.

“Look here,” sneered one of them, “You’re going to work here. So shut up about it. Doctor Hookbill.” He laughed and pushed the helpless Goomba onto the floor with a thud. “Here, you’ll need this.” Sneered the Orc as he cast a white coat at him, “Hope you have more luck than it’s previous owner.”

The Orcs left and many other University doctors looked at him for a second almost ready to snigger. To avoid their gaze, Hookbill inspected the white coat. It was covered in blood. He hadn’t been surprised. With a sigh he sat in a near by chair and held his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. Another Doctor rushed past and tripped over Hookbill’s foot, he swore and then looked up at the sobbing figure and swore again.

[littlemanpoet]

When the Offending Party, reality show crew, and various hangers on had arrived at Urukapolis, Anakron gave them their marching orders.

"Report first to the first floor of Cirith Ungol, where you will meet Dr. Hookbill, who will schedule your physical. From there, proceed to The Shelob's Lair College of Psychology where you will meet Dr. Sigmund, who will schedule you for your psychological evaluation. Third, go to the registrar's office, located in the first floor of Minas Morgul, where you will be told which classes you will take. Finally, report to Poisoned Vale where you will be assigned a dormitory room. Classes begin at dawn. Be on time. You are dismissed."

[Kath]

After Anakron had finished rattling off the list of things they would have to get through to pass the next task he stalked off, leaving the Offending Party to work out what to do. Sai was just wondering what exactly had been meant by 'surgery' when a voice behind her cried out,

"Youngest first!"

And she was shoved unceremoniously into an elevator. She turned and tried to get out before the doors closed, but they were already half shut and her phobia of getting trapped between them forced her backwards. She watched in trepidation as the numbers flashed before her eyes - 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . wait! She was supposed to be on the first floor not the third. Jabbing at the buttons she barely noticed the doors open, and only looked up as an overly large man got into the lift with her. Sai briefly considered the possibility that his weight would cause the lift to fall anyway, but quickly berated herself for such a thought and moved back as he hit the button for the next floor down.

Through some cruel law, the lift went straight down to the first floor rather than stop off at the second, and by the time Sai got out she felt completely squashed. Still, she was at least where she was supposed to be, and soon saw a door with Dr. Hookill written on the glass pane. She only had a few seconds to read it though, as it was suddenly shattered by a flying . . . something. Ducking to avoid the glass Sai bent and looked at the object that had narrowly missed her head. Just as she was wondering why this doctor would have a Jack Russell in his office and why he would have thrown it through the window, a little man flung open the door.

"Who are you!" He barked, before bursting into tears.

"I, um, I'm Sai, Sai Onara. Anakron sent me up here to . . ."

"Well Sai Sai Onara." Came a voice through the sobs. "Get in here so I can diagnose you and leave this dreadful place."

Hoping doing as he asked would stop him crying, Sai didn't even bother to correct him about her name, but simply picked up the dog and scurried inside. He motioned her to a chair, so she sat down and awaited his prognosis.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Sai Onara sat down in front of Hookbill's desk as he frantically looked at the bookshelves. He twitched nervously and mumbled to himself incoherently, there as some Elvish thrown in there, incorrectly, as Sai noted. Hookbill took down a large volume that was covered in dust, the binding seemed to have been repaired several times, unsuccessfully. Hookbill blew some of dust off and looked at the title, "Medical Textbook".

"Ah!" said the little man, "This may help." he opened it up to reveal hollowed out pages holding a small bottle of whiskey. Hookbill groaned. He hated alcohol and it wasn't going to help his situation. He slammed it shut and placed it on the table before picking up a clipboard. Clearing his throat several times, Hookbill succeeded only in creating the impression that he had a cold.

"Do you..." began Hookbill plucking questions out of thin air, "Do you have any diseases?"

"I was rather hoping you could tell me that," said Sai with a smirk, "doctor."

"Well quite," the little man adjusted his collar; "of course." he wrote some things on his clipboard. "Read this." he said holding it up.

"'I need a cup of tea.'"

"You do?" cried Hookbill, "me too, lets leave this terrible place!" He rose and tried to scuttle away.

"Doctor?" Sai said, "what about my health?"

"Oh that..." he scratched his head, "erm, let me see." he took a magnifying glass from his coat pocket, wiped the blood off it and examined Sai's eyes. "Well, I sorry to say this," began Hookbill before something bit him on the leg. It was a crab that had been living under the bookcase.

"What is it, Doctor?" pressed Sai.

"I'm afraid its Gandalf's syndrome." he said, picking a name at random. Sai looked puzzled. "It’s a mysterious condition, but I've caught it in the early stages. Tell me have you had the uncontrollable urge to uncloak." Sai shook her head, "good, its not too far gone. Although, it will require surgery."

"What kind?" asked Sai, getting a little nervous.

"Oh nothing major," said Hookbill lifting a saw from a cabinet draw, "just the removal of the... erm... the," he paused, "the euphonium?"

"Isn't that a musical instrument?"

"No," coughed Hookbill, "It's a very important... liver... like... thing." Sai wasn't convinced. "I need to check the doctor's manual." said Hookbill hiding under the desk. Sai heard sounds of gulping and a lid being screwed. The little man rose again looked wide-eyed. "Right, lets get you down to theatre!" he began to leave, letting her lead the way, "Ah, I'll just get the manual." he said.

As he tried to leave, the intercom beeped at him. "Your next patient is here, Doctor." but before Hookbill could ask how there was an intercom in Middle Earth, a nurse pushed him back into the room and told him to wait before doing any operations.

[the guy who be short]

When Sai finally emerged, looking rather shaken, she found the rest of the Party had gathered around the Doctor's door. They watched as she walked off, shaken and pale, and apparently without the doctor, who had been shoved back into his room to accept - Fléin.

Dear Mahal, what was this imbecile going to do? Was the first thought to flitter through Fléin's thubconscious. The man's coat was stained with what looked disturbingly like blood. Though this pseudo-Psychoesque appearance would usually strike fear into normal people, the pathetic look on the man's face nullified the effect completely.

Fléin sat down in a chair and sighed.

"Let's get this over with, then," Doctor Hookbill suggested. "I've never, ah, studied a Dwarf before, but I'm sure it's much the same as with humans, eh?"

Fléin sighed again, louder. "I'm a Dwarf, Doctor. Of course I'm not the same as a human. Otherwise I'd be classified as a short person. A guy who be short, if you will."

"Oh." Hookbill's face fell. "Well... there must be something wrong with you."

"I'm a Dwarf. We do not develop disease. Everybody knows this." Fléin voiced the obvious immediately before realising that this wasn't quite true in Mordor.

Hookbill eyed him suspiciously.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Hookbill looked from side to side, trying to avoid the gaze of the Dwarf. Yet his eyes were like two colossal black holes sucking all points in the room towards them, meaning that no matter where he looked, he was always pulled back to the dwarf. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I’m not too good with dwarves, let me check the textbook." he lifted the large volume suspiciously close to his face and then swiftly slammed it shut.

Hookbill shook his head and then took out the magnifying glass. "Now, lets have a look at that..." he paused, "cat?"

"Its a beard, you dribbling idiot!" cried Fléin, "now get on with it!"

"Beard," echoed Hookbill, "I must write that down. So, how long have you had this... 'beard'."

"..." Said Fléin.

"That long, eh?" Hookbill took another 'read' of the textbook, "well, it seems to me that you may have a condition we doctors call, Gimli's chin." Fléin cocked his head and studied the sweating face of Hookbill who was suspiciously writing things down on his clipboard. He muttered something about 7 across.

"Look, Doctor," began Fléin but Hookbill fell over. Stumbling to his feet, the little man took refuge behind a small wastepaper basket and began sobbing gently. "I'm sorry," continued Fléin, "I didn't mean to startle you." Hookbill rose and came to his desk.

"Now, I must just take a listen," Hookbill said as he picked up a stethoscope, "I think this works," he held one end to the dwarf's head and listened.

"This is ridiculous." said Fléin.

"Ah ha!" cried Hookbill, "I know exactly what the problem is!" the dwarf waited patiently, "talking brain syndrome!" Hookbill mentally patted himself on the back. That sounded good enough. It would have convinced him. Fléin raised an eyebrow as Hookbill nervously wrote something on his paper and then looked up. He smiled weakly and then continued, "This will require some surgery."

"You're not serious?" said Fléin standing up.

"Oh I wish I was." Hookbill lead the dwarf to the door and opened it, "the operating theatre is around here somewhere. Go and find it, there’s a good chap!" Fléin gladly left the office and Hookbill dashed to the window and tried to open it.

[Celuien]

Panakeia followed the Offending Party into Cirith Ungol with no little trepidation in her heart. Physicals and psychological testing. She uneasily thought of the voice that now chattered away in her head. How would she ever manage to pass the tests?

Oh stop it. Everyone has a nagging conscience at some point. Nothing at all to worry about.

I hope so. Nilp's strange case was not forgotten.

The Party, minus Sai, now came up to Dr. Hookbill's door. Muffled voices came from inside the office. Panakeia tried to make conversation. "I guess Sai's already in there. Think we'll have a long wait out here?" No one responded.

Panakeia sat down. An uncomfortable lump in her back pocket caused her to shift position. "What's in here?" she murmured, and drew out a clump of sandy hair. She had nearly forgotten about the toupee.

Shame on you, stealing that poor man's hair. You really ought to do something about it.

Alright, alright. She tapped Alli on the shoulder. "Do you have any paper? And a pen?"

"Whatever for?"

"There's something I have to take care of," Panakeia replied.

Alli produced the requested items, and Panakeia began to write.

Dear Captain,

I'm sure you will remember me. I was the one who stole your head covering in Lost Angles. Please forgive me. I can offer no excuse for my actions, other than to say that I was motivated by need. Try to understand; I have been given a chance to leave Mordor. But to do so, I had to produce an item, the item most valued by a celebrity. And I chose the celebrity I admired most. You.
Liar. You'd never even heard of him until you found that guide.

Be quiet. Nothing wrong with a little flattery. She returned to writing.
But I behaved abominably. And I can't live with myself knowing that I've stolen from you. Even though I would be honored to keep a souvenir of our brief acquaintance, and even though I still have not completed the task which drove me to my unpardonable actions, I must return your property. Your item is enclosed, along with the Super Hair Stimulating Shampoo I promised in my original note. Dr. McBones was correct. It isn't likely to do much for you - it's just a bit of egg white and mayonnaise - but maybe you can put it on a salad and learn to think a little less badly of your friend:

Panakeia of Harad

Note completed and boxed with the promised objects, she stopped a passing nurse. "Excuse me. Where can I send a package?"

"You might try the mailroom by the Emergency Department. Follow the red line on the floor." Panakeia thanked her, and telling the rest of the Party that she would be right back, went to send her package.

The Emergency Department was in chaos. But not from patients. Indeed, the department was deserted. Most of the disorder resulted from stacks of unfinished paperwork. As Panakeia watched, a troop of Orcs came from behind a door marked "Records Room," a metal cart buried by a stack of voluminous charts in tow. They approached a doctor in a white coat. Spotting them coming in his direction, he turned ashen pale and turned to flee. Not quickly enough. The Orc in lead caught him by the arm.

The Orc clicked his tongue. "Just where do you think you're going? We have these charts for you to look at. They are deficient. Just look." The Orc picked up a chart and thumbed through it, pointing out various problems as he went along. "See? Each of these forms has to be filled out in quintuplicate. Yellow copy to the lab, white to the chart, pink as a spare copy, orange to the patient, and red, well I'm not quite sure what we do with the red, but it is procedure, after all. You didn't press hard enough to mark all of the pages. And these billing codes. Haven't you heard about the updates? You can't just mark off laceration. No, the section has been expanded. Now you can and must code for 25 different types of bandage and 50 different cleaning procedures (with and without soap, water, betadine, you see the idea). Oh, and that reminds me. Laceration is no longer a diagnosis. It's now a procedure, which means that the old diagnosis code is now superceded by the procedures coding section. So all of these codes that you checked off are now invalid. And you're coming off to do a chart review with us to fix all these problems." The Orc's face lit up. "Just think! At least a week in our records room. And what a time we'll have." The Orc started to lead the group away. "I'll tell you all about the latest coding revisions. Have you heard, for instance, about the the new numbering system? 8 digits to each code instead of 6, 9 is 1 and 2 is 5..." As the Orc chattered on and the doctor looked at him helplessly, they disappeared into the records room.

Panakeia shook her head and walked into the mailroom to send her package. Then she rejoined the Offending Party, a smile on her face. Even if she accomplished nothing else on the rest of her journey, she had at least corrected one of her mistakes.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"This blasted thing!" cried Hookbill as the window refused to open, "I wan't to leave! Can't you get that into your head? Of course not, you don't have one." he hit his head against the glass and there was a 'click' sound. He looked to see that the latch on the window had come unhooked. He wiped his brow and looked at the door. There was a little commotion, but no one in the party seemed to want to go into the office. 'Fine by me' thought Hookbill.

He opened the window. He looked around the room once again and nearly fell over when the inter-com buzzed. It was hidden somewhere under the piles of paper on the desk. Swiftly, Hookbill raced over and threw most of the paper on the floor to find a small black round ball. It was perfectly smooth and no bigger than a cricket ball, yet there appeared to be writing on the bottom, 'Mini Palantir, good for short distance communication. Noldor products LTD'.

"I'll send in the next patient, Doctor," said a voice from the Palantir.

"No!" cried Hookbill, "I don't want any more patients! I just want to leave!" he dashed to the window and opened it, just as the office door itself opened. Hookbill gulped and hoped the person entering would not see him. Perhaps if he willed himself to be invisible, he'd not be seen. It didn't work.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin left the group and wandered down the central corridor, vaguely pursuing the operating theatre. Halfway down, he came across Sai, who was just standing around, it seemed.

"Hail," he said, walking up to her. "Are you for the operating theatre too?"

She nodded, licked her lips, and replied in a quiet voice, "I think there's been a mistake."

The Dwarf nodded. "I know. That doctor was the most incompetent shaman I've ever had the displeasure of-"

"That's not what I meant," she cut him off. She nodded her head towards a door on her left, indicating that Fléin should investigate himself. It had "Operating Theatre" written on it.

Fléin grasped the dorr handle, gave it a flick of the wrist, and nudged it open not more than a few degrees. Inside was total blackness - but it was the ears that were accosted, not the eyes.

"Romeo! Romeo Whyfore be-est thou Romeo? Renounce-thee your father and renounce thee thine name!"

He shut the door and winced at her. The terrible Jamesian English was simply too ugly to put into words. The pseudo-Italian accent was cringeworthy. But to the operating theatre they had been sent, and to the operating theatre they had to go.

Turning the handle once again, Fléin and Sai braved the poor performance.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina peered around the door and beheld a small man in a bloodstained white coat about to jump out the window. Or perhaps he wasn't about to jump out the window, as he was standing very, very still.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Hookbill," she said as pleasantly as she could. A look of intense grief crossed the man's face.

"I can't see what's so good about it," he said, pulling an equally bloodstained handkerchief from the pocket of the coat and wiping his shining face with it. "I've just been considering jumping through that window there, as invisibility doesn't appear to be an option."

"Why in the world would you want to jump through a window?" Wilhelmina asked, joining him at the sill and looking down to see the five hundred foot drop. "Especially this one!"

"Oh, I'll do anything to get out of here! The orcs forced me to work here, and I can't stand it! I don't know a thing about Mordorian diseases," he fretted, putting a foot up on the sill.

"Now you wait one minute!" She gave him a smart whack on that foot with her walking stick; he immediately withdrew it. "Young man, you've got too much of your life ahead of you to go jumping out of windows because you're having one bad day in Mordor. What do you think Mordor is all about? You're going to have to grow a tougher skin, Doctor." She closed the window, directed him to his seat, and then sat down across from him.

"See, I'm an old woman. I'm sure there are plenty of things wrong with me, so it shouldn't be hard for you to identify at least one. Don't you worry about a thing."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Hookbill scratched his head nervously as Wilhelmina peered at him under her dark eyebrows. He glanced back at the window and then back into the room. "You know, I only wanted to escape," he said, "until you pointed it out, I didn't realise the drop." Yet still, his eyes moved back and forth between the room and the window, as if he was weighing up both possibilities. Eventually he sighed and picked up the magnifying glass.

"Now, lets have a look at you," he said nervously standing and moving towards her, "Good Lord, is that the time, I am sorry, it looks like I'll have to go bye!" but before he could leave, Wilhelmina tripped him up and he fell on his face with a thud. She scowled at him and he rose, holding back tears.

"Look here, Doctor, if you really are one," Wilhelmina began,

"That’s just it, I don't think I am," he looked at her hair through the magnifying glass, "a bit of a bald spot here," he said,

"WHAT?" said Wilhelmina, "How dare you!"

"It's nothing to worry about." he leaped behind the desk for safety, "tell me, have you ever been attacked by some Eagles?"

"Well," mused Wilhelmina, "there was this one time-"

"I see," Hookbill wrote some things down on his paper, "let me guess where this happened." the old woman cocked her head, "Hotel California?" No reaction, "Well, never mind. Just, get yourself down to the operation theatre and I'll get someone to go and heal you." he ushered Wilhelmina out of the door and then slammed it behind him.

He dashed around the room like a chicken anticipating having its head cut off on its wedding day. The little man dived under the table once again and tried to think of something that he could do. But his mind was a blank; all he could see was being stuck in Mordor forever, tending Orcs and all kinds. Slowly he began to cry again.

The intercom - palantir buzzed at him and he immediately seized it from the desk. "What? What do you want?" he demanded before taking the large textbook down and 'reading' it.

"Doctor," came the nurse's voice, "you're needed in the operating theatre."

"Why? I'm not ill," said Hookbill trying to see if the drop out of the window was really that far. It was. He swore.

"No, sir," laughed the nurse, "you're performing the operations. We have quite a crowd today."

"Crowd!" shrieked Hookbill, and he seriously considered the window, but found the latch was stuck again. He began to cry again. "Can't I just go home?"

"Oh Doctor," said the nurse, "this is your new home!" with that, Hookbill flung himself at the window and bounced off, landing flat on his back, looking up at the nurse. "Are you coming?" she said, and before he could answer, she dragged him off down the hallway towards the operating theatre. As all The Offending Party watched the squirming little man being pulled along, many began to laugh. Hookbill squeaked as a discarded syringe nearly pierced him. He began to cry again.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Now is the winter of our discontent!" came the cry from the operating theatre. Hookbill was cast onto the stage face first. He looked up to see an operating table on witch laid Sai, with bruises on her head. Several Orcs, dressed in green aprons and white facemasks, surrounded the table and seemed to be checking the equipment.

Hookbill pointed up towards the wall. "Look over there!" he cried, as they looked he turned and ran, but was thrown to the floor by the nurse who then dragged him up to the table. Slowly he stood and looked at the table of medical instruments. Not a single euphonium.

Sai began to move, and one of the Orcs shouted, "More anaesthetic!" Nothing happened, "I mean, 'I begeth thee, oh gentlemen of this fair land, pray let us send our patient to slumber while we cure the aliments!" with that, the Orcs all grabbed what they could and began hitting Sai on the head until she fell unconscious. Hookbill stepped in and stopped them.

"Alright," he said, "I'll operate, just stop hitting the patients! Do you hear? No more hitting!" An Orc, who was poised over Félin lowered his staff and frowned as the dwarf struggled in the bonds that tied him to an audience chair. "So what are we doing here?" asked Hookbill.

"A euphonectomy," said the nurse handing him the medical textbook, "Look it up." Hookbill 'read' the book and then staggered around. He stood next to the table and held out his hand towards one of the Orcs. It spat on his hand. "Its an Orc custom," said the nurse wiping Hookbill's hand with disinfectant.

"Right," said Hookbill adjusting his collar, "scalpel," he was handed one, "tweezers..." he got to work on the operation, hoping that his patient wouldn't die, "Five inch knife... bowl... mayonnaise... wipe... blood bucket..." he worked as Félin looked on in horror. Hookbill's hands were shaking more than someone in an electric chair.

The little man closed his eyes and reached inside Sai's small intestines. He pulled out an Onion. There was a thin 'Beeeeeeeeeep' sound that swiftly stopped when he replaced it. "Why didn't you tell me that was a heart?" said Hookbill to one of the Orcs. Hookbill 'read' the textbook again. He looked again into the mess and to his lasting surprise, found what appeared for all the world to be a miniature euphonium lodged in Sai's spleen. He swiftly removed it and closed the incision up.

Hookbill fainted.

He got up in time to see Sai being lead away with the small euphonium in a bag and bandages on her head. Hookbill sighed and looked at the operating table where Félin was situated with more bruises on his head. "I thought I told you-" began Hookbill.

"He fell down the stairs," said an Orc. But Hookbill was not convinced as the other Orcs began to laugh maliciously. Feeling quite sick, Hookbill looked at the Dwarf and began to wonder what he was supposed to do. "Come on, Doctor," said the Orc, "This isn't brain surgery."

"Yes it is!" said Hookbill, "'Talking brain syndrome.'" He began to regret making that up. He picked up what looked like a small hammer and tapped it on Félin's head. The Dwaft did not move, but he heard the strange sound of beeping from within Félin's scull.

"At the sound of the tone, the time (sponsored by Ardarist) will be 3:05 and 7 seconds... Beep." came the sound from inside.

"Oh no," said Hookbill, "Now come on, this is ridiculous! I know for a fact that Talking Brain syndrome does n-" an Orc had taken the liberty of making the first incision. "Hay!" shouted Hookbill, "that’s my job!" he couldn’t believe he was saying this. The little man grabbed some clamps and held open a hole in Félin's head where they saw a small, very small, mobile telephone, with the talking clock speaking out of it.

"At the sound of the tone, the time (sponsored by Aradarist) will be 3:05 and 58 seconds... Beep."

Swiftly, Hookbill removed it and threw it into the audience, who then applauded him. Ignoring them, Hookbill closed the wound in Félin's head up and cleaned the blood off. The nurse applied some bandages.

Hookbill fainted again.

When he awoke, once again, Wilhelmina was asleep on the table. There were no buises on her head. "What happened?" asked Hookbill.

"Dave was telling her a story," said the nurse, pointing to an old Orc in a rocking chair. "Happens to everyone. It'll take a nuclear bomb to wake her up for another hour at least." Hookbill sighed and walked over to the table, picking up the Textbook and giving it a good long 'read'. He stumbled forwards and seized a scalpel, making a slight incision and peering into the bloody mess he had just made.

"There’s a lot of rubbish in here!" cried Hookbill, "What’s that? My house? And... Whose that living in it? Gandalf the Grey? Having one of his uncloaking parties again, I shouldn’t wonder!"

"You're hallucinating, Doctor." said the nurse, slapping him across the face.

"I am?" sighed Hookbill, "then where am I?"

"Mordor."

"Ohhh f-" he swore, "right then!" he closed the wound and then, accidentally, prodded Wilhelmina in the leg with the scalpel. She awoke with such a fright that her hair grew an extra inch, making the small bald spot disappear. There was a round of applause.

Hookbill fainted.

When he awoke, the little man found that he was in the office again, with a line of impatient patients waiting for him. "Oh dear," he said, "Oh dear, oh dear!" he repeated over and over. The next 'victim' entered the room.

[Celuien]

Dr. Hookbill's first three victims...erm...patients returned to the rest of the Offending Party. Panakeia gasped at their appearances. The bruises on Sai and the Dwarf didn't look encouraging, though she approved of Wilhelmina's new hairstyle. What the little man, whose sobbing could now be heard intermittently through the door, had done to them was a mystery to her, and not one that Panakeia was particularly eager to solve.

The nurse came out and pointed at Panakeia. "The Doctor will see you now," she said.

Panakeia looked to her left, then to her right, and then behind her. Her neighbors scurried to distant corners and tried to look intent on reading the outdated magazines scattered in the room. "Who, me?" she asked.

"Yes, you. Walk this way." The nurse led Panakeia to Hookbill's office, hips swaying in a curious sashay. Panakeia had no intention of imitating her stride. The nurse opened the office door and pushed her inside. "Your next patient, Doctor."

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" went Hookbill's voice.

This little scene didn't increase Panakeia's confidence in the Doctor's skills. But she did her best to put on a brave face.

"Pleased to meet you, Dr. Hookbill. Why do you keep saying 'Oh, dear'? I can assure you, there's nothing wrong with me."

[Kath]

Sai stumbled out of the 'operating theatre' and promptly collapsed against the nearest stable object, clutching both head and stomach. As she and Fléin had entered they had been grabbed from behind, and the last thing Sai remembered was the sight of a wall coming towards her at a surprising speed.

Unfortunately, the object turned out to be the elevator doors, which opened behind her and sent her sprawling backwards into the arms of someone very soft. Sai tried to scramble to her feet, but that involved using her stomach muscles, and they weren't too keen on exerting themselves after whatever that mad doctor had done to them. As she groaned on the floor, a gloved hand reached down to help her up. Taking it she pulled, and then screamed as it came off in her hand!

"No, no! Please! Don't worry! Happens all the time, really." Came a voice from above, and Sai looked up quickly. The fast movement caused flashing lights to appear in front of her eyes, and she made a mental note not to do anything to stress her head. When her vision cleared, she saw that she was sitting in front of what looked like a man made out of straw. To make matters even stranger, he was still talking.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, fine, thank you. Just a little surgery. Uh, I'm sorry but, you do know you're made out of straw right? And that your hand has just come off?"

"Oh yes. I just need a little manure and that'll go right back on though so don't you worry. Just pass it back here."

Sai did as he said whilst shaking her head (gently) in the hope that this was just a hallucination or a dream. However, the pain caused by that simple motion soon had her convinced that if this was a dream it was incredibly realistic, and she should just play along.

"Well then, it's nice to meet you Mr . . .?"

"Fawkes, Guy Fawkes. I'm afraid people sent the day celebrating my death to Mordor. I was something of an anarchist you see, and this fact was bizarrely celebrated in the form of fireworks and practical jokes for years! But those dratted kids went and ruined it and now I'm here. I don't suppose you'd be interested in throwing me on a fire would you? I burn very well you know."

"I would love to Mr Fawkes but you see this is my stop. It was lovely speaking to you. Hope I imagine you again soon. Goodbye!"

And Sai fled the elevator the second the doors opened, leaving a very forlorn looking Guy Fawkes waving his hand with the one still attached to the rest of him. Stopping for a moment to give the world a chance to stop spinning as her body recovered from the burst of speed she looked around this new floor. She knew she had to find a Doctor Sigmund, but couldn't see that name on any of the doors around her.

After a fruitless few minutes spent scouring the length and depth of the corridor (she had fallen a few times as her head seemed to have disconnected itself slightly from the rest of her body and was now working with the body of something that had at least 3 extra legs) she decided to knock on the door with no name, wondering if this was the beginning of the test, being able to find the right door.

She knocked twice and heard a voice call out.

"Two knocks! Definitely the sign of an Oedipal complex! Enter!"

So she did.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Pleased to meet you, Dr. Hookbill." said Panakeia, "Why do you keep saying 'Oh, dear'? I can assure you, there's nothing wrong with me." Hookbill looked up sharply and began twitching like Gollum on a bad hair day... which was every day.

"Oh, but there’s something wrong with me," mumbled Hookbill as he sat down again, "Do you have any food?" Panakeia shook her head and Hookbill put his hand over his eyes and shook his head. He seemed to have a card on the desk that said, "congratulations on your successful operations" written in big bubble letters and a picture of a cartoon doctor showing a thumbs up with a patient on an operating table doing the same, only with a hole in his chest.

"Are you alright?" asked Panakeia as the tears rolled down Hookbill's face and he looked around his person for something.

"I'm looking for my stethoscope," he said eventually. He got up and walked around the room, coming to the bookcase he climbed up and began looking around. "It must be here somewhere." he threw all the books onto the floor, "not here," he mumbled. He went over to a filing cabinet and emptied it onto the floor. "Still nothing." he went to another table on the other side of the room, there was a large packet of crisps on top of some paper. "Ah ha! Naughty stethoscope, hiding in the crisps again!" he tore open th packet and crisps went everywhere. No stethoscope.

"Doctor?" said Panakeia,

"Its no good," moaned Hookbill (although he was happy inwardly), "I cant' do the physical, I cant' find the stethoscope."

"Have you checked the desk in front of you?"

"Oh, there it is." Hookbill picked it up and put the earpieces in, "Lets have a listen then."

"What to?" Panakeia thought about escaping almost as much as Hookbill did.

"Well... erm..." he paused, "the... erm... heart?" Panakeia sighed. Hookbill placed the listening part of the stethoscope on Panakeia's chest and listened. He hummed as if in thought, although the only thing he was thinking of was the best way to get out. "Yep, both working normally." he said moving back.

"What do you mean, 'both'?" Panakeia inquired, eyeing Hookbill suspiciously.

"Oh, you only have one heart?" he looked in the textbook which was mysteriously back on the desk, "Then we'll have to get that sorted. It’s a condition called 'Severe arctic heartic' making your heart beat so loud that it seems there are two of them. Ask the nurse for some pills and you'll be right as rain by tomorrow." Hookbill grinned inwardly, 'that was good' he thought.

"I don't believe you," said Panakeia, "Are you even a doctor?"

"Apparently," mused Hookbill, "that’s what they told me. But, if there appears to be no change, then... erm... go and see someone else about it. Good bye!" Panakeia gladly left and Hookbill slumped back in his chair, looking at the mess he had made. He hummed and began creeping towards the door. 'If I take my coat off and make a run for it, perhaps no one will notice Me.' he thought, but as he began to remove the blood stained coat, the intercom buzzed at him and he fell over.

"Doctor," said the nurse, "the patient you just sent to me can't take pills."

"Why?"

"We only have Orc pills," the nurse seemed concerned, "she'll have to go for surgery, I've sent her down there now."

Hookbill cried and fell to the floor. The door opened again.

[Celuien]

Panakeia left Hookbill's office in a fit of pique. 'Severe arctic heartic?' Bah. There was no such thing. But hadn't Hookbill said something about two hearts? Suddenly, she decided to blame her conscience, the source of so many of her problems over the past few days (she thought).

This is all your fault. You're the one who had to give me a heart.

Don't be ridiculous. You know that the heart you're talking about is just a metaphor.

I wouldn't be so sure. This is Mordor after all. But that Hookbill. I know a thing or two about fakery, and he's a fake if I ever saw one.

So first you blame me, then you say he's wrong? A bit inconsistent, aren't we?

She snapped back. I'll be as inconsistent as I want.

At least there was one thing to be grateful for. Hookbill hadn't said anything about surgery. Panakeia would gladly accept the pills, although whether or not she would take them was a different matter. She walked up to the nurse.

"Can I help you?" The nurse smiled pleasantly.

"Yes. Dr. Hookbill," Panakeia nearly choked over the 'Doctor' "said something about pills for severe arctic heartic."

"I'll see what I can do." She strolled over to a closet and looked inside. "Oh dear. We only have pills for Orcs. I’m afraid you'll need surgery."

"Surgery? No. I don’t want that. Just give me the pills. I'll only take them when I'm driving. I'm an Orc then. I promise."

"That simply won't do. Off to surgery you go."

"Who said you can make that decision? You're not a doctor. For that matter, neither is Hookbill. I'm sure of it. I'm leaving." Panakeia turned to flee. But two Orcs stood behind her.

The nurse addressed the Orcs. "Take this patient to surgery, please."

As Panakeia struggled and the nurse pressed a button on the intercom to inform Hookbill about the latest development in her case, the Orcs dragged her away.

"This isn't right, you know," she protested. "What about informed consent?" The Orcs shrugged and pulled her into the operating theatre. As she entered, a voice said "But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?" Valde, at least, would like this place, she thought glumly as ropes secured her to a chair.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli slipped through the door just as Panakeia walked out of it. She looked disdainfully at the crying man on the floor and kicked him lightly.

"Come on, get up."

"No... I don't want to do this any more. You can't make me." Consulting his medical manual, Doctor Hookbill wept a bit more and looked more dejected than ever.

"Come now, Doctor, I'm in a hurry. I know you're still recovering from the attack in the beginning of the game from that jerk Mario... but that's no reason for you to lay on the floor crying."

At the name, Hookbill looked up, his tears startled into stopping.

"Yes, I know. I'm the one that found you. Blame me, if you want, that you ended up here, but blame me quickly and let me leave. I still have to go find Mario again and kill him. The more time we waste, the less time I have to save the world. You wouldn't want the world to get destroyed, would you?"

There was a poignant pause as Alli stood within kicking distance and the Doctor lay on the floor, helplessly imbibing information from his book.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

With the bottle empty and his mind ablaze, Hookbill looked at Alli in confusion. But as this was his normal facial expression, she did not notice anything. The World? Destroyed? Hookbill bobbed his head from side to side and then crawled under his desk and then slumped up to his chair. The room was spinning. He felt sick. "I think I need a doctor,” he said at last.

"How ironic," snorted Alli. Hookbill shook his head. What was in that whiskey? He picked up the textbook and looked at the empty bottle. The whiskey label, it seemed, was glued over the top of another. So Hookbill removed the label to find another that said, 'vinegar'.

"Oh good grief," said Hookbill, ready to be sick, "I don't feel so good." he dashed to the window, opened it with surprising ease, and was sick. Alli slumped into the chair and waited patiently as the little man returned to his chair and then dashed back to the window again. Hookbill finally got back to his seat and stayed there. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked, forgetting nearly everything Alli had said.

"Oh, I have this huge pain in the back side," she sneered, "I think its called 'Hookbill's disease'."

"Really? Then go and find a cure." Hookbill waddled to the door and tried to escape, but Alli whacked him over the head with something. "Ow!" he cried, holding his head, "What was that for?"

"It was the cure," she sniggered as the little man tried once again to hide under the desk. "Look, don't you understand?"

"Oh, I understand perfectly well," said Hookbill, "You’re trying to kill me, and I'm trying to escape. It’s a sort of paradox, you see?"

"No," Alli nearly tripped on some of the mess, "Do you even know what a paradox is?"

"I don't, and I don't want to find out. If there is nothing wrong with you, then go away!"

"With pleasure," but as she turned, a crab from under the desk grabbed her ankle and refused to let go. Hookbill squeaked and grabbed a stick and began beating the crab with it. Eventually it let go and scuttled off to its hiding place.

"That thing was probably full of germs," said Hookbill, "The nurse will probably know what to do. Go and see her. If she says anything about surgery, just say... something... Its not pleasant." Alli left and the little man began to wonder in his mind. 'The one who found me?' was she responsible for all this? It didn't matter right now. All that mattered was getting away. Hookbill had formulated a plan. He walked to the door, but he jumped as the burse boomed from the intercom.

"I've sent Alli down for surgery." she said.

"What?" screeched Hookbill, grabbing the Palantir, "She doesn’t' need surgery!"

"Oh yes she does. That crab wasn't full of germs, but a bit of its claw is lodged in her leg."

"I told her to refuse surgery."

"Well, she fainted." there was a pause.

"Fainted, or was knocked out?"

"Both."

Hookbill slumped on the tabled and thumbed his fist on the table. The door swung open dramatically.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin staggered out of the operating theatre a few minutes after Sai had left, though he didn't know it. His head screamed in pain. His Talking Brain Syndrome had been relieved, but this was little comfort, as he hadn't had it before.

The surgery had not been without its consequences. He had been shown his image in a mirror before he had left. Not only was his face covered in tender bruises of the purple variety, there was a bloody slash across his forehead where he had been sliced open. He had heard the orcs murmuring before he had been allowed to leave.

"Ith that where-?" whispered one orc in Tartan with square glasses.

"Yeth," replied another with half-moon glasses and a long silver beard. "He'll have that thcar forevew."

This had made him feel little better, though he had to admit, the lightning scar shape was quite trendy looking.

He had left the surgery feeling odd, as well as tender. He presumed he had bled, for he felt light and giddy. His fingers tingled. He had a curious desire to find a broomstick.

--------------------------------------------------------

Fléin finally managed to get to Mr Freud's office, though Sai was within at the moment. He loitered around outside, reaffirming his grip on himself. He felt slightly more secure now.

The corridor was lit with fluorescent lights. One was flickering, in the manner typical of hospitals. The whitewashed walls offered little relief from boredom, and soon Fléin's mind was wondering to A Slan.

Suddenly, he felt that he was being watched, and glanced at the window at the end of the corridor. As if in response to his thought, a sparrow was perched there. He walked over and knew, before it opened it's beak, what it would say.

He opened the window, grabbed the bird in a fist before it could say anything, and glared at it.

"I am not in the best of moods. A Slan is on the move, I know. Now tell me what A Slan is. Oh, bugger."

He realised that he was probably still not fully under his own control. The anaesthetic drugs must have still been affecting his mind. That would explain why he had misjudged his force and now had sparrow puree in his hand.

He sighed, opened the window, and dropped the sparrow carcass out of the window, no more enlightened than before.

[Kath]

Sai entered the room to see a small, balding man sitting in a chair with a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose, a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. He was surrounded by hundreds of books, but they were all so dusty that it looked like they had never once been opened.

The man motioned her to the couch positioned next to the chair.

“ My name is Dr Freud and I will be assessing your mental state. Please lie down and we can get started.”

Sai did as she was told, though she nearly missed the couch as her attention was focused on the small tic the man had under his left eye. It would have been somewhat hypnotic, except that it was completely irregular, and only really got going when he spoke. Her stomach muscles protested as she used them to lower herself onto the couch, but at least her head was cooperating again.

“So, Sai, is it? Well, Sai, were you always with your mother as a young child?”

Stumped Sai tried to remember. It wasn’t easy since she felt slightly concussed, and she was pretty sure memories didn’t even start at that age, but she did her best, and thought that it was pretty unlikely in any case.

“I suppose not, I mean she must have gone places without me.”

“So you were separated from her?”

“Sometimes, but . . .”

“Aha! Maternal deprivation! You are an affectionless psychopath!”

“I am not!”

“And you’re in denial!”

“No I’m not – that’s in Egypt!”

“Oh dear, definitely repressing. You poor thing, your childhood must have been terrible.”

“No it . . .”

“Ever steal anything?”

“No! Well, except Orlando Bloom’s fangirls and J Lo’s bottom.”

“Delusional as well! My word.”

“I’m not delusional! Just ask Anakron!”

“And imaginary friends. My dear girl your mind is quite a minefield.”

About to reply with something a little less restrained, Sai realised that she not going to get any sense from the man, and decided to let him believe what he liked about her if it would just get her out of here faster.

“Fine, so I’m an affectionless psychopathic repressive denialist with imaginary friends.”

“Good! The first stage to recovery is acceptance!”

Shaking her head in bemusement Sai brought her hands to her face and pretended to break down in tears.

”You’re right, oh you’re so right!”

“Wonderful! The barriers have been broken! You’re going to be alright!”

“Really? Does that mean I can go now?”

The little man nodded and stood up. Beaming at Sai he extended a hand and pulled her to her feet. She was a little worried at how fast this whole section seemed to have gone, after the surgery she was sure there would be more dire consequences to be faced. Still, she wasn't about to complain!

“It is nice when I make a breakthrough. Makes me feel like this whole thing is worthwhile.”

And still beaming, he led a now rather guilty feeling Sai back out of the door. Outside she saw Fléin, but before she could warn him that this doctor was as insane as the last one, he had been whisked inside.

[the guy who be short]

"So, Fléin, do sit down. I'm sure you know my job, eh?"

Fléin nodded. He took his place on the couch, but kept his eyes on the window to his left incase another bird came.

"So, how close were you to your father as a child?"

Fléin sighed inwardly. This was not going to be an easy session. He tried to explain, as well as possible, the complexities of Dwarf families and their differences from Men. "You see, we don't display our gender so flagrantly as you humans," he had finished.

All the time, Freud had been taking notes. He looked up into Fléin's eyes, then smiled wryly. "I'm afraid this doesn't bode well. No father figure... Yes... most damaging. Tell me, how old are you?"

"A hundred and a bit," he said.

"And in all this time you've felt no desire to marry?"

Again, Fléin tried to explain the Dwarf customs, but he suspected Freud was only hearing what he wanted to hear.

"Do you feel attracted to anybody?"

Fléin stuttered. He didn't feel like telling this man about Wilhelmina. But then, it was for his mental good. He spilt the beans.

"Wilhelmina? I think I saw her enter the building. Small, squat, wrinkly?"

"Hmm."

Freud sighed, snapped his notebook shut and looked directly at Fléin. "I'm afraid you are a homosexual," he said.

Fléin snapped his head away from the window and glared at the man. "How on Arda did you come to that conclusion? What about Wilhelmina!"

Freud smiled softly. "She's no more a womanly woman than I am."

Fléin felt himself boiling, but restrained himself. Let the imbecile believe what he wanted, if he could leave more quickly. "Actually, now that you mention it, I do find Anakron quite appealing. What's the cure?"

Freud shrugged. "Homosexuality isn't actually a disorder, you know. As such, I can't treat it. You'll have to get used to it."

"What do you mean it's not a disorder! It's abominable!"

"See, you need to get past all these feelings of yours. Learn to accept yourself for who you are, Fléin. Tell me, why do you keep looking out of that window?"

"A Slan is on the move," Fléin replied without thinking, immediately regretting it.

"A Slan? A "sine loco, anno, vel nomine?" Some nameless, placeless, timeless thing is moving?" He scribbled frantically. "I'm afraid you're delusional, my dear Dwarf.

"Delusional? The Birds told me!"

"Completely nutty! No wonder with such poor parenting."

Fléin suddenly felt a deep hatred of the man. "What did you say about my parents?" he demanded through his teeth.

"Poor parenting. No common sense. Gender Ambiguous."

"They were NOT!" Fléin raged at him. His scar burnt, far worse than the dull pain of his bruises, and suddenly...

Freud swelled up. Like a balloon, he swelled bigger and bigger. Fléin watched in amazement, anger gone, as he ballooned out into a sphere and floated to the ceiling.

Fléin jumped out of the couch, opened the door and bellowed down the corridor: "Somebody fetch Doctor Hookbill!"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Door opened dramatically and the nurse stepped into the room. "Doctor, you are needed." Hookbill laughed, for the first time in a while. He plodded out, following the nurse down the corridor as someone was shouting 'someone get Doctor Hookbill'.

"What is going on?" asked the Doctor, "Is it another bit of surgery?"

"Not yet," replied the nurse, "go in there," she pushed open Freud's door. There they beheld the man floating at the top of the room with his face a vision of rage and confusion. Almost without thinking, Hookbill took a pin from his coat pocket tred to burst Freud. However, he couldn't quite reach and had to stand on a chair.

"Doctor," warned Félin, "I don't think this will work."

"Nonsense, my dear boy," said Hookbill wildly stabbing the pin here and there, not really looking at what he was doing, "I'm a doctor... apparently. I'm sure everything will be alright in the e-"

BANG

[the guy who be short]

After Hookbill's treatment of Mr Freud, Fléin had been ushered away by a nurse. She kept stepping on his feet, which was quite a feat in itself, considering he was walking behind her. Behind him, he heard weeping, then frantic mumbling, before Doctor Hookbill was out of sight.

The nurse informed him that until Freud was reassembled from his many pieces, Fléin would have to wait in this here waiting room. She apologised for the inconvenience and assured him that, as soon as Freud was remade, his appointment would resume. She made to leave.

"Wait a second! Didn't that explosion kill Freud?" Fléin asked.

"Of course not. Why would it?"

"Well," Fléin assumed the air of one in deep thought, "one would presume the distribution of his innards over his office would be detrimental to his general health," he finished drily.

The nurse laughed at him. "Oh, don't be so silly! Deus ex machina!" she giggled mystically before shoving him into the waiting room and wandering off.

Fléin closed the door behind him, apprehensive of what appeared to be a chance of peace in this lunatic hospital.

"Speaking of Deus..." a voice boomed behind him, and he swivelled around immediately. There, in the centre of the violent pink room, was a huge shadow in the shape of a great lion. Black wisps of smoke were wreathed around it like mist, obscuring it somewhat, but there was no mistaking its shape. For a long moment, Fléin believed Freud was right about his delusions - this couldn't be real!

The antilion bowed. "Fléin son of Fréin. Hail. I am A Slan."

"A Slan?! But you're on the move!"

"Not anymore," the beast rumbled. "I have found my quarry."

Fléin felt choked. "But... A Slan... Why have you been searching for me?"

A Slan laughed, and his rumbling was so deep the floor shook. "You are not my quarry, Fléin Fréinson. I come merely to ask you, for you have not yet replied to my agents: Do you stand with me or against me?"

Fléin pondered the situation before replying, "I hope you don't mind, A Slan, but I have no idea what's going on. Your agents weren't very helpful. If you could summarise the situation, perhaps I could make a decision."

"There is no time to explain."

"Then I must remain neutral, your Slanness."

The antilion bowed once more, a most curious sight, then stood up proudly. "I must find Anakron!" he roared, and bounded off, the door of the waiting room mysteriously opening itself for him.

"Wait!" Fléin cried. "Anakron is your quarry?"

A Slan looked back over his shoulder at the dwarf, smiled, and said "Of course." He bounded off once again, but this time with Fléin at his heels, struggling and failing to keep up.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli woke up tied to a chair in the theatre. Her knuckles were bruised and throbbing. Her head was bruised and throbbing. It took several seconds of hard thought to remember that first she had been hit on the head. Bruise one explained. Then she had woken up en route to the theatre. Knowing that there was nothing wrong with her, as far as her slightly inebriated pseudo-doctor could tell, and that she was about to experience a pointless and forcibly performed surgery, fists flew.

The nurse's perfect blonde hair was now disarrayed. Her perfectly placed eyeshadow had smudged. Her perfectly pouty lips now actually pouted as her perfectly broken nose was jammed back into place by a real physician (with the appropriate non-levels of bedside manner) with a crunch of shifting cartelage. Bruise two explained.

Once Alli had managed to break the nose of her captor, she had been knocked out once more. Her head was really starting to hurt. The split from several days ago had reopened, oozing slightly. She looked down and admired her hands. They hurt, but Alli was willing to bet that the pretty blonde nurse, Meriseowyn, was hurting more. It made her smile in a cruel sort of way.

After all, being tied tightly to a chair with a scalpel coming closer every second gave Alli little reason to smile in a sweet sort of way. She was dead curious about just what these people planned to do to her.

Illamatar spoke.

"Use the force, Alli."

"Pardon?"

"The force."

"I'm slightly unaware of your meaning. What, if you don't mind my asking, is the force?"

"Ah, my mistake. Wrong dimension. Mumble mumble parallel universe mumble mumble Obi Wan mumble. Sorry about that. Baa."

Alli looked worriedly between the orcs that played nearby with knives and the quiet place in her head where these words echoed like thunder in the hills. Illamatar appeared, standing before her, his golden fleece glimmering in the stage-lights.

"What do I do, Illamatar? They're going to cut me open!"

"Grin an bare it."

"Bare what?!" Alli shrieked, blushing. "I'm not baring a single thing on stage in front of all of these people."

"Ah, my mistake again. Most sorry... misused homophone. This is really not my day. Baa. I meant to say grin and bear it." With that, Illamatar disappeared and Alli looked more nervous than ever. The surgical staff was getting closer and not even Doctor Hookbill seemed to be around. While she had little faith in his medical expertise, she at least applauded his ability to forget reality for a short time through "reading". That was what escapism was really about. When in doubt of the world around, take a good "read". That was a good life lesson. She grimaced and waited, hoping that something would happen.

Suddenly she heard mysterious song lyrics that had nothing to do with the story. Smiling, she bobbed her head to the tune. As she grinned, a bear appeared. She stopped grinning and it disappeared. She tried again, thinking this too good to be true. Surely enough, it came back. She happily thought how great it would be to be untied and, whaddaya know, here came the bear and untied her.

As orc security guards came closer, Alli enthusiastically smiled about how great it would be for them to be tied up instead. Whodathunkit, but wouldn't you guess that the next thing she knew, the bear was tying up the orcs?

Within a short amount of time, every orc in the theatre was fastened to a large and unmovable object. Alli grinned a lot and walked with the bear out the door.

As she passed through the open portal, a completely unexpected piece of Freud hit her in the already very sore head. Down she went and Doctor Hookbill looked at her.

"Oh dear..." he murmered, holding back sobs. "I believe there's a bone splinter. We'll have to operate."

[the phantom]

Mardil waved goodbye to his shapely TA, closed the door of his University dorm room, and fell back onto the couch. "Well, that's one task taken care of."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Anakron as he entered from the kitchen munching on potato chips.

Mardil jumped up in surprise. "When did you get here?"

"Oh, a couple minutes ago, but you didn't answer my question, Mardil. What do you mean when you say that one of your tasks is taken care of?"

Mardil winked and drew a certificate from a hidden pocket. There was a lot of typical legal and official babble scattered about the small scroll, but the important bit read ...Mardil II has completed his course in Approaches to Rulership at the University of Mordor.

"That's an amazing accomplishment considering you never went to class," observed Anakron.

"Well, Katie gave me the complete notes for the class so I just studied those and took my test," explained Mardil.

"And Katie is?"

"The TA."

"But didn't you lose attendance points for not going to class?"

"No, no," said Mardil, "Katie marked me present at every meeting."

"And your paper?" asked Anakron.

"Oh, that didn't take any time at all. Katie gave me a heads up on all the stuff the professor wanted to see, and told me some things to put in my paper that would rub the prof the right way."

"And how in the world did you manage to convince Katie to do all of this for you?" asked Anakron.

"You already know the answer, I'm sure," remarked Mardil as he grinned and sat back down on the couch.

Anakron rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I suppose I do know the answer, Mister Bond."

"Mister who?"

"Never mind."

Mardil reached down and grabbed a bag of beef jerky from beside the couch and ripped it open. "Sit down, Anakron, and tell me why you're here."

Anakron did not sit, but he did lean against the wall. "I came to ask why you've been at the hospital just about every day but have not taken your physical."

"I've just been getting to know all the nurses," replied Mardil.

"And what purpose does that serve?" asked Anakron.

"Well, seeing as I have to have some sort of surgery, it will be to my advantage if the entire surgical staff is fond of me."

"In other words," said Anakron, "You are insuring that nothing major is done to you?"

"Correct. No matter what the doctor recommends, that surgical staff won't take a scalpel to me for a million dollars. The most they will do is snip off a hang nail, or perhaps give my hair a trim," laughed Mardil.

"Well then, it appears you have that situation under control. When are you going in for your physical?"

"Right now. After that I'll hop over for my psych evaluation."

Anakron walked over to the closet door and opened it. "What if your physical takes too long and doesn't allow you time to go for your psych eval?"

"I'll make sure the doctor administering the physical keeps it short," said Mardil with a twirl of his favorite knife.

Anakron nodded and turned towards the closet. "I'll see you later, Mardil." And with that, he stepped into the closet and shut the door. Mardil crossed the room and opened the door, but Anakron was nowhere to be seen.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Hookbill lifted himself out of the sludge left by Freud and wandered down the corridor, following Félin until he was forced into the operating theatre. On the floor, he saw Alli with bone splinter. "We'll have to operate," he said, and then added, "What am I saying? I need to get out of here! My wife’s going to kill me!"

"You have a wife?" asked the nurse, bandaging herself up.

"It's a figure of speech." Hookbill followed the nurse to the operating theatre, mainly because two Orcs with swords were guarding the exit. The nurse began to snigger, "What's so funny? I, personally, cannot see anything funny about the last few days!"

"Oh its just..." she laughed again, "Well, the idea of you having a wife, its quite amusing." Hookbill sulked. She was right, of course, but he didn't like being made fun of.

"What's so amusing?" he asked angrily.

"Well, you don't strike me as the..." she sniggered again, "Well, the 'attractive' type."

"Look," shouted Hookbill, thumping his fist on the table, "I've taken abuse, injury, threats, and even a knife or two, but this is really going too far!" The burse rolled her eyes and threw Hookbill towards the operating table. Slowly, he got up and looked to see Panakeia already prepared for the operation.

"Severe arctic Heartic," said one of the Orcs, "I had that once. I think I may be the cause."

"I heard that rumour," said another,

"I know, I started It." sniggered the Orc. Hookbill hushed them with a wave of his hand and looked at the instruments again. When he looked back, an Orc had made the first incision, again.

"Hay!" cried Hookbill, "Stop doing that! Its not nice!" the Orcs howled with laughter, Hookbill swore at them, that only increased their laughter, even Panakeia began to chuckle. "Just stop it!" shouted Hookbill, feeling really dejected, but they only laughed more, pointing at him and rolling around. Panakeia began to laugh heartily, so much so that the second heart flew out and hit Hookbill square in the face and splattered him with more blood.

Three of the Orcs passed out.

Hookbill got up and closed up the wound and lead Panakeia back to the Offending Party. Mardil was walking towards him with a grinning face. "What are you so happy about?" snapped Hookbill.

"Oh nothing." he replied, "You've got something on your face there. Down a bit, left, in the sort of all over your face vicinity." Hookbill groaned and slumped in the corner and looked at his blood covered hands.

"So much blood!" he sobbed, "I can't go on! My hands are shaking like a leaf!"

"Who are you?" asked Mardil

"I'm the Doctor," he moaned and Mardil felt a weight of foreboding fall upon him. All that blood, although he wasn't the sort to faint at the sight, made him feel uneasy. "Any way, I must dash, I'll diagnose you on the way." he only said this because three Orcs with swords came around the corner. Mardil reluctantly followed. What had this person been doing? There was blood on his back! Suddenly, the prospect of a simple clip of the toenails seemed less likely. He gulped.

Hookbill was shoed into the theatre where Alli was all set up. The crab's claw was sticking out of her leg. He hadn't remembered it being that bad. "It attacked again," explained the nurse. Her injuries really began to disturb Mardil. This hospital was insane.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The injury to Alli's leg wasn't that serious, really. But that didn't stop Hookbill from making a fuss about it. "So, we'll have to amputate?" he asked nervously. When an Orc picked up a rusty saw, Hookbill shrieked and hid under a table, but the nurse picked him up and told him that that wouldn't be necessary.

"Okay then," said Hookbill at last, "Then we'll have to remove it... via the... liver?" the Orcs nodded and grinned; one lifted a saw and made the first incision. Hookbill squeaked and pushed the Orc out of the way before he did too much damage. He wiped his brow and picked up some random instruments. However, as he did, he knocked over a mysterious bottle with a label on it that resembled skeletal thumbs up. No one actually knew what it did, but as it poured out, they saw that it was grey in colour, although it had orange spots. Hookbill fell over backwards as it dripped into he open wound. There was sent a huge shudder through her and the crab's claw flew out and broke a window.

Mardil stood near the exit trying to see if he could get past the Orcs, when he found that they would not budge for love or money, he gave up and sat down. When the Crab's claw flew past towards the window, he leaped to his feet and looked in astonishment. How in the world had this silly little man achieved this? It made absolutely no sense.

A huge uruk came and placed a heavy hand on Hookbill's shoulder. He turned to look into the horrid face of an accountant Uruk. He held up a piece of paper and a quill.

"Sign this," insisted the uruk,

"Why?" asked Hookbill, shakily, "What is it?"

"A death warrant."

"For whome?" cried Hookbill trying to sink to the ground, but being picked up by the Uruk.

"Oh, some guy named" he placed some small glasses on, "El-ess-arr."

"Why don't you get someone more senior to do this?" inquired Hookbill.

"Well," explained the Uruk thrusting the paper into the small man's hands, "you are the senior doctor. It says so on your badge." Hookbill looked and saw that the badge bore the name "Sinyore Ductor" the previous owner of the coat. He sighed and said he would do it later.

"Look," said the uruk, "I need this signing soon! Get it done."

"Okay," cried Hookbill, "I'll try, but I'm a little busy!" the uruk stormed off. The Uruk pushed Hookbill to the floor as it passed

Hookbill stood up and went to where Mardil was sitting with a look of pure shock on his face. "Look doctor," he said, "it seems you know what your doing, so get on with it."

"That’s the thing," mumbled Hookbill, "I have no idea of what I am doing. Its just coincidence that what I diagnose seems to come true. I'm not going to push my luck." Mardil shrugged and let him get on with it. Hookbill took a stethoscope and with a quivering hand examined Mardil's head, chest and back. Then the little man picked up a clipboard and took a quill. "Any history of insanity in the family?" he asked.

"I think my grand-father has psychodelia once," chuckled Mardil.

"I always thought that was a cook book for mental patients." said Hookbill, cocking his head to one side, "Oh well... Do you have back problems?"

"Yeah, it keeps trying to kill me."

"I see,"

"I was only-"

"Any occasions where you've found you can't think of anything to say?"

"Erm..."

"I see." Hookbill wrote frantically and illegibly. Mardil grew wrathful and picked up the little man by the throat.

"Look here," he said, "I am not insane, I have not got a killer back and I can always think of something to say... No I am not in denial!" He threw the little man towards a window, which smashed as he flew through it.

Hookbill looked up at the trees that hung over the cliff edge, he watched as they slowly got smaller and further away. Why they had built the university hospital so close to a cliff was beyond Hookbill, but this was Mordor. The wind grew faster as it flew past his ears and the faint sounds of Mardil being arrested fluttered into the distance. How was he supposed to do the final diagnosis now? The rocks were getting darker now, and the light was further away.

Finally, everything stopped.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin followed A Slan, or tried to. The Great Antilion did not wait for him, and he fell behind quickly, though the creature was always in view in front of Fléin.

Fléin rounded a corner, scared that A Slan would be out of sight, but as he did so, he saw the lion standing calmly in front of him.

"You must not follow me further than the door, Fléin," He said sombrely. "Be strong, and comfort her."

Before he could ask what this meant, the Antilion was loping off down the corridor again. He turned into a room on his right, and was gone. Fléin ran to the door, only just ajar, and peered into the room. What he saw awed him.

There, in the centre of the room, dominating it, was a raised stretcher. A Slan flung himself upon this, dark strands of vapour flowing behind him. And at the head of the Stretcher was - Anakron. Fléin had never liked the man, but now... he was struck to the bone as never before. The glint in Anakron's eyes was not pleasant.

And all around the stretcher, filling the room, were hordes of... what were they? Horrible beasts of all shapes and sizes, evil creatures that moved upon their hind legs, creatures half cat and half bug, creatures half lemming and half snake, the likes of which Fléin had never seen before. The room was lit by flickering torches mounted upon the walls, and shadows cast themselves everywhere.

"Fléin!" the Dwarf heard a voice cry, and turned his face away to look down the corridor - it was startling how normal the world outside that room still seemed - and saw Sai. "I couldn't find the registr-"

But the Dwarf cut her off with hushing noises and a waving of the arms, and beckoned her to come. Together, they watched, collective breath drawn, as the scene unfolded.

Anakron brought a razor out from his pocket - it was one of those fancy electric ones - and cursed. "The batteries have gone!" he exclaimed to the room in general, to boos and disappointed groans. But he plugged the razor into a wall socket, and turned it on to produce a buzzing noise, soon drowned out by the cheer of the crowd.

"Just a quick trim today, please, Anakron," A Slan said. "Two inches thick would be good."

Anakron nodded, and brought the razor up to A Slan's vapourous neck. The creatures all around roared with laughter as swathes of his mane were cut off, only to vaporise. In a few minutes that seemed to Fléin and Sai like an eternity of torture, it was done. Anakron moved back, and they could see A Slan, his mane gone, and the crowds jeering at him.

"Bind him!" Anakron cried, and the creatures rushed forward with cords, and he was tied to the stretcher, and his muzzle bound. As soon as this was done, Anakron stepped forward. "Fool!" he cried, and cackled such as they had never heard before. "Fool! Great Fool! Die now, and know you have given me Nurnia forever! For tonight, I will kill you, as you have agreed, and who then will stand in my way? Who then will resist Anakron's - and the Dweomer's - rule over Mordor?"

The creatures started up their jeering once more. A Slan turned his head to look at the door, at Fléin and Sai, and there was a loving smile in his eye. Then Anakron called for silence, and all noise save the spluttering of the torches distinguished itself.

Anakron spoke in a quiet voice that was nevertheless clearly audible, and carried over the room and to the door unhindered. "No doubt, Antilion, you revel in your idiocy. How many worlds have you seen? How many times have you offered yourself, and risen, and conquered? How long have you relied on the Deeper Magic from before the Dawn of Time?"

Fléin saw A Slan's eyes widen in shock. Next to him, he was aware of Sai quietly sobbing.

"Old Fool! Do you not know this World is not as Those? In this World, in Arda, there is no magic from before the dawn of time! The writer, the father of this world, is different to all those you have seen! There is no Deeper Magic in Middle-Earth! None! You die, and I rule!" His voice rose to a crescendo.

The crowd cheered again, more frenzied than before; they roared and headbanged and lolled their heads. Finally, the noise died out again at Anakron's bidding, and he spoke once more.

"And do you know the funniest thing of all, A Slan?" he whispered again, almost without moving his lips, into the creature's wispy ear. "I don't even rule here. I'm just a marionette."

A Slan said something, but the cord around his muzzle obscured his words. It sounded like "Bah Gah."

There was the greatest, most frenzied uproar yet, and the creatures all gathered around the helpless nameless shapeless timeless thing, poking it jabbing at it, tormenting it. A Slan wept.

Fléin took his eye off the scene for the first time and looked to Sai, remembering A Slan's final words. She was heaving, heavy sobs racking her body. He put her hand around her, trying to comfort her.

She slapped him. "What the Angband is wrong with you? What are you, a pervert?" But tears rolled down her face, and her words were but a squeal, a cry for comfort.

Then Fléin realised that tears were running down his face too, saturating his beard, and his sight was bleared. They embraced, both sobbing silently.

They could bear to watch no more, nor hear the hideous mocking of the beast any longer. Together, they turned and left and wept.

[Celuien]

Panakeia stumbled out of the theatre, hand over an aching wound in her chest. How she had managed to laugh during surgery was beyond her. Laughing gas, one of the Orcs explained, but Panakeia was not convinced. The mysterious materialization of the extra heart stumped her as well. Did its removal mean that her conscience was gone, vanished with the blue tray that had borne her second heart out of the operating room?

Hello? Are you still there? Silence. Was she gone? Panakeia decided to make a test. She retrieved her sample case, stowed carelessly at the theatre door by the Orcs, and set it up in the hallway. She tried to call out "Age Reducing Serum! Fountain of Youth in a Bottle!" But the words died in her throat.

Don't you see? I told you the extra heart was just a metaphor. The symbol of my return, if you will. I'm not located in your heart, but rather in your head. If anything, the surgery has brought us closer together. One heart will do for the both of us now.

"Time for your psychological testing! Here we go." An Orc caught her by the arm and led her away to an office and ushered inside. As she entered, she noted an odd sludge and a spot on the ceiling.

"Hello. I'm Dr. Jung."

"Wait. I thought I was supposed to see Dr. Sigmund."

"He is indisposed at the moment. Please, have a seat." Panakeia sat down.

"Tell me, do you dream?"

That was a dangerous question. It would lead straight to the voice that still echoed in her head if she wasn't careful.

"No. I never dream at all. Ow!" Panakeia had kicked her ankle. "Well, sometimes."

"What you do dream about."

"Oh, not much. Ouch!" She had kicked herself again.

Stop that. You'll get us committed.

Stop lying.

What do you expect me to do? Say that I carry on running conversations in my head? And that I've now started to assault myself? Her hand flew at her wrist and slapped it, leaving the red imprint of five fingers behind.

Jung watched Panakeia, eyebrows arched. "You seem evasive. But I think you want to tell me something. You're fighting yourself. Why is that?"

"Don't (ouch) be ridiculous (ouch)." Panakeia was pulling her hair.

"We are getting nowhere. If you want help, you must be willing to talk to me."

Help? Maybe she did want help. If it would make the voice go away and let her return to her old ways. So close to leaving Mordor, Panakeia had started to think about her future. Scamming was the only way she knew to support herself, and her new friend would make that difficult. She told her story, beginning with her dream on the BilddyUnnergrind and ending in the office (what was that slimy mess everywhere?). All the while, Jung nodded and made notes in a black binder.

"Yes, yes. It is very clear. You dream of archetypes. You see a ruined house in the dark. You are hiding from something in your past, now it manifests in this new personality that torments you and these strange delusions. The haunted village…”

“Werewolves. Not ghosts.”

“Yes, werewolves. Interesting delusions. A very interesting case. I'm afraid you will need inpatient care until we get to the bottom of this."

"Inpatient care? For how long?"

"6 months, a year? Who can say? But we have made progress. At least now you will speak of these things. And so there is hope for your recovery." He pushed a button on an intercom. Several Orcs in white jackets appeared. "This lady will need to stay with us for a while."

"Wait, I don't like this at all. It's worse than surgery."

Neither do I. Get us out of this!

Me? You do it. This is your fault!

The psychiatrist shook his head. "You must be well before we can let you go." He nodded, and the Orcs took her off to the next room. A stack of papers sat on a table.

"Now then, we may begin. The Doctor said that you'll be with us for sometime."

"But I don't want to stay!"

"Involuntary?" The Orc shook his head. "Please don't say that. It's such a nuisance. All these papers need to be filled out, then we have to go to see a judge all the time, and, well, it gets complicated." Panakeia was shocked. She seemed to have found the one Orc in Mordor with a distaste for paperwork. "But look here!" He pulled out a single sheet and handed it to her. "If you'll just sign yourself into the hospital, it's just one page to copy and file. It would make me so much happier. Please, think it over."

Panakeia skimmed the document. Patient may leave at any time by giving 72 hours notice. Beautiful. That's our ticket out of here.

"Alright, I'll do it."

The Orc beamed and handed her a pen. "I knew you'd see the light."

Panakeia quickly edited the 72 hours notice line. With a swift stroke of the pen, it read 0.12 hours.

What are you doing?

Do you want me to get us out of this or not?

A smile spread over Panakeia's face. "Okay. I'm giving notice that I'll be leaving now. Which means I'll be going in approximately 7 minutes."

"What? No, you mean 72 hours."

"Think again. Look at the papers." Panakeia pointed to her editing job. "There you have it."

"But that's a mistake!" The Orc's eyes went wide.

"Even if it is, think of all the paperwork you'll have to go through to correct it. Besides, do I look dangerous? Just let me go."

The Orc stared at the pile of commitment papers, then at another pile of administrative procedure manuals titled "Correction of Official Document Errors - Volumes 1 to 15" and rubbed his eyes. "You got me. Just go." He opened the door.

"Thanks. See you around - not!" Panakeia was off like a bolt. Only a throbbing pain in her chest, the reminder of her recent surgery, stopped her from running all the way to the registrar’s office.

[Encaitare]

In which Wilhelmina gets her psychoanalysis... oh dear.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

SAVE: in which Alli is psycho-babbled at and registers for classes.

[Celuien]

SAVE: Panakeia gets a second opinion...and completes some unfinished business.

[the phantom]

SAVE: Because it's funny to see four saves in a row.
(seriously- Mardil gets arrested but names some terms first, exact details of Dr. Hookbill's death explained)

[littlemanpoet]

[off topic/rpg post]

SAVE .... because they're assigned to Mordor. Now leave them where they are and everybody post after this; you may not touch the previous posts. Free for all! And thus LMP/Anakron unblocks the bottleneck. Carry on!

[/off topic/rpg post]

[Celuien]

Gasping for breath, Panakeia arrived at the Registrar's Office. She sat down on a bench outside the door to collect her thoughts. Though she had avoided a stay in the psychiatric hospital, she had a feeling that Anakron would not be happy with her behavior.

What should I do? she thought. I can't go back or I'll wind up in a padded room. I don't think they’ll give me the option of signing in twice. Not after the stunt I just pulled. But somehow, I have to get a clear evaluation to get out of here.

Maybe I should go back to see Dr. Sigmund. He's the one I was supposed to see anyway. But if I do that, you had better behave yourself this time. Deal?

I won't say a word. As long as you behave yourself too, my dear.

Okay. Let's give this another try.

Panakeia stood and began to return to the psychiatric department. As she started to leave, the Registrar's Office beckoned to her. It had been a fairly long run from the hospital. Not wanting to have made a wasted trip, she went inside to pick her classes. A basket near the door labeled Course Catalogs was empty, so she approached the nearest desk to ask for help.

"Excuse me. I'd like to sign up for a class," she said to a woman in horn-rimmed glasses.

"Do you have your course number?"

"No. I was hoping you could help me."

"What do I look like, the registrar?"

"As a matter of fact, you do." Panakeia pointed to a badge pinned on the woman's blouse. It said ‘Registrar’ in bold letters.

She replied huffily. "Always so demanding. Can't you lazy students do anything for yourselves?" As she spoke, she pulled out a long sheet of paper out of a drawer. "Here's a list of courses."

"Introduction to Fashion Design. That looks interesting."

"Filled." The registrar grinned smugly.

Panakeia's conscience chirped. Oh, oh. Look. Take the World Philosophy Class. Please?
"What about Philosophy 101?"

The registrar’s grin grew wider. "Canceled."

Panakeia cried out in exasperation, "Well, what is available?"

"Sales and Marketing in a Futile System, offered by the business department. Take it or leave it."

For once, Panakeia agreed with the nagging voice, which had started to protest against the course. The class sounded horribly boring, but it was the only option.

"Fine. Sign me up."

The registrar pulled out a slip of paper, scribbled the class name and information on it, and handed it to Panakeia.

"There. Are you happy now? Goodbye and good riddance." With that, the registrar stomped off to a back room.

Satisfied that she had managed to find a class, if not the one she wanted, Panakeia went to look for Dr. Sigmund.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli, uncertain of what just happened pertaining to her surgery and her save, walked down the hall in a daze and in search of the office of the registrar. She was sick of dazes and really wanted to get on with her life. It was as if she no longer had any control. Things just seemed to happen... She stepped on something squishy.

"MIGHIODEHGOI!" it mumbled beneath her foot. She shrieked and jumped off of it, sliding a little on the bloody floor that had not quite been cleaned yet.

"You ah repressing my voice because you cannot handle zee truth!"

Alli looked at the pair of disembodied lips incredulously. "It was an accident. I tripped."

"A Freudian slip! She's een denial. Can you hear her? She's denying zat she meant to stamp out zee truth from zee vorld!"

All's left eyebrow rose. "Let me guess... Sigmund? Poor Freud, whatever happened to you?"

"Skirting the issue! Zee patient tries to deflect attention to anuzzer. According to my iceberg approach to zee human mind, your unconsciously violent motives caused you to step on me, inflicting pain and stopping me from bringing to zee conscious level of your thought zee truth that it is your shameful experiences, unacceptable sexual desires, irrational wishes, and selfish needs that are causing you to remain fixated upon phallism."

"What?!" Alli couldn't believe her ears. People actually listened to this guy? "God... can your ego get any bigger? Do you really think that what you're saying is real?"

"Aha! Zee patient has an underdeveloped superego veech ees allowing her id to run free."

"You're insane." She looked laughingly down at the bouncing lips upon the dirty floor. "And you're splashing blood on my shoes."

"Projection!"

"Listen, I think you're just--"

"Rationalization!"

"You're only saying that because--"

"Reaction formation! Denial!"

Alli, finished with her psych evaluation whether Freud was or not, kicked the blustering piece of psychoanalyst under a nearby doorway and slipped through the closing doors to the Registrar's office. The line was long. Alli stood impatiently for nearly an hour before a large orc said sweetly to her, "I can help the next person."

She stepped forward. "I'd like to take Werewolf Hunting 1000."

"Full. That little Italian fellow in red just took the last seat." Alli startled and looked around. She saw nobody dressed in red. It was okay... she couldn't find Aimè to proclaim her love anyhow. But he was here... he was on campus... she would have to tell Aimè.

"What about..." she consulted her wish-list. "Border Control: Keeping Bad Guys In."

"Full."

"How to Deal with Nobles 1010?"

"Nope."

"Basket-weaving?"

"Yeah right."

"Well what do you have open?"

"Theology of Dollar Llama."

"Baaa." spake Illamatar. "Take that one."

"I'll take that one." Alli bumped into a large troll on her way out the door.

[Kath]

After a very weird experience with Fléin, which she was still not sure had really happened, Sai made her way up to the Registrar’s office, and joined the extortionately long queue that seemed to have formed in the 2 seconds between her reaching the room and getting inside. Sighing she settled in for a long wait, and saw that some of the members of the Offending Party had got here before her, though neither Alli or Panakeia looked particularly happy with whatever they had ended up taking.

An indeterminately boring amount of time passed, until Sai was finally near the front of the queue. By this time she was tired and close to collapse as a result of lack of blood sugar, and was not pleased to find her way blocked by a couple of students making out in the middle of the path. In no mood to be worried about offending others, she shoved past them.

“Hey!” Cried the girl, ungluing her lips from her boyfriend’s long enough to yell at Sai, who simply rolled her eyes and carried on to the free desk.

“Name?” Came the clipped voice of the Registrar.

”Sai Onara.”

“Course?”

“Uh, I don’t know, I thought that was why I was here.”

This comment was met with a steely glare and a huff of annoyance from the woman behind the screen. Used by now to the little tricks Mordor threw, Sai began to suggest courses, but each suggestion was met by a problem with that particular course. Eventually the woman just gave her one.

“You’ll have to take Grammar and Diction in Modern English, it’s the only one free right now. It starts in 5 minutes though, so you had better get a move on.”

Thanking her, Sai left, grabbing a map of the building on her way out. She didn’t hold out much hope that it would be of any help to her, but you never knew.

- - - - - - - - - -

A few wrong turns and people who don't know directions and give false ones later, Sai found her classroom and entered. She was surprised to see that she was the only person in there, aside from the tall man with the rumpled suit, who was standing behind a lectern at the front of the room wearing a rather bemused expression. Seeing her he threw his arms up in welcome.

“Hello! You must be Sai, come in, come in, I am so looking forward to teaching you, I’m sure we’re going to have a fabulous year together.”

Year! Thought Sai in horror. I can’t be here for a year, what if the chance to leave is over by then? Frantic she tried to think of something that would get her out of here before then, but nothing came to her. She opened her mouth to try and come up with some lie or excuse that would get her out of it, and as she did so, she realised what she needed to do. It would hurt, but it was necessary.

“Professor! I am so, like, you know, happy to be ‘ere.”

“Oh no! A valley girl, and you drop your h’s, I can see I have a lot to teach you.”

“Dis is so kewl man, I never got no English lessons before.”

She fought to keep from laughing at the horrified look on the man’s face, and carried on.

“Cus, you know, I always fort it were some kind of dead language you know, what wif all dem dictionary fings. I mean, you don’t write somfink down ‘less you don’t need it no more yeah?”

“Oh my God.” The poor professor was practically whimpering now. “I don’t know if I can cope!”

“What? Oh ok, gimme your siggy on dis bit o’ paper and I’ll get out of your face.”

“Well, I’m not sure I can . . .”

“Cus, you know, I bet I can start droppin’ pronouns an’ even more le’ers and add should of’s and would of’s and . . .”

“Alright! I’ll do it, just give me the damned paper.”

Snatching a hastily produced slip of paper from some pocket, Sai handed it over and watched as the professor scrawled his name on it. Overcome with relief she took it back and hugged him before running out of the door.

“Thank you! I won’t forget this!”

“Wait! You can speak properly!”

Oops, thought Sai as she passed through the door. Deciding to give the poor guy a break she stuck her head back through and smiled.

“You must be a really great teacher then.”

And she left him with a huge grin on his face.

- - - - - - - - -
Wandering up various flights of stairs as the lifts were, of course, out of order, Sai finally reached the dormitory room she had been assigned, and fell onto the bed. As she rolled over she noticed another bed in the room, and wondered who she would find in here when she woke up the next morning. Her last thought as she dropped off to sleep was that she had done everything Anakron had asked of her, perhaps tomorrow she would be getting out of Mordor . . .

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina had never held with psychologists.

She had never wanted anything to do with anyone who tried to decipher her as if she were some kind of code to be broken. And she was pretty sure that psychologists were all a bit touched in the head themselves, and, well, the blind leading the blind and all that.

So it was with some reluctance that she entered the office of one Doctor... what was it, Frood? He certainly didn't look like a very together guy. In fact, he really wasn't together at all -- bits and pieces of him were scattered in every corner of the room. Currently, a hand was slapping a pair of lips back on a skull which was half-covered in flesh and tissue.

"Should I come back later?" she asked.

The lips tutted as the hand lit a cigar. "Ah, I see you have very little confidence in yourself. Tell me, did you get enough attention as a child?" the skull said in between puffs.

"It sufficed," said Wilhelmina, who hadn't thought of her childhood in years.

"Please, lie down on the couch, Ms. Brochenbach, and tell me of your dreams of late," said the doctor, whose skull now had both eyes and an ear. Off in the far corner of the room, a shin was reacquainting itself with a thigh.

Wilhelmina refused to lie down, as five tobacco-stained fingers were doing a sort of dance on the couch in an attempt to establish in which order they belonged, although she was pleased that he had pronounced her name correctly.

"Hmm, let's see," she said. "I had a dream about werewolves trying to eat me, but that's only because Anakron told us there were werewolves who were trying to eat us."

"Cannot... distinguish... fiction... from... reality," he muttered as the newly assembled hand scribbled on his notepad. "Go on."

"And... I had a dream about Mr. Swanky, but that's really nothing special."

"Who?" asked the doctor, raising his brows in interest.

"That's my pet ferret," she informed him.

"Ah, yes. Ferret... as... phallic... symbol..." he said to himself.

That was when Wilhelmina left.

Outside the door, she was apprehended by a nurse with silky blonde hair and a bosom so ample it was quite unfair to all other women. She incidentally had an IQ of 154, but you wouldn't know it to look at her -- the great tragedy of her life.

Wilhelmina did not care very much about any of this. She did, however, care about the message the nurse was giving her.

"Ma'am?" she said with a concernedly friendly tone that people seemed to reserve for the elderly. "The people at registration asked me to take this up to you so you could avoid the complications down there. This is your course list."

A piece of paper was thrusted into Wilhelmina's hands. It contained only one course title in large print: Old Timers Dizeaze and How to Cope.

Silently she cursed the stupid switching of S's and Z's, and the decided lack of apostrophe. She also cursed the fact that when a person got older, other people thought your brain had gone to town.

She sweetly thanked the nurse (for anything but the gentlest treatment would surely break her like a delicate piece of crystal, the poor dear that she was, doubtless with a dark past and troubled thoughts behind that pretty face) and marched off to find her class.

[littlemanpoet]

Very, very early the next morning, Sai Onara was awakened by very loud knocking on her door.

"Go 'way!" she cried.

The knocking continued, even more forcibly, making the door shake.

Sai looked around. It was still dark. "It's too early! Come back when the sun's up!"

The knocking continued even louder, the door threatening to burst from its hinges.

"Just a minute!" Sai cried, then grumbled her way out of bed, and threw on a (conveniently provided) bathrobe. She opened the door yelling, "What do you want at this ungodly hour!"

Anakron stood in the door, smirking at her. He glanced to his right and thanked the troll who had banged on the door for him, then settled a level gaze on Sai.

"You will go back to your class today. I have straightened out the matter with your professor, and he understands that this is a one week crash course now. You will now have to fit five days worth of study into four, because the final exam is Saturday morning, bright and early. Hop to it. Your professor awaits you; he was willing to get out of bed early to give you a few hours extra time this morning to make up for yesterday. Good day."

Anakron turned away and strode down the hall, cape flowing in the breeze behind him, and had turned a corner before Sai could issue a single word of rebuttal, remonstration, or cussing.

[the guy who be short]

After seeing, or rather, carefully not seeing the Death of A Slan, Fléin and Sai mourned a little before parting - Sai was to go to the registrar, Fléin needed to see Freud again to finish his psych. Hopefully, he was better by now.

Fléin entered Freud's office to find, to his surprise, a semi-congealed Freud along with a newcomer. An inquiring glance at the man promped him to present himself as Mr Jung. "I shall be assisting Mr Freud, as he is currently a little, ah, inconvenienced."

Fléin sat back down.

"So, Mr Freud tells me you're a homosexual. I shall help you overcome it, do not worry."

Fléin said "But Mr Freud told me it was perfectly normal!"

The two psychoanalysts started arguing like little children, giving Fléin a little time to himself. He made the most of it by thinking about A Slan, but before he knew it, he was weeping again.

At the noise of a particularly loud sob, the two psychiatrists turned around to face him once more. "He is dead," he sobbed to himself. "And I didn't even get to know him."

"Who's dead?" the lips of Freud asked from a corner of the room.

"Oh, he doesn't actually exist," Fléin replied bitterly. "Just a delusion, don't worry yourself."

"Ah!" Jung exclaimed, "Freud told me of these delusions of yours! You say your imaginary friend is dead? What was he like?"

"He was."

"I see, I see," Jung scribbled frantically. In a far corner, Freud's mostly congealed body picked up its lips and stuck them in a pocket for safekeeping. "But what did he look like? What was his name?"

"He was A Slan." Fléin responded. The scratching of the pen stopped. Fléin looked up; Jung had stopped writing, and his face had gone deathly pale.

When he next talked, he whispered hushedly, "A Slan is dead? You are sure?"

"He was sacrificed on a Stone Stretcher," Fléin responded in kind.

Jung collapsed his head into his hands, distraught. "A Slan! Gone!" Fléin caught snatches of words, little phrases that made no sense to him. After several minutes of this, Jung addressed him again, always in a whisper. "How did you know A Slan? Did you say he talked to you?"

"Yes."

Jung's eyes widened in shock. One of them revealed itself to be made of glass by falling out, but Jung ignored it. "A friend of the Llamasson. Do not worry, Fléin. I shall declare you to be in sound mental health. Now tell me, what was He like?"

The next half an hour was spent recounting Fléin's brief relationship with A Slan in whispers, but too soon Freud had reformed himself, and it was time to go. Nonetheless, Fléin had found yet another follower of A Slan - Jung had hoped to overthrow Freud, whom he condemned as a "commiter of incest" - in this crazy world. Though he was advised to keep his knowledge of A Slan quiet, he couldn't help but feel that not only was he special, he was potent. There were millions of Mordorians, especially Nurnians, who apparently followed A Slan. Perhaps there could be some sort of revolution.

Fléin allowed himself a fell laugh. How could there be revolt against the Dweomer without A Slan to lead them?

[Durelin]

“You haven't even signed up for your classes yet?”

The glasses were creeping down the woman's small nose, and Valde’s lip twitched, wanting very much to curl into a sneer as his eyes were constantly drawn to those spectacles. It irked him that she peered at him over them, just as it irked him that she had the nerve to speak to him with anger in her voice, even raising it a bit. The shuffling paper and the whirring and clanking of a paper cloning device that he had always thought to belong only as a cardboard cut out next to Spockú.

“You should have been informed of my arrival.”

“So? That doesn't mean I have to like the idea of it. What is the point of a Registrar's office if anyone can just walk in here and expect to take a class? Are you even enrolled here?”

Valde deftly avoided the questions. “Well, what is the point of wearing glasses if you do not even look through them?”

With a huff, the woman forced her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, and with a wave of her hand informed him that he was assigned to the class ‘Interpretive Drama: Shakespeardil on Mordway.’ He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her, but it was clear that she was shooing him vehemently, and there was quite the line behind him. So when he had been told which room in which building his class was (For never could a university be located in just one building. That would take all the fun out of it, and diminish the effectiveness of the name ‘university.’ Rather than ‘The University’ being one select building, it was a fertile orchard containing a variety of trees and bushes from which innumerable fruits were ripe for the picking. The use of this rather graphic metaphor as an extended one is of course the only reason why there are so many different buildings. Why these buildings are all named after different people is due to entirely different metaphor which may not be cited here, due to the animosity it might cause).

As soon as Valde set foot in the classroom, he spared a half a moment to gape, and then turned on his heel to leave.

“Oh fool, I shall go mad!” was belted out in a quavering male soprano to music led by a somber but soulful bopping of a trumpet, complimented by the whine of overdone but thankfully under-toned strings. All music and song stopped soon after his entrance, though, and his retreating back of course did not go unnoticed. “Ah, Mr. Delego!” The stout troll rumbled in a voice that Valde had expected to squeak much in the same way that it had when the creature sang. Valde Delego whirled around, and saw that the troll professor wore a suit with a be-spotted bow tie that made the Lead Tragic Actor gag. Over this, he dared to wear some kind of cape, with a floppy forest green hat topped with a large feather that overhung it to the right. “Please do come in!”

“Please, do stay in. I’d rather not.”

A moment later, and he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder, and he was, at least by his own description, forcibly dragged into the room, and placed in the middle desk in the front row. He glanced around him, and found only four other students in the class. Each held a quill pen at the ready, and eyed him surprisingly casually from beneath plumed hats.

“Welcome, Mr. Delego, it is so good to have thee. It has been rumoured that you are indeed experienced in the art of…playing?” He chuckled to himself, finding himself funny, as any well-respected man instructing in a well-respected university would, what with all the confidence they had that was surely befitting them.

“Oh yeah, he’s a playa’ and he know it!” exclaimed the only student that sat in the back row. He then slunk down in his chair with a hand over his mouth as the professor’s eyes turned to stare at him, flaring up with anger. The troll stared at the young man in the back as if he were a cat had just expelled from either end of it, or perhaps both.

“Get thee to the guilloti—” He coughed. “Grammar and Diction in Modern English. Now.” He pointed to the door, and the man scurried out, leaving his hat and pen behind. After the troll professor had collected the abandoned things, he returned to look at Valde with a smile. “Now, what were you saying, Mr. Delego?”

Any sensible person would simply go ahead and begin saying what they had been going to say in response to what their professor had been interrupted in saying, and even if they had not had a response ready at that time, they would come up with one as quick as they could. But this was Valde Delego.

“Well, that’s a rather moot point, isn’t it professor?”

“No, my dear cos, I am afraid it is rather debatable as to what you were going to say.”

“Then we concur.”

“I assure thee: assuredly not.”

“But you agreed that it was debatable.”

“No, I said that ‘twas debatable, while you did speaketh of it being moot.”

“My point exactly. They are synonymous statements.”

“No they’re not.”

“Yes they are.”

“He’s right,” a voice squeaked from somewhere behind Valde, and he whirled around to look at who had spoken. It was a young mouse-like lady with honey hair that reddened severely in the face when the Lead Tragic Actor did gaze upon her. He thought that she looked rather constipated, but he thanked her nonetheless.

“What did you say?” the professor asked, an angry edge to his voice. The young woman squeaked again, and Valde was waiting for small gray and pink ears to pop out of her head, or at least largely disproportionate black ones. But she managed to hold up a dictionary, opened to the page containing the entry on ‘moot.’

“Why do you think it is called an Entmoot?” Valde asked, turning back to the professor after flashing one last smile at the young maiden, who was now clearly in distress.

“Ah,” the professor said simply. “Well, I believe it safe to say that Mr. Shakespeardil did not initiate use of that word, nor alter the meaning, so of course it would slip my mind so easily as it did thusly.”

“On the contrary. I doubt that you have traced back to the origin of the word ‘moot,’ sir, if you were not even aware of its meaning. In other and more obnoxious terms: how do you know?”

“Well, sir, I believe that is a moot point.”

“There, now you’ve got it.”

The troll professor rolled his large black eyes so much that Valde was certain they would get stuck in the back of his head, and with a sigh, he turned back to the blackboard behind him, where notes were scrawled in a lithe hand. “That’s quite enough, Mr. Delego. Now, wherefore art we here today, class?”

“I was forced to be here by some crackpot wizard and his dweomer nonsense,” Valde blurted out, obviously bemoaning his fate.

“To remaster the masterpieces of one Wilhelmër Shakespeardil so that they may be still worthy of his name, but may bring in loads of cash in today’s entertainment world,” the rest of the class drawled. The enthusiasm was bewildering, over two people muttering words that they obviously could care less about.

“In other words,” the troll professor cried out with a grin, flourishing his cape and brandishing a pointer stick that Valde was sure had been sharpened into a full-fledged poking stick, “we’re making a musical.”

“A musical?!” Valde cried out as if an arrow had just pierced his heart, and not one from the elfin quiver of Cupidrembor. “O untimely modernization!”

[Celuien]

Slipping stealthily along the hallways, Panakeia made her way back to the psychiatry department. She had no intention of running into that Jung character again or of being locked up, thank you very much. She glanced at a directory on the wall to find Dr. Sigmund’s office, then hurried in its direction, her scarf pulled tightly over her cheekbones. A few minutes of walking found her back outside the fateful office door from which she had recently fled. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. “Come in!” came a somewhat muffled reply. She pushed the door open and almost wished she hadn’t. Freud sat in an overstuffed chair, lips in the one hand that had rejoined his body. The other lay in a dark corner, knocking on the wall. “Ah ha! Zere you are,” called the lips. The renowned psychoanalyst walked over to the corner and picked up his other arm. He pushed in back into his shoulder joint, where it settled with a decided ’pop.’

“Forgive zis current confuzion. Have a zeet.” A finger pointed to the room’s large couch. “I have heard about you from my colleague. I find it surprising zat you returned, given his report.”

“Well,” began Panakeia, “I’m somewhat surprised myself. But I came back specifically to see you. After all, you are the greatest analyst of them all. And I do need help. I know it.”

The teeth on the remains of Freud’s face would have formed a smile had his lips only been in place. Panakeia struggled to suppress her disgust at his condition. “Vell, zat is more like it. I zink my colleague may have been mistaken about you. Zere iz just ze matter of zis voice you hear and your delusions. Both clearly ze sign of some childhood trauma.”

She burst into tears, only half feigned. “Yes, that’s right,” Panakeia sobbed. “I never recovered from the shock of learning I came from a family of common thieves! Worse yet, they disappeared, and I never had the chance to say how much I…I…loved them.” She sobbed into the couch’s arm. “Then I turned charlatan, which I always vowed I’d never do. And I just realized what a waste I’ve made of my life. And that‘s when the voice, the voice of my conscience came back.” Freud looked at her sympathetically. “I’m not crazy, am I?”

“Of course not,” came the quick reply. “Zroubled, yes. Insane, no. I am shocked at Mr. Jung’s misdiagnosis. To zink zat he vas my student. No, you may go. I vill handle Mr. Jung.”

Panakeia smiled through her tears. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”

“Oh but I zink I do.”

Panakeia fought the urge to slap the sanctimoniously smiling lips out of Freud‘s hand. Then she thought of something else. “There’s just one thing. This couch. I think it‘s helped me so much. May I take it with me? It would be such a comfort.”

Freud stared at her through a mangled eyelid. “Vat a strange fixation. But that is my most valued couch. In fact, I zink that couch means more to me than anyzing else.”

I guessed right. “I know it’s asking a lot. But it would help me so. I may never be able to come back, but I’ll always have a connection to this place through it to help me through my problems. Please?”

He mulled it over. “Very vell. You need it more zan I. But I vill miss it.”

Panakeia beamed. “Thank you so much. Thank you.” She waved her farewells and dragged her new acquisition out the door. As she made her way to Poisoned Vale, Panakeia hoped the couch would fit in her dorm room.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"No... s'to early..." Alli spoke into her pillow, grumbling at her obnoxiously shrill alarm clock. She wasn't certain what time it was... if a night had passed, or even if she'd had more than a cursary ten minutes or so of a nap. She'd been up too late and it was looking to be a tough battle to roll out of bed.

"I'm skipping." she told herself, snuggling back into her warm blankets.

"No you aren't." came Anakron's voice from the door. She sat up swiftly and pulled her blankets high.

"I locked the door!"

"I unlocked it."

"That's REALLY creepy."

"I don't care. Get up, you're going to class."

Now fully awake, Alli made a rude gesture involving only one of her fingers toward the empty doorway as the door swung shut with a loud crash that caused muffled yells of annoyance from her dorm-mates, none of whose classes begun before noon.

She pulled on the same breeches she'd worn for several days straight, a clean shirt (though it had cost a couple trolls to use the washer the night before), and tied her messy hair away from her face. Somehow she managed to pull the just-got-out-of-bed look off and stumbled around her dorm room (not that it was large enough to truly stumble through) searching for some paper and pens. As she watched the minutes pass by in what seemed a more quick way than usual, Alli realized that she couldn't find her supplies, she was going to be late to her first class, and she'd failed to complete the pre-class assignment ("Get in touch with Illamatar. As him if money really does buy happiness.") She was annoyed about that too... of all the nights for the One to not show up and bug her, it had to be that one. The annoyance drove her to split her infinitives.

Pulling on her boots and giving up on everything she really ought to be bringing, Alli threw open the door and came face to face with a Dwarf. It wasn't Flein.

"Um... good morning?" The axe was putting her off.

"Who are you and why are you in my room?" demanded the Dwarf, fingering the axe-blade lovingly.

"Tell me your name, axe-master, and I shall tell you mine." The straps holding the axe to the belt loosened. "I mean... I'm Alli. I'm rooming here for a week."

"No you aren't."

"You bloody well better get used to the idea."

"Oh really?" The axe was in hand.

"Fine. I'll be back later to collect my stuff."

"No, you'll take it now." The axe was scary looking. Alli was pretty sure there was dried blood... but it might have been ketchup. She backed into the room and gathered her belongings, shouldering her pack. As she backed out the door, careful not to present the back of her head to this insane Dwarf, Alli muttered.

"Wonder doubleyouteeyef put this guy off." The door slammed and an odd howl came through it. If Alli had stuck around long enough, she'd have learned through the sobbing mutters that she had confused the poor girl's gender... a most embarrassing experience all around, but apparently a quite upsetting one for this lady Dwarf. She even went through extra effort to present herself as feminine... extra braids... gold metalwork in her weapon hilts to add that extra bit of bling... She cried now, but the Dwarf was for another tale.

As it was, Alli reached her class ten minutes into the lesson ("First 10 Minutes: The Secret of Life. Next 2 Hours: The Stuff You Already Know about Living and Why it's Not of Much Value."). The professor glared at her and she didn't even bother explaining.

"Do you have an excuse?"

"I was abducted by aliens." she responded with a serious look, mirroring a response her writer had given to a professor only yesterday for skipping class.

"That's not good enough."

"Then next time don't ask."

"Get out of my classroom. You fail for the day."

Alli swore and left. She had no idea where to go or what to do. Her former room was infested with an axe-happy she-Dwarf, her professor had kicked her out of class, and she didn't know where the rest of her group was. And she'd skipped breakfast.

She slumped against a wall looking a bit dejected and waited to see if anything would happen to make things a bit easier. It wasn't exactly the best first day of classes she'd ever experienced.

[the phantom]

Mardil grinned wickedly as he watched Doctor Hookbill soar out the window of his office. His eyes flashed red and he let out a rough sounding chuckle.

A high pitched voice cut across his evil laugh. "What the- Doctor Hookbill... guards!!" cried a shocked nurse who had witnessed the tossing from the doorway. "Help!"

Mardil turned towards the nurse and growled. "Well, hello there. You're a tasty looking morsel," he said in a deep throaty voice. Hair began to grow on his face as he crouched low and began to take slow steps towards the terrified nurse. The nurse screamed in terror and fainted.

Mardil stopped and stood up straight. A confused expression appeared on his face, and he looked from the broken window to the unconscious nurse, trying to figure out what was happening.

At that moment, a troop of twenty orcs filed into the office and stood with their spears pointed at Mardil. Their commanding officer stood forward and addressed Mardil. "I understand that you threw Doctor Hookbill out the window to his death. Is that accurate?"

"Well, I don't think-" began Mardil, but then his glance happened upon the back of his hand. "Oh no."

"What is it?" asked the orc.

"Well, it's all rather complicated, and I'm not sure I understand everything right now," said Mardil, as the tufts of hair shrank back into his skin. "I'm sure you are used to all sorts of odd situations in this land of anachronisms. This is one of those situations." As he spoke, he drew a small flask from his hip pocket, dipped the tip of his favorite knife in it, and cut himself.

The perplexed orc cleared his throat and spoke again. "Well, that may be, but I'm going to have to arrest you."

"Oh, well yes, no question there, but please place me in the West Morgul Correctional Center rather than the Morgul branch of the Mordor Penitentiary or the Minas Morgul City Jail," said Mardil, sheathing his knife.

"Er, well, I suppose I could do that," said the orc. "Well, just turn around and let us cuff you and take your weapons."

"Oh no, absolutely not!" said Mardil resolutely. "There may be too many of you here for me to escape from, but there aren't enough of you to take me without a few of you dying in the process. Any of you fancy dying today?!" No one answered. "Good. I will go along with you willingly to the Correctional Center and allow you to put me in a cell. But first, I will send a message to a couple friends of mine. After they arrive, everything will be sorted out."

"Who are you sending these messages to?" inquired the orc, not entirely sure he should allow Mardil's terms.

"Well, one person is The Grand Anakronist. You know who he is, don't you?" The orc nodded. "You know who I am, don't you? I'm one of the escapees." The orc nodded again. "Believe me, you want to do as I say. You'll regret not doing it, but if you follow my instructions, well- you won't be sorry. What's your name?"

"Mortakh. Captain Mortakh."

"Mortakh, my friend," said Mardil, "Do as I say and you will soon be called 'General Mortakh'."

Mortakh looked Mardil in the eye for a moment. "All right," he said at last. "You can go ahead and write your messages. My men will make sure they are sent. After that, I'll take you to the West Morgul Correctional Center."

"Excellent!" said Mardil happily. "But just one more thing. Could you tell me what this hospital used to be, particularly this high tower we are in? It's an ancient building, I can tell."

"Oh, yes indeed," answered Mortakh excitedly. "History is my favorite subject! This is the tower that the Witch King himself used to lounge around in- the highest tower of Sauron's great western fortress- Minas Morgul. Of course, everyone always calls it 'Cirith Ungol', and calls the sprawling city to the west of here 'Minas Morgul', but that's because they've forgotten their history. In reality, Cirith Ungol was farther to the east, up in a high pass. You can see its ruins if you climb the mountains north of here. This here is properly Minas Morgul. It wasn't always Minas Morgul, though. Before that this here tower was called Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Moon."

[Celuien]

Panakeia shuffled along the dormitory hallway with the heavy couch and her sample case. Her room was, luckily enough, on the first floor. Unluckily, it was number 13. Ladders formed the doorframe and a wooden cutout of a black cat dangled from the knob. To complete the effect, someone had poured salt on the ground in front of the room. Panakeia was about to go back to the front desk to request a different room when she remembered that she wasn't a superstitious person. She felt in her pocket for the key, a long, spindly creation with large teeth, and put it in the lock. The door opened, squeaking loudly on rusty hinges.

The interior decorating wasn't any more encouraging; cobwebs hung from the ceiling in deep festoons and the mirror on the wall sported a crack from corner to corner. The curtains on the room's sole window, placed high on the wall and crisscrossed by iron bars, were black and dusty. Panakeia looked at the depressing atmosphere and almost missed the sunshine of Dol Gaurgauroth. She dragged the couch inside and found it too long to fit in the tiny room. With a sudden effort, she set it on end, disturbing the dark curtains. A weak ray of sunlight shone through the window, illuminating the room with a pallid glow. A black lump on one of the room's two beds stirred, raising a cloud of dust. Two dark eyes in a pasty face peered out from under the black blankets.

"What are you doing? Get that light out of here." The figure jumped out of the bed and hurried to close the curtains. "Who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Panakeia. I suppose I'm your roommate."

"Roommate? I don't want a roommate. I want to be alone." The eyes glared. Panakeia took a better look at the strange girl. She fit perfectly with the surroundings. Black clothes, hair dyed black, spiky metal jewelry. Panakeia even spotted black lipstick and nail polish, and she suspected the girl's pallor wasn't entirely natural either.

"I don't like it much myself. But it seems we're stuck with each other, at least for now." Panakeia displayed her room key. The roommate continued to glare. "Don't worry. I'll spend most of my time at class."

"Fine. Just remember, this is my space. And don't go changing anything."

"I wouldn't dare. I don't think I caught your name."

"And I don't think I gave it." Panakeia's roommate climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over her head. "Goodbye."

Panakeia stared in astonishment at her roommate's rude behavior. And a plan for mischief stirred in her head. She listened for objections from her conscience, but surprisingly, none came.

Hello, where are you? Still there?

A faint reply came back. Yes, I'm here. But things are changing. This might be the last time you hear from me. Don't worry, I'll still be with you. I'll always be with you now. But I'm going back where I belong. In your subconscious. It'll be harder for me to control what you do, but that's the way it should be. I won't let you get too far out of line, though. And there are always dreams. The gateway to the subconscious, as our friend Freud would say. The voice grew fainter. Yes, things are as they should be. We are truly going to be one again. Remember me! And the voice was gone.

Panakeia stood frozen for a moment, half rejoicing and half sadly missing the voice that had been her companion over the past few difficult days. Then, remembering that there was work to do and a course to attend, she shook herself and walked out of the room to find her class.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin shuffled up to the Registrar's office, carefully avoiding thinking about A Slan or offering any insight into his theological beliefs. It was no good dwelling on the past, after all.

His insides wept, but he ignored them. What use were they anyway?

When he entered the Registrar's office, it was empty. He trampled up to the front where a fierce looking woman was looking fiercely over her glasses at him.

"Oy! You there!" she barked at him, setting her jowls aquiver. Fléin watched them wobbling as she launched a verbal tirade. "Don't mope! Moping should be done outside of University! This is a mope-free environment! And look at your beard, dearie me, get yourself a haircut!"

Fléin rested his head in his arms on her desk and let her continue in this manner. He wasn't sure how long it lasted. The pain inside wouldn't stop hurting.

Finally, he realised she had stopped and was staring at him. He stirred, got up, begged her pardon, didn't get any, asked what course he would be taking, and was told about the times and places for the Self Defense For Short People qualification.

He half absorbed this information before trampling to his new dorm - it was empty, his roommate was evidently out - and curling into bed. He knew it was futile trying to sleep A Slan's death off, but tried anyway.