ATM II RPG

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

The spy of Mordor entered the through the door. His eyes searched the room, in hope to find Alli. This was indeed where they had parted last he saw her, there had also been a certain Ms. Martinet present, but Frej had not paid much attention to her. Being personal selected by Alli meant that he reported to no one else and he liked it that way. It gave him a certain feeling of importance, what he loved even more was being in the presences of Alli.

He was taken by surprise when he saw Lola, she was quite hard to take ones eyes off to say the least. He normally had no problem being around beautiful woman, but never had he met one where it had been quite so “outspoken”.

Frej forced him self to take his eyes off her and stair directly above her head, it felt like he had stood like that for ages when he finally spoke. “I need to see Alli at once” He had planned on a more formal way of getting his message across, but for some reason his mouth did not obey.

As he waited for her to reply, his thoughts went back to his mission and why it was so important that he found Alli at once. In fact everything Alli had worked so hard to create (or destroy) could fall apart if he did not find her soon. He had been racing on a scooter he confiscated from an orc child all day. This could be regarded as a bad move, his height taken into consideration. . .”The next time I am in a hurry, I will ride and Elk” He thought to him self “yes an Elk that is what I need, although they can be vicious, one of the once bit my sister, Of course that was on a trip to Lebenin, where she while swimming was attacked by the rare “Saltwater-Elk” and there isn’t much saltwater around Mordor. In fact I should make an Elk-farm where my Elk can frolic and play with other Garters. . . . “ The sight of Lola’s garters made Frej snap out of his Elk related thoughts and after a some intense staring his thoughts returned to Alli.

He could not take the silence from Lola anymore, this was to important to be delayed any further. He had to find Alli and it had to be now. He felt the desperation gather inside him and he lost control. Frej grasped the edge of the desk and screamed in an unnaturally high-pitched tone. “By flames of Roggie, don’t you understand what has happened? WE ARE ALL OUT OF TEA !”
He released his hold of the desk and almost collapsed against the nearest wall.

[Anguirel]

Finally recovering his vague sense of direction, Dracomir Apparated to the Lady Spymaster's office. Just because he could.

He found the door half open - someone had obviously just entered - and edged his way in behind them. He then recoiled, clutching his delicate shell-like ears, as a vast blond fellow bellowed something about tea.

Reeling from the effects of noise pollution, Tom threw out an arm to steady himself, and picked himself up against the desk. He then found that he was looking straight at Lola...who was apparently being winsome to the blond yodeller.

Dracomir coughed, swallowed, assumed a look of immense haughtiness and and regarded the pair icily.

"Nice to see things being carried on so professionally," he remarked. "Where's Ms Martinet? Or better still, Alli? Alli and I need to talk about...important matters on which the fate of Mordor depends. And which are not to do with tea."

He looked the stranger up and down. Fine, so he was bigger than him, had more muscles, but Tom's blond hair was much nicer, he was certain, than that bumpkin's locks. What could Lola see in him?

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Alli peeked through the hole in the curtains and whispered something that sounded an awful lot like "Aimé, this is completely moronic! Let me out." But Aimé insisted she stay still. There was a suspicious character in the hallway of the inn they had walked into, and Aimé was eager to question him.

"Well, well, good evening sir" Aimé sneered.

"Ah, it is that, lad, it is that. Why I've just been out for a lovely stroll round...."

"Blabbering about nothing already, are we?" Aimé thundered, visibly shocking the stranger. "It's an act, an act I say! My, sir! How hairy you are!"

The man tugged his shaggy beard, alarmed.

"And what big nails you have!" he yelled, eyeing the man's unkempt hands.

"And what large teeth you have!" By this stage the man had marched off and out of the corridor, shaking his head all the while.

Alli stepped out from behind the curtain with a look of slight (or sheer) bafflement. "Are you going to do this to every buck-toothed joe we come across?" The question was clearly rhetorical; Aimé guessed that Alli had other, more subtle, plans for wolf-hunting.

"This will not be as easy as that" she said quietly.

"Nevertheless, you shall need to hide. We need a place where no-one will think to look for you" replied Aimé, with a small smile. He had obviously relished getting back into the swing of loud, obnoxious accusations.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"I know... I know!" Alli cried in complete upset. "But where?"

She began to look around frantically, her always calm, always cool, always totally-hot-and-can-she-be-real-the-way-she-always-seems-in-control? attitude breaking a little. She realized that she was speaking loudly and rolled her eyes at herself, flicking her long, sleek black hair over a well-postured shoulder.

"Sorry." she added, not actually sorry. "Lost myself for a moment there."

She had long considered taking up smoking. Not for any particularly grand reason, but it always seemed like the truly intimidating people in movies and shows had a cigarette. No, she didn't want the average brand of nauseating smell and illness... but she always thought it might be a little bit cool to try out the image cast by her always carrying an unlit clove ciggie in her black gaunletted right hand. She looked down her arm, following the black leather until it met white silk until the silk was pressed to her skin by well-worked black leather wrist guards. Her slender fingers moved freely (she wiggled them absently to prove it). No... she didn't need a decoration. The world had to give her credit... she simply did not need spiced smoke to look cool.

She leaned against a wall, lifting her left foot behind her to lay flat against it. Always the epitome of serious nonchalance. She'd ditched the cape. She'd learned at some unspecified point within the last year or so that people were a lot more afraid of her when she stood confidently in street clothes than when she slipped through shadows in a deep cloak. It was warm and convenient, but when she really wanted The Image, her black overcoat was fitted to the waist, embelleshed subtly with black pearls (fifteen Dwarven smiths had died in search of the fiftieth... it would appear that Dwarves don't float well and, so, though they reached the pearls quite easily, they had lethal trouble getting back to the surface with them) and opals (from a few plundered hoards) and silver threading, and it took two handmaids to help her button it. It flaired impressively and billowed like only the cape of a truly evil supervillian can do. It would have looked vampiric on anybody else, but Alli's red lips, pale skin, and long black hair... well... okay, she admitted it. She looked completely vampiric. Really, that was the whole cool part of the image. People were terrified of vampires. They couldn't help it. Something to do with the prospect of everlasting life, probably. That glint in their dark eyes. Maybe the way 'w's always lost the second 'u' and ended up sounding like a 'v' instead. Whatever it was, when Alli wanted to impress, she dressed up like the living dead and made the whole corpse concept into a fashion statement.

"Aimè!" she suddenly hissed. He looked at her. He'd been looking very intently at a piece of brick that may or may not have whispered to him a moment before.

"What?"

"I thought of a good place."

"Where?"

"Can't tell you... if any of my enemies are reading this... they'd learn..."

"Then how do we... um... narrate this?"

"Very carefully. Check this out: my idea is not to hide in a graveyard and pretend to anybody that comes along that I'm a ghost or zombie or something. My idea doesn't involved stage makeup. And it doesn't have anything to do with the idea that... um... I don't really know. But if we, wink wink, don't go hide out in a graveyard, I can finish this whole plan up with a fantastic rip off of scenes from so many different books and movies! I mean... The Phantom and Raoul in the graveyard... the jackal from The Omen... Just think of the impossibilities that could come from me, wink wink, not hiding out in a cemetary."

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron was most intrigued by the obvious interest of Skittles's cat for Sylvester, atop his raised and threatening staff, but was not so distracted as to miss Igör's query.

"I did overhear the Dwarf, Minotaur and Barrow Wight discussing werewolves. When I asked them about it they did not so much as deign to fake having heard me. The nerve. Konvey."

Sylvester yowled. Hissyfit spat. Igör said "ouch", and rubbed his rolling eye.

Anakron did not know how he knew such things, but this most recent konveyance apparently had given Igör an astigmatISM. In the rolling eye.

"Ugh. I can't see," said Igör. "Leastways, not as clear as afore."

"You hind part of an ape," Skittles said, "that's your dead eye."

"Apparently no longer," Anakron murmured.

Igör got a weird look on his face. Well, it was actually a smile, but on Igör it looked weird. He started jumping up and down. "I can see! I can see! Badly."

Just then Hissyfit jumped onto Anakron's staff, hissing, and started clawing his way up toward Sylvester.

"Keep that Hithy cat away from me!" yelled Sylvester.

to be continued. Join us same place, same time, same day next week as we learn the fates of Sylvester and Hissyfit. Will Hissyfit become the new cat atop Anakron's staff? Will Sylvester start talking to nobody but Skittles? Will Skittles hit the Dwarf? Will the Dwarf run off a cliff? Join us next time to get the answers to all these questions and much much more in the exciting next episode of.... Crackes and feedback drown out the sound of the name of the show.

"Cut!" cried Samê Blather. "Must be some confounded feedback from the mountain. Everybody, from the top."

"Nooooooo!"

Anakron looked dourly at Blather and yelled, "Konvay!"

"Ahhhhh!" Blather was hit with a serious dose of asceticISM, changed his name to Diffay Runt Blather, and founded a monastery for former Mordorian teevee directors. Word was that it was a hit.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Wereducks, eh?" mused Tollin as they walked down the corridor towards the commotion, "that would explain a few things." exactly what he meant, he did not say, but he stroked his chin in deep thought. The Barrow Wight puffed on his pipe once more and began humming an old tune he had learned on the Downs. Smilog, on the other hand, merely grumbled to himself and stroked his beard, letting the crumbs and bits of wall fall out of it.

You! Dwarf!" Anakron called, turning to the dwarf, "You ignored me. Why?"

"I don't know," hummed the dwarf, "Skittles talks a lot of nonsense. Wereducks may be another one of her delusions." Anakron stared at the Dwarf, hardly believing his eyes and ears. "How can you be certain?"

Tollin bowed his head and replied, "Two reasons; first, those footprints we saw on the mountains side, they were webbed feet and too big for any normal duck. Secondly, the hole in the wall down there had feathers all over it."

"Palthwait is one of those blasted things?" coughed the Barrow Wight, sending smoke right into Anakron's face.

"I don't think so," continued Tollin, "in league, perhaps, but I don't think he is one." They walked on, nodding slightly to Skittles, not wishing to get caught up in her affairs again. Once bitten, twice cautious. Anakron was about to explode.

Anakron's teeth clenched and his brow lowered menacingly. "Do you not know who I am?" he grated.

"Why?" said Skittles, "have you forgotten?"

Anakron ignored her.

"Dwarf! Come back here!" he called. Smilog stopped and turned around. Anakron felt suddenly vindicated and said with a note of triumph, "So, you have been ignoring me!" He paused for effect, then in a growl said, "You will pay." Smilog began to walk back towards him Anakron nodded patiently. "Just answer my question." he paused as Smilog picked up a pipe from the floor.

"I thought I dropped something." he said, shaking his head again and returning to his little party.

"No wonder people assault him with such regularity!" said Anakron.

[Lhunardawen]

Maika looked back in spite of herself, and turned into a pillar of salt. Er, she watched the raging werecreature, stunned yet altogether curious.

"Go, my lady!" cried Elrogorn, as though he had eyes at the back of his head. "This is not for kids!"

Maika was about to start on an icy response when she felt a strong grasp on her forearm forcing her away from the scene. It was Hyarmenwë, whose face was rather pale but otherwise set. The urgency in his eyes, though it might be there because of the wereduck, brought the thought of their own quest back to her. She nodded at him and suffered herself to be led into the inn.

"Quack! Quack!"

Maika rolled her eyes. Banters - even animals weren't spared. How thoroughly worthy of an old-school action film. Whatever witty (or otherwise) retort Elrogorn had for that, the two ambassadors no longer heard, for when the door closed behind them they were engulfed by the pleasant noise of scattered conversations around them. Maika was still amazed, even though she had been to the place a few times in the past. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. Typical Mordorian diners never felt this...this homey.

She realised that Hyarmenwë had let go of her arm and just begun to walk towards a vacant table in the distant corner of the room. She followed him, looking around, holding herself up importantly to disguise her interest.

"Maika!"

The Mordorian ambassador swung instinctively towards the table she had just passed. An old woman was ducking under it.

"How many times have I told you not to wander off when we're eating?"

I really should change my name, fumed Maika, picturing a mischievous little girl with food-stained clothes and pigtails.

"Meoooow."

Maika the cat got out from under the table and jumped suddenly onto the old woman's arched back, causing the poor woman to hit her head. Maika the human, on the other hand, pretended that sharing her name with an animal did not bother her the least. She resumed walking after Hyarmenwë, got to the table after him, and sat down on the seat he indicated. He took the place in front of her.

"I figured you must be famished; we have had no short journey," he said.

Yes. I want a smoothie. "I'm fine," she replied, "let's just get down to business. We'll have to be back--"

"Lord Hyarmenwë!"

Oh dear, Maika silently groaned. Don't tell me it's a guy addressing an aristocratic dog.

The two ambassadors turned and saw a happy-looking couple waving at them - or at Hyarmenwë, rather; Maika had no idea who they were. So, Hyarmenwë had already socialised with the people here! It might make their task a bit easier. She was glad to see that they were making their way towards their table, and Hyarmenwë seemed equally grateful. He promptly offered the remaining seats when they arrived, the lady taking the seat beside Maika's.

"How wonderful to see you again," the Gondorian told the newcomers.

The couple smiled. "The pleasure is ours, my lord," said the man. "What brings you back to this place? And I see you have a new companion." He nodded towards Maika, still smiling. The lady with him also looked at her welcomingly. Not for long, Maika thought, and proceeded to introduce herself, but Hyarmenwë beat her to it.

"This is Lady Maikaelwen, a Mordorian ambassador."

There was no change in their expressions. Was she seeing things? Did she really need a smoothie?

"Lady Maika, this is Aleksandur, and his betrothed, Fíriel. I met them the first time I had been here."

Maika was still in a detached state of disbelief and only managed to nod politely.

"You ask what brings me back here," continued Hyarmenwë, addressing the couple. "Do you remember what I once told you, before we left?"

"I do, my lord. You have a daughter somewhere in these parts," said Aleksandur.

"Precisely. Maika here had consented to help me look for her, and suggested starting with this place. She is, you see, herself Gondorian-born."

"I would have guessed it," said Fíriel. "She certainly looks the part."

Maika maintained a poker face. But inside...inside...she was not sure what she thought, or felt, regarding the comment. "Perhaps you would like something to eat?" she offered instead, in order to divert the conversation from her.

The other three approved of this idea, to Maika's relief. Fíriel waved at an approaching young lady in an apron, who smiled at seeing her and hurried towards their table. As anyone in their position would, the two men turned around instinctively to see at whom Fíriel gestured...and Hyarmenwë drew a sharp gasp.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron raised his Sylvestrian staff, much to the interest of Hissyfit, and said, "Konvay!" at the bliddy Dwarf who was suddenly beset by a bad but very suitable case (he was after all a Dwarf) of nepotISM.

Satisfied, Anakron turned away and watched the Minotaur and Barrow Wight, to see if they would incur his wrath.

"I say, old chap," rattled the boney Barrow Wight, "lot of rubbish about 'isms', what?"

"The dweomer does as it does," Anakron replied.

"Where's your girlfriend?" asked Skittles. "Did you hit her with fetishism? Hissyfit! Come here and leave Sylvester alone!" She watched the cat with apparent fascination. "I don't care if he keeps on lisping at you!" Anakron raised an eyebrow and consciously ignored the warmistress, distracting himself by the entertainment of the Dwarf who was apparently growing sons from his forehead.

"Oucht!" cried the Minotaur. "That hath to hurth!"

[Kath]

Igor watched in amusement at the interaction between Anakron and Smilog, happily twirling his newly mended eye round and round in his head and seeing what he could see, though he quickly discovered that the inside of his eye socket was not something even he wished to see.

Spinning himself around rather than his eye he took in his surroundings, able to see them with double vision for the first time ever. Although, he mused, that could simply be from the concussion the staff had left him with.

Wincing he tuned back in to the conversation, belatedly realising that he was not the only one to have been ISMed today as he noted the small figures growing out of Smilog. It seemed that Anakron was in full konveyor mode and Igor wondered what he'd do to Skittles and Hissyfit if they didn't stop arguing behind him. AbsenteeISM perhaps.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"What's that?" asked Tollin, pointing at Smilog's head where the head and shoulders of another form was now protruding. The Dwarf grunted and started to walk on. "What is it?" pressed the Minotaur.

"A helmet," said Smilog flatly. The Barrow Wight came up to him and whacked the extra head with his pipe. It did not react. Smilog now noticed it. "Good grief!" he exclaimed, "how long has that been there?" Tollin glanced back at Anakron who was laughing slightly. "I know who is to blame for this," Smilog continued as an arm began to grow, "Skittles. If there ever was a worker of myschief it was her!"

Anakron stopped laughing and scowled.

The Barrow Wight took a magnifying glass from the inside of his cloak and began examining the new body that was slowly coming out of Smilog's head. There was now all but the legs out, meaning that it was so heavy that the Dwarf had to sit down. "I say," said the Wight, "this is quite the odd thing, what - what?"

Thump. The body fell out and began squirming on the floor. It soon rose itself up and said, "Good evening gents'" it spun around and then exploded in a puff of smoke. The Barrow Wight said something inaudible. Smilog stood up and shook himself from head to tow. Stomping forth he approached Skittles with a face that would turn new milk. Skittles ignored him.

All of a sudden, the dwarf tripped over and landed flat on his face. As he did so, a boot fell off his foot and flew into the air, hitting a chandelier. A candle in it wobbled and fell down, hitting passing pidgin which had hopped into Mount Zoom out of curiosity. Squawking like a maniac, the Pidgin flew around in flames. Smilog got up and tried to hit the thing with his axe, yet it was too fast for him. Eventually he swung his axe with all his might and it connected with the flaming bird which was sent straight into Anakron's chest.

"A six!" cried The Barrow Wight, "jolly good show! Have you considered playing cricket?" Anakron stood still as the flames licked up his robe. He looked upon the Dwarf who was laughing with The Barrow Wight about the prospect of a cricket career. Finlay Anakron sighed and shook his staff at the Dwarf muttering some words.

Ten minuets later Smilog awoke in the middle of a quagmire. The stench of it nearly knocked him down with his nose held. In the distance, he could see the top of Mount Zoom, smoke still pouring from the top. Swearing, he got up and plodded in the general direction of the Mountain.
__

"Now that was uncalled for!" cried The Barrow Wight, "I know the little blighter can be a tad annoying and he did set you on fire and ignore you for no real reason and he did-" he considered his own words for a moment. "Well, perhaps it was called for then." Anakron nodded.

[Formendacil]

As anyone in their position would, the two men turned around instinctively to see at whom Fíriel gestured...and Hyarmenwë drew a sharp gasp.

"Morliniel!"

"Who?" Maika stopped looking at the stranger, who appeared to be in her later thirties.

"My wife," explained Hyarmenwë. "She looks exactly like my wife."

"Well, that was easy," said Maika. "I guess we've found your daughter."

Hyarmenwë shook his head. "She's too old. My daughter wouldn't be quite twenty."

"Oh, Bobawen isn't as old as she looks," said Fíriel. "She's not been here for quite twenty years. She was Assigned as a baby. We assume it's because of her accelerated growth. She looks closer to forty than the actual twenty that she is."

Hyarmenwë looked a bit perplexed. He had always thought his daughter had been assigned for her name, nothing more. But there was no denying that this woman, this "Bobawen", was close kin to his dear Morliniel, bless her memory.

"Bobawen!" Fíriel called, as he mulled it all over, "come over here!"

But Bobawen had not quite reached the table when a loud POP rocked the tavern from outside. As everyone rushed to the doors to see what had happened, Elrogorn swaggered it, looking a little shaken. He was soaked from head to toe, and stank somewhat.

"What is all that?" Hyarmenwë asked.

"This?" said Elrogorn, casually flicking some of the water off the end of his arm, and wiping his hair back out his eyes in a most dashing manner. "Dirty bathwater. Those Wereducks are full of them."

Through the door, Hyarmenwë could see large pieces of yellow rubber scattered around the ground.

"I'm not so sure that was a Wereduck..." Aleksandur began, but Fíriel cut him off.

"Gondorians don't know anything about Wereducks, remember dear?"

"Well, it was a duck anyway, and it was threatening our lives," said Elrogorn nonchalantly. "And it's dead now. Now, good pubkeeper," he addressed the bar, "I'll have a pint of your finest brew."

Settling himself down at the table, Elrogorn took the pint from the pubkeeper and swiftly downed it in one long, manly, chug. Though the normal thing to do at that point would have been to let loose with a long, manly, belch, Elrogorn retained his dreamlike cool and did nothing of the sort.

Instead, he turned to Hyarmenwë, pointed at Bobawen (who had still not been properly introduced) and asked.

"Tell me, good sir, who is this stunning youngish lady?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The slime filled land was not in the least bit pleasant. Smilog the Dwarf ground his teeth and plodded angrily through the marshes, grumbling and cursing as he went. His travel worn clothes were riddled with holes and stains from so many different places, he felt as if he had already walked the length and breadth of Middle Earth. But his eyes were fixed on Mount Zoom, it's smoke ridden summit grinning at him like a large grinning thing. He hated it.

As the undergrowth became large and unfriendly, he drew his axe and began mercilessly hacking the giant weeds. He let out a frustrated cry as some nettles got caught in his trousers. Swearing in Dwarvish, he hoped around, ripping the offending weed from the cotton of his trousers and cursing it further.

"Ho Hoom!" came a voice from somewhere, "Can't you see I'm trying to sleep."

"Buzz off!" shouted Smilog, in no mood for more weirdness, "can't you see I'm trying to get back to Mount Zoom?"

"How would I know that?" asked the voice.

"I could ask you the same question," feeling satisfied, Smilog stomped off through he undergrowth, hacking and slashing as he went. There was the sound of some squelching and sloshing from behind and Smilog finally stopped brooded, awaiting this new madness.

"Ho hoom," boomed the voice, "turn around and let me have a look at your face. I almost feel I dislike you, but let us not be hasty. Turn around."

"No thanks," said Smilog and he walked off again. There was a tremendous booming and crashing and the sound of large footsteps squelching and making all kinds of odd noises. Suddenly, huge, twig-like fingers covered in slime, gripped Smilog about the chest and lifted him up. He found himself looking into the most unlikely face he ever did hear tell of...

***

"I say," said The Barrow Wight as he and Tollin the Minotaur dashed away from Anakron in case he turned on them, "poor old Smilog. Should we go look for the little chap?" Tollin thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. The idea of angering Anakron at that time seemed most unwise, besides which, he found Smilog rather annoying, despite the fact he had saved him from the labyrinth.

Corridor after corridor passed them by until The Barrow Wight tripped over a mop that had been left on the floor, probably by a lazy cleaner. He noticed the door they were now outside of was slightly open. Putting his head back on, The Barrow Wight pulled Tollin into the room.

It was small and cold, icicles hung down from the ceiling and there was a snow-like substance on the ground. "How can this be?" asked Tollin, "we are inside a Volcano."

"A moving Volcano," pointed out The Barrow Wight, "This whole jolly things a mess. What's not to expect, old boy?" Tollin agreed and they began searching for anything of interest. It was Tollin who found something, a set of tracks leading all around the room. The tracks were made by webbed feet, but far too large to be normal ducks.

"What do you make from that?" asked Tollin, "There are at least three separate tracks here. It must be where the Were-Ducks congregate." They stood in that cold room, gazing at the tracks. They did not look that old and there was evidence that it was frequented quite often.

Slowly, The Barrow Wight lifted his head and gripped his sword hilt, "We had better get out of here, old boy."

"Not so fast!" cried a voice from behind.

[Lhunardawen]

How, Maika wondered with an amazed sigh, all thoughts of Bobawen momentarily forgotten as she gazed at Elrogorn carefully so as not to be noticed, could anyone smell so foul, yet look so fair? She casually reached out and flicked the clump of hair standing on top of his head, at which Elrogorn the ever-alert flinched. He looked up at her questioningly.

"There was a piece of rub- wereduck on your hair," replied Maika matter-of-factly. Elrogorn thanked her with a dashing smile (Maika had to pinch herself to stop smiling back) and turned back to Hyarmenwë, who now stood beside Bobawen.

"Elrogorn," the Gondorian said, "this is my dau—"

"Wait."

All eyes swung towards Maika. "Hyarmenwë," she continued, "I don’t know, but this is all too anticlimactic."

Before he could protest, which with his disbelieving expression and open mouth it seemed he was about to do, Maika faced Aleksandur and Fíriel urgently. “Do you know anyone else who could fit the bill?”

Hyarmenwë found his voice; the look on his face, if Maika had seen it, should have been enough to make her stop. "Maika—"

"Yes," exclaimed Aleksandur triumphantly, "Maika’s nineteen!" The Mordorian ambassador was about to respond, but Fíriel shook her head.

"No, my dear, Maikacoreion’s a boy."

"Right," sighed Maika, "anyone else?"

"Maika, that’s enough!"

All talk ended abruptly.

"Meow?"

Everyone looked down at the floor to see feline Maika sitting on her hind legs, her tail neatly tucked around her feet. She was looking up at them with her head tilted to side, her large mismatched eyes (one blue and one brown) blinking curiously. The old woman materialised behind her, out of breath.

"Maika," she panted, "one more escapade and I promise I’ll forfeit your desserts for a week. Come on now, there’s a good kitty!"

With a final meow Maika turned, her tail swishing, and walked back to their own table. The old woman bowed slightly and whispered her apologies before following her cat. The tension surrounding the silenced group deflated a bit.

"Lady Maika," Hyarmenwë finally ventured, in a tone more subdued than moments before, "there can be no mistake. Her resemblance to my dear wife is uncanny. What further proof is required?"

Maika shook her head, exhaling heavily. "When I told you this task won’t be easy, I was speaking as a Mordorian. As someone who has lived here all her life, and knows very well that many things are not what they seem. Yes, she could be your daughter for all we know, but I didn’t think you would be this easily convinced."

"Maika, I asked you to aid me in my search—"

"And that’s what I’m doing!"

"—and not to interfere." He looked at her sternly. "There’s a difference, my lady. Who better to know my daughter than I?"

Bowing her head, Maika sighed, resigned. "Yes, my lord. I’m sorry. I was out of line."

She looked up and saw that Hyarmenwë was taken aback. As she expected. She had never called him that before.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go somewhere required of women when in a place like this."

Drawing to her full height, which honestly was not much, Maika walked resolutely away from the table towards the restroom.

[littlemanpoet]

Everyone had fled, except for Skittles, her cat, and Igor. Anakron turned upon them, his staff raised. Skittles' cat hissed at the staff. The staff hissed back.

"Shut up, staff," Anakron said matter of factly.

"You can't say that matter of factly," the cat on the staff said back.

"Shut up anyway," Anakron growled.

"You should konvay DoggISM on yourself, you evil man you," said the cat on the staff.

Anakron rolled his eyes and ignored the cat.

"What are you staring at?" he demanded of Skittles. He was feeling ready to konvay the aitch ee double toothpicks out of anyone who crossed him, and was hoping Skittles would. Just for the fun of it. Evil was supposed to be fun, he thought, so he had decided to make the best of it.

[Celuien]

Sounds of singing, laughter, and rejoicing resounded in the depths of the Valley of the Hippies. Somewhere among the gathered celebrants, a woman sitting crosslegged on the ground in a flowing skirt, peasant blouse and Birkenstocks tied a wreath of wildflowers into her hair like a crown. She looked strangely like Panakeia. On second thought, it might have been noted that the resemblence wasn't strange at all. She was Panakeia.

She had been happy during her stay. It was true that she heard strange noises by night, and that in the morning there were large footprints outside where a herd of large animals trampled the ground. But no harm had come to her once, so Panakeia was content.

Across from her, a trio was trying to write a song.

How many weeks can a sandbox exist
Before it is filled up by fleas?
Yes, 'n' how many years must coffee exist
Before they learn to drink tea?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head
Before he just gets dizzy?

The answer, I said, is hidden in the sand
The answer is hidden in the sand.

"Well, what do you think?"

Panakeia shook her head. "I don't know..."

"I know. We need something to protest. Can't write a good song without a protest."

A light bulb went off over Panakeia's head, or would have gone off had such a device been suspended in that position.

"I've got it! Let's go to Lûndûn. We'll have a protest against the establishment, the Blue Istari, the Grand Anakronist and everything!"

Cheers went up. There was a great movement of scurrying into battered buses (http://www.thebusstation.co.uk/hipvoli.jpg) and soon, a large party was Lûndûn bound.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog twisted and turned but the creature would not let go of him. It was tall, probably about nine foot in height, with long branch like growths poking out of him every couple of inches. From head to tow, he was covered in swamp slime. On each foot he had eight root-like tows that seemed to grip the ground like an old soggy sock. His legs were long trunk-like poles that seemed to have no bend or knee at all, but shot up straight into his torso. His large branch-like arms dripped with slime and frogspawn. The face was that of an old man with a long beard of leaves that hung down to the ground where small orc children had been caught and strangled and lost to the world eons ago.

"And what," said the creature, "might you be? A Dwarf? With an Axe?"

"No," grunted Smilog, "I'm an antelope with a pheasant." The creature's eyes widened and his mouth opened wide to reveal a black hole into nothingness, out of which came the most foul stench of rotten beans.

"You antelopes have changed," it said, but then shook itself, "wait a moment! You're lying to me aren't you?" he squeezed Smilog tightly until he became incredibly uncomfortable.

The Dwarf made vague nodding movements with his head until the creature seemed to be pleased with him. "So what," he asked, panting, "are you then? A troll with a skin problem?"

"Eh?" said the thing, "no. Not a troll. I'm an Ent, you see. A Swamp Ent, if you will, as you little folk seem bent on giving names to everything that is slightly different. Slimebeard is my name, Slimebeard will do. I look after this swamp. So, who are you and what are you about?"

Smilog did not reply immediately as he began to try and think about what it was he actually did. Besides making snide remarks at every advises meeting, he had done very little until the Mount Zoom adventure had begun. "I'm Smilog," he said at last, "I work for Roggie of Mordor. It's an awful job and I'm going to quit as soon as I get back to the mountain." Slimebeard seemed to shiver at the name of Roggie, all his leaves quivered and his eyes shut.

"You work for him?" he cried, "Well, maybe you can help me. You see, one of his assistants stole something from me and he keeps it in his office as a paperweight. It's an object of unimaginable power! It can destroy all of Middle Earth if it's not kept secret! Now with those blasted blue Wizards running around, who knows what will happen?"

"How do you know he's using it as a paperweight?" asked Smilog, momentarily ignoring the fate of Middle Earth.

"Well," said Slimebeard, before pausing again to think, "you see," he tried, but again he fell silent, "there's something about clouds involved. It doesnt matter! Just get that thing and throw it into the fire!"

"A little cliche isn't it?"

"Shut up!" Slime beard cast Smilog away towards the Mountain. Through he air he flew, hitting a family of ducks on their way to a holiday in Gondor. With a thump, the dwarf landed on the head of a Troll!

***

"Not so fast!" cried a voice from behind. Tollin turned around to see a tall, thin figure of a man, covered in cuts, bruises, seaweed and leeches. His clothes were rags and his face looked like it had been thrust down Roggie's own personal sewage system. And indeed, that was the case.

"Who the devil are you?" asked The Barrow Wight, drawing his ridiculously immaculate, golden hilted, jewel encrusted, rune covered sword. "Good gracious me, you look worse than Tom Bombadill after he's had a one too many light ales." The Barrow Wight had, on one occasion, invited old Bombadill to a party, there he had drunk too much and decided to roll around in the garden in the rain before jumping down a chimney he could not fit down and final smashing his head into an ironing board for five hours.

The man stepped over the threshold and tripped on an eggshell that was there for some reason and slammed into the floor with such force that three of his teeth fell out. "A cur-th on all egg-th!" he said. "I'm Andvari," he staggered to his feet, "I need-ss to find-ss that-ss Dwarf!"

"He's dead," said Tollin before receiving an elbow in the stomach from The Barrow Wight, "Or missing," he corrected himself, "I cant' remember which." The man's face became downcast and he seemed to have a tear in each eye. One fell to the ground where it met with some blood stains he had left earlier.

"We need-th to find him!" said Andvarri, "sss-so we can-ss find the gold!" The Barrow Wight laughed and placed his sword back in it's scabbard.

"By jove!" he cried, "that sounds like fun! Let's hop to it!"

[Anguirel]

Tangoing on your own, Bellatrix was discovering, was a boring, frustrating, and painful activity. As she writhed under the effects of her tearaway nephew's hex, she found her limbs coerced constantly upward, her legs ripped into position, and sometimes her entire body floating upwards.

Worse still, a growing crowd of Orcish spectators milled about, leering at her fishnet stockings and occasionally attempting a few hapless dance moves themselves. Bellatrix's only consolation was planning what curses to perform on them once her arms were free.

Then they started singing, and she decided the time for magic was passed. She would take her Beretta pistol from her handbag, she decided, and riddle the lisping, yodelling, tittering, lewd yet vaguely hermaphrotitic hordes with bullet-holes.

As for young Dracomir, he would face the horsewhip.

Her ruminations were interrupted by an extremely bored sounding voice from one of those convenient darkened corners that spring up in previously straight corridors at the behest of the author.

"Imperio, imperio, imperio, imperio," it muttered. "Merlin's beard, there are thirty-one of these ludicrous dolts. This is going to take forever."

"Release me, whoever you are!" Bellatrix shrieked. "Then I'll handle this lot."

"Really?" the voice replied, and the figure of a man, cloaked and hooded in black and of medium height, stepped from the shadows, of course. "But, my dear Bellatrix, I was so enjoying your dancing..."

"Oh, very amusing!" Ms Lestrange shouted back. "I'm in absolute hysterics!"

The Mysterious Figure yawned obnoxiously and non-verbally countered the Tarentallegra curse. Without a moment's pause, Bellatrix produced her gun and emptied its barrel in all possible directions. Those Orcs who had been wounded limped off looking resentful but perfectly resigned; their companions had preceded them, scarpering at the first shot that alerted them, if not to death, then to dismemberment.

Now unimpeded, Bellatrix leapt in front of the stranger and threw back his hood...

"Impatient, Bellatrix," he reproached her calmly. Her face told a tale of annoyance and disappointment.

"Snape."

"You expected someone else?" the other answered coolly.

"It doesn't matter. Look, Snape, you must be working for the Blue Istari right now?"

"Must I? Well, I suppose it is the only way to pass the time," Snape answered lethargically.

"Look, everything's gone wrong. The boy, Felton, my supposed nephew, has quitted."

Snape laughed. "How touching. But self-deluding. It's difficult for a werewolf, however angelic looking, to just hand in their resignation papers."

"We need to talk, Snape, the Ithryn Luin and I. Take me to them."

Snape raised his exquisitely camp stage villainesque eyebrows. "If that is what you want, Bellatrix." He took her hand with decision, but a mocking smile adorned his mouth as they Disapparated.

[Lhunardawen]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hyarmenwë did not think of it."

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

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

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

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

[littlemanpoet]

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

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

Prey.

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

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

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

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

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

Hissyfit hissed.

Sylvester lisped.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Hookbill the Goomba]

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

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

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

Smilog cautiously approached and said, "Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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


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

[Diamond18]

Skittles watched Anakron flee. She felt a strong sense of satisfaction, for it meant (she had no doubt) that he was fleeing from her vast and impressive store of arcane Tolkien knowledge. Surely, he was intimidated by her and could not hold up under the pressure of her academically marvellous presence!

"So who's Tolkien?" asked Hissyfit.

"Who is Tolkien!" Skittles cried, alarmed that her companion knew so little of such a great subject. "Why, he is the man who created Middle-earth!"

"You mean, this Middle-earth?"

"Yes, this very Earth upon which we stand!"

"A man created the world?"

"Well, not exactly. See, it's a sub-creation."

"I don't understand. How does a man create or sub-create the Earth?"

Skittles shook her head, still apalled at Hissyfit's ignorance. "He wrote it in a story, or rather, a series of stories. Or rather, he invented the world and then wrote stories about it. Or something like that. It's been a while since I read them. I'm mainly bluffing my way through this."

Hissyfit looked at her with extreme skeptism. "So, we're in a story? How can we be in a story and also be able to read the story?"

"Well..." Skittles paused, furrowing her brow. She decided that she had no idea how to answer that question, and so dodged the point. "We're not actually in Tolkien's story, we're in a fanfiction."

"What's fanfiction?"

"Argh!" cried Skittles. She had a feeling this was going to be a very long conversation.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron chuckled to himself. He was really feeling pretty good. He'd finally gotten Skittle with a good one. And what an act he'd put on. He was surprised some kind of dweomerlike shepherd's hook hadn't appeared out of nowhere and hooked him around the middle and dragged him off stage, wherever that might be.

A shepherd's hook suddenly appeared around his waist and dragged him off stage. He hadn't realized that he had been on stage. And really he wasn't, but it sounded good and fit the description if not the reality. Dragged by a hook with an unknown dragger on the other end of it, Anakron watched the world go by, with all of its SchISMatic orcs, trolls, humans, and dwarves. L�ûndûn's black taxis never looked so .... black. Not to mention beyond reach.

There went Lola sauntering down the sidewalk, Dracomir and another fascinated boy positively drooling, vying for her attention. Beyond reach. Anakron suddenly knew that he was being dragged somewhere .... beyond reach! Horrors! Where would he be taken to? He could do nothing but get dragged on his ..... but maybe he could do something to stop it! Call down a konveyance! Raise his staff and twirl it like a baton! Hiss at it! Bite Sylvester in the tail! He was beginning to feel a little pained in the ..... as the plot would have it, he suddenly came to a stop. The hook came away from his waist. He never did see who it had been, dragging him all the way from nowhere to herewhere. Wherever here was! Lûndûn somewhere, he presumed. Funny. That sounded positively English. He practiced it. "Lûndûn, I presume?" He grinned stupidly. A passing student sniggered at him. He rounded on her and yelled, "Konvay!" She turned into a PrISM. He grinned. How interesting.

"ImprISMed in your own PrISM, my dear. Do you like it in there?"

She was silent. Of course. She could not move. Could not breathe. PrISMs don't breathe, they just reflect light and scatter it in all colors of the rainbow. Except that there was no rainbow because it was constantly overcast in Lûndûn.

"I daresay I'm becoming evil," Anakron said in a sudden moment of interior navel-gazing. "It rather becomes you, my dear fellow. As does this city."

He started walking, leaving the new PrISM behind, lifeless. When (and I do mean when) anyone looked at him wrong he konveyed, causing all manner of uncomfortable ISMs: sollipsism; fanaticism; fetishism ... the list was endless in content and variety. What fun.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Celuien]

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

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

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

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

"What do we want?" she cried.

"No Istari!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!"

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

[littlemanpoet]

What was this racket in the heart of Lûndûn? Anakron stopped to have a look.

It was a crowd colorfully and anakronistically dressed in garb that was known in those provinces of Mordor as kounter kultural. Anakron wondered who did the kounting, and what it had to do with kultures. He listened more closely to the raucous noise they were making. It was some kind of protest, apparently.

"What do we want?" cried the leader.

"No Istari!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!"

Anakron grinned. He could appreciate their sentiment. However, he was evil, and therefore he had work to do, and it had to do with this crowd. He raised his staff.

"Konvey!"

All of a sudden, as if by the power of a very dweomer, various members of the crowd started hawking their wares, which happened to be booze, hand-wrapped smokes, pills of various assortments, and other such paraphernalia.

"I recognize this," Anakron said to himself. "HedonISM."

But something had caught his attention. That leader's voice sounded oddly familiar. He took a closer look, wondering if it were some orc like Lûgnût getting himself into unnecessary trouble, or a over-educated Troll that was off its interdisciplinary rocker. It was a woman.

No. It's not her, is it?

Anakron made his way through the milling crowd, and had to refuse a toke, a bleeve, an assortment of colorful little pills, and a stocked pipe of questionable contents, on his way to the soapbox.

Oh ye gods. It was her. What in Middle Earth was she doing with these hedonISTic were-hippies, protesting against the ---- oh. ---- against the Istari. Anakron understood. Can't she get it through her head that I'm evil and provoking the Blue Istari is not going to do her any good?

"Panakeia, me love, I am going to have to konvey an ISM upon you," he muttered.

He had made it to the front of the crowd. She was grinning smugly. Oh, yes, she knew exactly what she was doing. He should have known.

"Hello there, Panakeia," he said just loud enough in a moment's lull, and raised his staff.

[Celuien]

"No Istari!"

"Hello, Panakeia."

Hello Panakeia? That wasn't part of the chant. Who dared to interrupt? Panakeia turned to glare at the intruder and recognized Anakron hovering next to her. His staff was raised.

Knowing that Anakron couldn't possibly have come to join the protest, Panakeia ignored him.

"What do we want?" she shouted.

The crowd boomed, "No Istari!"

"When do we...what do you want?" Anakron was tapping her on the shoulder. Interrupting again. Panakeia decided to find out why so that the protest could continue.

"What is this all about?" he asked.

"We're protesting the Blue Istari, of course."

"It won't do you any good, you know. I'm evil. Irritating the Istari with this protest won't change that."

Panakeia smirked at Anakron and put her arms akimbo, nearly burning a hole in her dress with a lit cigarette that had mysterious appeared betwixt her fingers. That was Anakron's doing, no doubt.

"You really think that this is all about you, don't you? How typical. You think a woman couldn't possibly do something on her own without the motive of getting a man. Egotistical male chauvinist behavior."

Anakron groaned at the effect of his latest ISM konveyance. Radical feminISM.

"Let me tell you something, oh Mister High and Mighty Grand Anakronist. This has nothing to do with you. I don't need you or your approval. You are such a square." She held her index fingers in front of her face and traced the shape in the air. As Anakron suddenly gaped, she took a puff on her cigarette and blew the smoke in his face. Panakeia gagged on the fumes, then put her hands back on her hips and stared at Anakron with more smug self-satisfaction than ever.

A call came from someone in the crowd. "White-all! March on White-all! Down with the Istari! Down with the Anakronist! March!"

The werehippies scattered to the park exits and waved their signs in the air. "No Istari! No Istari!" As the protesters moved away, Panakeia turned to follow, deliberately ignoring her former flame.

[Formendacil]

"Ah, where were we?" Elrogorn proceeded to say to Hyarmenwë.

"I was just introducing my daughter to you," said Hyarmenwë.

"You were?" said Elrogorn, with a puzzled look. "I could swear that was a couple of months ago."

"No, it was just now," said Hyarmenwë icily.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Anyway, let's get on with this," continued Elrogorn. "You were introducing to your daughter... who is a clone?"

"Yes, I was introducing you to Bobawen, my daughter," nodded Hyarmenwë, then he paused. "A kloen? What is a kloen?"

Bobawen, Fíriel, Aleksandur, and Maika all looked at Elrogorn expectantly. Maika looked, Hyarmenwë thought (wondering why he was noticing) a bit smug. Elrogorn blushed a very attractive shade of pink.

"That, ah, would be... restricted information. Secret Elven information."

"The Elves have been an ineffective and mostly missing force in Middle-Earth for centuries," said Hyarmenwë coldly. "Explain what a kloen is, please."

"Well, they're very anakronistic," began Elrogorn. "They're basically copies of people, grown in laboratories. They were created for the Clone Wars, and generally grow old at twice the rate of normal humans. I assumed the connection was obvious, considering Lady Bobawen's fast rate of growth."

"Copies... of... people..." Hyarmenwë's jaw was somewhat agape. "Then... that means..."

"That Bobawen is not your daughter, but a copy of your wife," said Maika, with an exasperated roll of her eyes. "Told you so." Hyarmenwë's back stiffened, and his jaw found his stiff upper lip.

"Perhaps you did, Lady Maika, but it is unseemly to point it out." Maika own jaw met her upper lip as she cut off a sharp responce.

"Well, what now, then?" she asked, after a couple moments.

"We flee," replied Elrogorn.

"Flee?" Hyarmenwë gave the half-Elf a querelous look. "Why?"

"Can't you hear them?" Elrogorn paused, then gave one of his dazzling, self-effacingly humble smiles. "Sorry, I forget that you don't have near-perfect hearing. There is an army of HobbyISTs on the march."

"What's so dangerous about a hobbyIST?" asked Maika, perplexed. "HobbyISM is pretty harmless."

"Not if your hobby is pillaging, and all that nasty stuff that goes with it," said Elrogorn, with another dashing (though it was of a witty nature this time) smile. "I guess you could also call them followers of Anarchism ."

"I'm fairly sure those aren't real -ISMs," said Maika frowning. "I don't think you'll find either word in a dictionary."

"We can debate anakronisms at a later point," interjected Hyarmenwë firmly. "Preferably a point when I am not present-- or you, if you know what's good for you." He looked at Maika disapprovingly.

"Good idea," said Elrogorn. "Follow me, I know a secret passage."

"How cliché," said Maika with a shake of her head. Hyarmenwë arched a disapproving eyebrow.

"This is Mordor, milady," said Elrogorn, pulling a the rug off the floor with a debonair flourish, and revealing a trap door with a heavy iron ring.

"There's only one thing we need to worry about," Elrogorn mentioned five minutes later, as he, Hyarmenwë, and Maika were down the tunnel, the darkness alleviated only by a flickering torch.

"Oh?" Hyarmenwë asked.

"This tunnel was built by the wereducks, and may still be used by them."

"And you tell us that NOW?" Hyarmenwë was rather displeased.

"It does look like," said Elrogorn absent-mindedly. "Oh look! Feathers!"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Main entrance to Mount Doom Palace and Casino was located at the foot of Sauron's Road and was fortunately still there after all the zooming about the mountain had been doing. It was twenty foot tall, painted orange, decorated with sequins (most of which had fallen off now) and made of solid steel. Smilog pushed it open and wandered in to that accursed mountain. In the entrance foyer, he saw a long table with a mini palantir, hundreds of papers and a large assortment of quills. Behind this table sat an old fat orc woman with purple lipstick poorly applied to her massive face.

"Hello" ventured Smilog, "... Miss?"

"It's Mrs!" replied the creature, grunting like a pig that has just been kicked in the stomach and then faced into a small box. Interestingly enough, Smilog had once done this and so knew exactly what it sounded like. "You're Smilog the Dwarf?" she said at last, he nodded. "Well, there is a package for you over there. It's been here for a while."

Smilog wandered across the absolutely ruined room, cups, saucers and dust coated the floor, bits of the ceiling were everywhere but on the ceiling. There in the corner of the room was a huge shape, not really a package, more a skip. The Dwarf cocked his head on one side and examined the shape. From inside came the quiet sound of weeping and someone blowing their nose. Smilog took hold of a small chair that was still standing to his left and used it to stand on, he looked into the skip and saw a quite unexpected sight.

"Father?" he said, filled with puzzlement, "You told me you were dead."

"Oh, not dead," said the old dwarf, covered in warts and filth, "just sad. So very sad."

"Yes," observed Smilog, "that's quite a fundamental difference isn't it? You know, being dead isn't quite the same as being a bit sad, isn't it?" The old dwarf blew his nose into his beard. "Look, what are you doing in that skip? And where are your trousers?"

***

The stairs went deep. Too deep, Tollin thought. They had been walking for about an hour now and had not come anywhere near the end of this staircase. The Barrow Wight let a corpse light shine from his withered hand (He never explained how he did this) as the tunnel was exceedingly dark. Step after step took them down further and further. Tollin was sure they were not in The Mountain anymore.

Finally, they fell to the ground as the stairs came to a sudden stop. To their left, Tollin spotted a small torch attached to the wall, The Barrow Wight handed him a tinder box. The tiny blaze seemed to light up the a good section of the room. The red glow revealed an endless hall, stretching off into the distance, left, right and forwards. Endless stacks of clothes on pegs were hung all about the place, going on into infinity and filling the air with the smell of cheap washing up powder.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight, "This must be Sauron's wardrobe. I thought it was just a legend... Well, less a legend, more a joke." Tollin examined the nearest stack and saw that it was full of cheesy T-Shirts with phrases like 'Eye am the greatest' and 'Eye see you' written on.

"Ah!" said a voice from deep in the room, "but can you escape the wardrobe of Sauron alive?"

"Yes." said Tollin, "the stairs are just behind us." There was a long pause and only the slight sound of dripping water could be heard far off in the distance like a ticking clock gone wrong.

"Shut up!" it said at last, "We shall see how smart you are when you meet... The watcher in the washer!" All of a sudden, a thousand snake-like tentacles flew out of the piles of clothes all around. They were all guided by some one force and made their swift way towards the odd duo.

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

“If it has nothing to do with tea, then I am afraid that I cannot see the importance of your errand!” Frej snaped. He had thought that him and Lola was the only one in the vicinity and now it he had learned that this little ghastly looking kid had watched him in his despair. Frej had felt a immediate feeling of sickness when the youngster entered and did not like what he saw. Save for the hair on the kids head, he did have great hair. In fact Frej wished his hair looked more like Dracomir's. . . the hair had a strange drawing effect to Frej.

“ehm you got something in your hair” Frej said in a very strange tone. He then ran his fingers through Dracomir’s hair, even though he knew such an action could cost him his life in a place like Mordor.

Then slowly barely whispering he started to recite a song from his childhood days.

“I got hair in my ears
I got hair in my nose
I got hair on my back
And between my toes
When the time comes & my hairwash is due
I'm gonna use one ton of shampoo
But don't give me those sentimental eyes
Coz I'm proud & my hair is nice

It's not fair when people they stare
I love the colors I wear
I wont cut my hair
I wont cut my hair
Oh no, I wont cut my hair
Coz I'm proud of my hair”

The song was suddenly changed to a small yell of pain from Frej.
He had just managed to hear Dracomir utter some words and then he immediately felt a sharp pain in the hand that had been touching Dracomir’s hair.

“Anyway” Frej continued, trying to sound important. “My name is Frej and I am a spy of Mordor!” not getting any sign of recognition from Dracomir, he continued. “and I was just consulting mrs. Ehmm. . . What is your name, mrs?”

Lola looked upon the two males and if a look could make a man melt, this would have been it. “I am Lola” she said with a smile that in some strange way radiated innocence and the complete opposite at the same time.

Frej continued the conversation with Dracomir “I was just consulting mrs. Lola about the location of Alli; as it is imperative that I get to see her at once! Of course I could not expect you to understand!” the last part of the sentence was uttered in the most condescending way ever imaginable. . “but if you have any information that might be of use to me, I would suggest that you give it to me”

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé yelped; Alli shuddered; the rain started to drizzle down.

"Quite the coincidence that a wolf should be lurking exactly where we're hiding" said Alli. "It's almost as if, out of all the millions of places to hide in the world, and the millions of places that the wolves won't be able to search tonight, we just so happened to find them, thus assuring tension-filled escapades."

"Not necessarily so, my dear" countered Aimé. "I suspect the only tension we will suffer tonight is....uh, nevermind. Look. No-one knows we're in the graveyard. We even slyly implied — to any eavesdroppers — that we would be going somewhere else. We're, like, total master deceivers." He chuckled manically.

Alli agreed that Aimé made a good point, and accepted that whatever the source of that howl, it probably wasn't a werewolf of any sort — let alone the werewolf that was after Alli.

"It was probably just a hyena" offered Aimé. "There are many hyenas in Mordor. Did you know that the Orcs are blaming them for taking their jobs? It's mad."

Alli nodded thoughtfully, and almost fell over. The howl resonated once more.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron watched Panakeia disappear into the crowd leaving for White-all.

Blast this ridiculous konveyance, he thought.

It's not about you. Now, that was a pleasant thought. Just one problem: it came from a Panakeia he didn't like much at all. But of course that was because of the confounded Ism.

Anakron wished he had more control over these konveyances, so he could undo any he didn't like. But that was not the case, and as far as he knew, Panakeia might be stuck in her current mode for the rest of her life. He shook his head and his eyes watered irritatingly. He rubbed at them, looking this way and that to make sure his masculine dignity had not been compromised by onlookers seeing what they ought not. Relieved, he gave thought as to what he would do next.

He knew that he was indeed evil, but that it was a mixed situation, since he could have such warm feelings for Panakeia that acted like unconditional love. Be that as it might, may, or would have been, it couldn't get her back. So much for that; the issue here, he said, directing his mental attention to the problem at hand, was that apparently his evil was not, in fact, a direct, or indirect, result of being the Grand Anakronist. Apparenlty, the Anakronist Dweomer had little to do with it at all! It was just the way he was!

Well, then, he thought, I can just quit being the Anakronist.

Someone tapped on his shoulder. He turned. It was Palando.

"Oh. You."

Palando nodded.

"Where's your other half?"

"Elsewhere occupied."

"What do you want?"

"I see that you have begun to understand that things are not what you thought they were."

"Such as?"

"We have not made you evil."

"That doesn't mean you're not evil, or that the Anakronism Dweomer isn't." Pallando merely smiled. Anakron continued. "So that means that you chose me because I'm evil. Pallando smiled wider. A string of epithets flew through Anakron's noggin. He planted the Staff on the ground between them, then let it drop so that it leaned on Pallando. Anakron turned to walk away.

"You cannot do that."

"Watch me!"

"If you try, we will kill you."

Anakron stopped. He turned. He faced Pallando and thought a moment.

"Better evil renounced and dead than enslaved and alive." Anakron turned away again, and began walking north with the hopes of leaving Lûndûn, Nurnia, and eventually Mordor.

"Fool," Pallando said, held out his own staff, pointed it at Anakron, and spoke a word in a language none knew anymore. Next moment, Anakron fell to the ground. His breath left him. His heart wasn't beating. The world went dark. He knew no more.

[Lhunardawen]

As the three companions continued to stand around in the wereduck-constructed tunnel, possibly with the two ambassadors looking in horror at the feathers Elrogorn had pointed to, which should be assumed was what they did in the absence of further instruction, a troubled, faraway expression came over Maika's horrified features, as though she had suddenly remembered that - for the first time in her life - she had failed to fill a save within forty-eight hours.

"Lady Maika, is something bothering you?" Hyarmenwë asked, without wondering why he bothered himself. It seemed that Maika did the wondering for him as she stirred.

"Oh..." she slowly turned to him, her eyes shifting into focus. "I, or a part of me perhaps, was inexplicably transported to and trapped in schoo--" Wait a minute, she thought, a girl my "age" is not supposed to be have anything to do with school. Hyarmenwë and Elrogorn, who had tuned in as Maika stirred, blinked at her expectantly. At the same time. Unpractised.

"Oh, you know, I suddenly had eerie visions of a torturous land of Chemistry and Calculus."

That did the trick for Hyarmenwë, apparently, for he hastily ignored her at the mention of the anakronistic words, and was suddenly fascinated with a tuft of wereduck down on which he had unknowingly stepped. Elrogorn, on the other hand, blinked again.

"But that sounds just like Mordor, doesn't it?"

Maika pretended that Elrogorn had also ignored her, in order to justify ignoring him. She had to admit to herself, though, that he had a point. Before she could start pondering on the repercussions of Elrogorn's unpremeditated wisdom, she hurried after Hyarmenwë, who took off upon realising that he should NOT be fascinated with wereduck down. Maika stole a quick glance at him once she had caught up; the look in his eyes was that of utter disappointment, masked by an utter determination not to let it show. Maika knew it, though, despite his best efforts, for she had been there with him after all.

"I'm really sorry, Hyarmenwë," she told him, for some reason feeling not quite as sincere as she sounded. "But you see, it's probably better this way. I had not the heart to mention this before, but--" she hesitated, and took a deep breath, "Boba means 'stupid girl' in Filipino."

She might as well had spoken the language for all the response she got.

"I hate to tell you this," she continued, rather insensitively, "but your daughter, she's probably d--"

"Don't say it," Hyarmenwë cut in. His eyes glinted dangerously. A clichéd cold shiver ran up Maika's spine at the sight of it; that was a side of Hyarmenwë she had never even guessed existed. She felt the need to make up for her rash remark.

"Or, or maybe," she said cautiously, "maybe I had been completely wrong in my assumption. Maybe the exiled Gondorians did not take her in. Or if they did, maybe she...she ran away."

Elrogorn gasped behind them. "Then maybe a were--"

"--duck once used this very tunnel, and has a mind to use it again." Hyarmenwë glared at his two companions, but its meaning seemed to have flown over Elrogorn's head with a woosh.

"Then maybe we should get out of here," Elrogorn said quietly yet urgently. "Come on!"

And away he ran, swiftly and lightly like the wind, and bade the two ambassadors to do likewise. But Maika might have known enough of the wonders of travelling in an RPG, and maintained her pace. Hyarmenwë was in no mood to run, either.

"Maybe we should head back to the Palace and come up with another plan, before we begin our search again," Maika kindly suggested.

Hyarmenwë sighed. "Maybe you're right."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Much as he had always disliked Mordorian architecture, the sight of the crumbled ruins of the inner halls of Mount Doom palace and casino was something Smilog could not quite stomach. His father hobbled along beside him with an over sized walking stick in his hand. "So, this is what became of Project Zoom?" wheezed the old Dwarf, "a casino indeed! What on earth was Roggie thinking?"

"That it would be a good idea?" Smilog ventured,

"You do know why it was built, don't you?" The old dwarf, stopped and lit a pipe. The hall was wide and high, archways were placed every twenty yards. Though it was dimly lit with small torches, the ceiling could not be seen. Gargoyles were carved into the archways, Orc faces and Orc writing was scrawled all over them. The echo of Smilog's feet continued long after he stopped walking.

"Sauron built it," he at last answered, "For the war. He didn't have the technology to make it move."

"So, why do you think it moves now?" The old dwarf blew a large smoke ring above his son's head.

Smilog scratched his beard while peering upwards. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "The same reason that all this other weird stuff is happening, I would guess." Smilog's father, who, I should point out, was named Khuzdnargûn, 'Khuz' to his friends, took a few paces forwards and turned around so that he faced his son.

"But why now?" he pressed, "Why not the last time the Anakronism was at large? Think!"

"Can't I go and have a lie down first?

"No!"

"Well," Smilog sat on the floor, his head in his hands and his eyes closed. "The Blue Wizards must be using it." Khuz shook his head, "Then whom?"

"It is not for the Blue wizards that the mountain had to move," said Khuz, "if anything, it has them annoyed. Anakron is up to something and the depths of Doom are the key! Beneath Mount Doom, there lies a secret. Ever since the One Ring went into the fire, the magma has been unpredictable and wild. When I was working on project zoom, a great earthquake stopped us and all we found in the depths was a small paperweight. We buried it as far down as we could. I doubt if the Blue wizards are aware of it... but the further away from the depths of doom we are. The better."

"Ah." said Smilog, "there may be a problem."

"What?"

"Roggie has the paperweight."

***

The tentacles gripped Tollin's led and the Barrow Wight's neck. Frantically, Tollin grabbed his morning star and swung it at the snakes. There was a cry, but the grip just grew stronger. The Barrow Wight drew his sword and began hacking away; he managed to cut off three tentacles, but more leaped out of the clothing and knocked him to the ground. The Watcher in the Washer laughed and waved two great tentacles in the air triumphantly.

"You see!" it cried, "no one leaves!" Tollin, grabbed The Barrow Wight's tinderbox, which had fallen to the ground, and threw it in the general direction of the voice. There was a screech and the sound of scratching before, finally, the tentacles recoiled and a massive pile of clothes burst into flame.

The great bulk of the Watcher lifted up from behind a pile of clothes. It seemed to be a squid made almost entirely of shoes. It picked up a wardrobe with its tentacles and cast it towards the stunned pair. Diving out of the way, Tollin and The Barrow Wight narrowly avoided some fatal splinters. It made a strange gurgling in it's throat and then whipped some snake-like fingers around their weapons, dragging them away.

Tollin stared blankly at The Barrow Wight as the Watcher drew nearer, laughing. The Barrow Wight fumbled in his pockets, finding nothing but empty wine bottles and corks full of maggots. All of a sudden, his hand landed upon something the shape of a Rhino's head. He took out the paperweight and looked at it in his hand.

"What are you doing?" screamed Tollin. But before anyone could say, 'Orcs in a barrel', The Barrow Wight threw the paperweight at the Watcher. The creature exploded. Literally. A great chasm opened up where the thing once was, and green slime now covered the walls. The Barrow Wight tip towed up to the chasm and peered in. On a ledge, just at arm's length, the Rhino's head stared at him, grinning.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight.

[Celuien]

What a self-absorbed jerk, Panakeia thought as she pushed into the crowd of protestors, hurrying to regain her position at the mob's head. I have bigger fish to fry. Blue fish. She grinned.

It was a long march to White-all. Panakeia began to think that they group would never reach it in time to have a proper protest. She was right in thinking that the destination would never be attained, but the reason turned out to be most unexpected. As the WereHippies rounded a bend, the objects of their protest appeared directly ahead of them.

"Look! Look!" Panakeia shrieked. "It's the Istari themselves." Boos and a few shouts of "Istari, go home!" answered her announcement.

Pallando stepped forward. "Hello, Panakeia," he said.

Alatar was just behind, smirking evilly. "You haven't been doing your job, have you?" he added.

"Job? Of course I'm doing my job. Getting rid of you!" She shouted gleefully, and the WereHippies cheered.

"You fool," Pallando jeered. "Do you really think this protest matters to us? It exists only through our power, mishandled as it was by our late employee. We can be rid of it as easily as we were rid of him." He pointed a staff - the Grand Anakronist's staff, Panakeia noted in sudden alarm, but why? - at the crowd. In that moment the various ISMs that had afflicted the group were taken away.

Realizing that their lyco-hippo-thropISM was gone, the no-longer-were Hippies shouted for joy. "Hurray for Panakeia! We're cured. She led us to our cure."

But Panakeia, no longer filled with ISMs, found no happiness. The meaning of a few of the Istari's words began to frighten her. Late employee, they had said. And Pallando now wielded Anakron's staff.

"What did you mean by late employee?" she asked. "Late as in fired? Quit?"

"Dead."

"Dead? You...you...monster!" She flew at Pallando, only held back from clawing the wizard by a nearby hippie.

"Do not dare show your temper to me, unless you wish to meet the same fate," he hissed. "For now, I will let it pass." He smirked while Panakeia tearfully glowered at him. "If it gives you comfort, know that his last thought was to leave Mordor. He gave up the staff. Perhaps you can make his last wish come true and take him away from here, if only after death."

The wizards strode away. Panakeia gazed after them blankly, then turned and ran back toward the site of her last meeting with Anakron, followed at a short distance by two of the more sympathetic hippies.

[Celuien]

The protest march had only gone a little way Speakeasy Corner when they were intercepted by the Blue Istari. A few turns past the Mottled Arch (or whatever it was called - Panakeia was far too distracted by the dreadful news she had just heard to remember properly) had been the total of their journey. But even that brief distance seemed to be greater than the ends of the world to our heroine in her rush to return. She hoped - dimly, it is true, but with all the hope she could find in her heart - that the Istari had only been having a cruel joke and that she would find Anakron alive. They might have been joking. It was certain that Anakron had finally given up his role as Grand Anakronist. The wizards might have found it amusing to torment her with false news of Anakron's death out of some twisted idea of revenge on her for leading him to that decision. Panakeia told herself that must have been the case. She had not parted with Anakron on good terms, and the thought of never being able to tell her one true love the right of things (if he were actually dead) was unbearable.

Out of breath and filled with anxiety for Anakron, Panakeia rushed into Speakeasy Corner. Anakron wasn't there. A deep sigh escaped her and she whispered, "Not here. They must have been joking. He's not here."

But then loud sniffles and wailing came from behind a tree. Panakeia looked up and spotted Lûgnût noisily blowing his/her/its nose into a pink and yellow checked handkerchief. In that same moment, Lûgnût spotted Panakeia and ran over blubbering.

"He's dead. The Gee-Ay is dead. What will I do?" Finding the handkerchief soaked through, s/he grabbed a flowing flap of Panakeia's sleeve and rubbed its eyes.

Feeling as though she had been crushed under all the weight of the Spam walls of Potted Ham Court Station, Panakeia stood speechless and numb. All was lost, then. Lûgnût sniffled.

"Where is he?" she finally managed to ask.

"I made all the arrangements," Lûgnût hiccoughed. "They came and took him off to...to...bury him." S/he sobbed again.

His last thought was to leave Mordor. Panakeia recalled those words. And now Anakron would be here forever. She couldn't allow it

"No!" she cried. "Not here. Not here. He wanted to leave. He should go back to Umbar." Then, grief catching up with her once more, she joined Lûgnût in tears.

"But it's too late," Lûgnût whimpered.

Then a tap on the shoulder caused Panakeia to whirl around. The two hippies - or former hippies, for when the ISMs were dispelled, these two seemed to have abandoned their counter-cultural appearance as well - had caught up with her. Panakeia glared at the shorter of the two, who had tapped her while the other looked down from his great height.

"Excuse me," the first said with a bow. He spoke with a slight accent.

"Yes?" she stared coldly through her tears.

"I could not help but overhear. You are in need of help?" Panakeia nodded, and he bowed again. "We will help you. My friend and I. Maybe your Anakron is not dead."

Lûgnût broke in. "He is."

"We do not know this. He had much to live for." Another slight bow was offered to Panakeia. "Even if he is, we will help you to bring his remains from this place."

Panakeia looked suspiciously at the pair through tear-stained lashes. "Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is In Ego Toyota and I will aid you. Come, we have many plans to make."

The four huddled together in a corner to think, until, with their plans settled at last, they set off in search of Anakron.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The dimly lit halls, ruined and lamentable to look upon, loomed over the two Dwarves as they paced with hastening steps. Khuz held up a hand and they both stopped, the old Dwarf lent heavily on his staff and breathed like a marathon runner who, after letting himself go a bit, tries his hand at the old sport. Smilog looked upwards at the ceiling; it was full of holes and covered in filth, yet still seemed strong enough to hold for a while at least.

Khuz began walking again, his trembling hands gripping his staff as if it were his only way of keeping alive. A shiver ran through the mountain, the walls began to shake, the ceiling let fall many tiles and chandeliers plummeted to the floor. Gripping his father's arm, Smilog dashed towards the nearest small room. Yet as he approached, a beam of wood fell across the entrance and splinters flew towards the duo.

The Dwarves threw themselves to the floor and covered their heads, awaiting only death. However, soon enough, the shaking stopped and all was calm once again. Covered in dust, Smilog raised his head and opened his eyes slowly. Two tall cloaked figures stood before him, one had a long wooden staff pointed towards Smilog's head. The other just stood there grinning.

"Good evening," said the one with the staff,

"Actually," said Khuz, standing up and dragging Smilog to his feet, "it's three in the morning." The Blue Istari cocked their heads simultaneously in a manner that made the dwarves take a step back.

"We are well aware of the time," Pallando grinned and lifted his staff to plant it on the ground as he would when walking. He nodded to his companion and they grinned grins that made professional grinners grin less. Alatar, the shorter of the two, drew a long sword from beneath his robe. "You are not needed, Dwarf," Pallando continued, "and so, we will..." he looked up and raised an eyebrow, "... kill you."

"Is that it?" said Khuz,

"Isn't that enough?" asked a rather startled Alatar

"Well, 'kill' has never been your style has it? Its always been, 'disemboweling' and 'inhumeing' and goodness knows what else. but 'Kill' oh no. Surely you can think of something better than 'kill'."

"Erm..." said Pallando, "give us a minuet..." the two wizards turned their backs on the dwarves and began a heated, yet whispered argument. Occasionally they glanced back at the dwarves. Eventually, Pallando turned back to face them and said, "We've decided to 'un-life' you." there was a pause before the wizards angrily turned back to their debate.

Smilog slowly lifted his axe from his belt, glancing between his father and the wizards, being careful not to make any sudden movements. Unfortunately, his hands slipped and his axe dropped to the floor with a clatter. The two wizards turned around dramatically, their robes flowing in the temporary gust they made for themselves.

"You'll be pleased to know," began Alatar, "that we are going to... Exterminate you!" Then they picked up their staffs and held them towards the Dwarves shouting, "Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!"

***

"Well, I think that door is a 'no'", said Tollin as he and his undead companion left Sauron's wardrobe and began walking through the many corridors of Mount Zoom. To their utter and lasting astonishment, there were still some Orcs gambling in the casinos, some were streaked with blood and sweat, but that was normal for this place, even when the Mountain wasn't moving.

While the matters of gambling Orcs covered their minds, the Mountain began to shake once again. With swift movements, Tollin made his way to the nearest window and looked out. "I say! What can you see Old Bean?" shouted The Barrow Wight, "is it good news?" Tollin scowled at him.

"Of course not!" shouted the minotaur, "The Mountain is erupting! Either that or it's going to set off again."

"Gosh," mumbled the Wight, trying to stand up straight. Yet it was in vain for, all of a sudden, the floor crumbled beneath their feet. With shouts, they fell through three levels until landing curiously on a soft feather mattress covered in burns marks and ashes. The shaking finished and the duo found themselves surrounded by dust and settling ceiling fragments.

Tollin coughed heavily in his throat, the Barrow Wight merely coughed a smoker's cough before pulling out his pipe and lighting it. "What are the chances of that, old chap?" he asked, "Question is, what Blighter has a bed in this Mountain?"

"Well," began Tollin, "judging by all burns and evidence of fire, either a pyromaniac or Roggie." The Barrow Wight nodded and looked at all of the cupboards that now became visible. He wandered over to one and pulled on the handle, but it would not open. Cursing he took out his sword and sliced through the wood, leaving a pile of filthy ties on the floor.

"Blast, no wine," he mopped.

"Come on," said Tollin, "wine is the least of our worries. We'd better find a way out of this Mountain and then see if we can get to somewhere civilised."

"Yes, I should like to get back to my Barrow." mused the Wight, failing to notice how Tollin hand vanished with a crash and how there was now a hole in the floor. "You see, there is something quintessentially jolly about a-" and he fell down the hole.

***

"Exterminate!" Cried Pallando as a large, hairy Minotaur fell on him, ploughing him into the rock flooring. Alatar leappad back and watched a corpse that seemed to glow green follow the Minotaur onto Pallando's head. Before anyone could say, "what's going on?" the two Dwarves were scampering off through the far end of the corridor.

Pallando threw Tollin and The Barrow Wight off him and looked around the room, "Where have they gone?" he demanded, Alatar shrugged, "oh, who cares, let's go to a grave yard, I need cheering up." The Wizards vanished in a flash.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli had absolutely no inclination to be here. She never asked for this. She didn't want the dreams, the drama, or even, any more, the job. She'd had a nice, if toasty, job winging balrogs and yeah, it wasn't perfect, and yeah, she had to deal with admins all the time, and not all of the balrogs were as friendly as Roggie, but seriously, she was always warm, she could pay her phone bill when it came, not just in terms of 'please, please pay it for me and I'll owe you, I don't get paid for another two weeks and Eru, I only have sixty minutes left this billing cycle and that doesn't end for another month and seriously, this poor stude-- I mean spymaster thing really isn't working for me,' but in terms of "Oh, a bill, okay, I'll write a check." She was warm, had steady pay, had a few good friends, could wear leather every single day without it being a fashion statement, AND she could say anything without compromising national security.

But noooooo, she had to get chosen for that confounded Escape from Mordor plot, and nooooo, she just had to end up falling in lov-- I mean getting a bit of a crush on some stupid guy that ended up being a King somewhere, and she just had to end up taking a job for a friend that got her in all kinds of trouble, angered wizards, t'd off werewolves, and had her curled up in a cemetery with bills to pay, no tea, people chasing her, and a lot of politicians in her every day life.

Last time she did a favor for a friend, she thought, looking around, listening to strategically ominous howling, and looked up at the moon.

Full.

"Eru!" she shouted to the moon. Aimè hurried to hush her, looking toward the are-you-sure-they-aren't-hyenas? howls, pulling her into a tomb so at least they'd have solid stone at their backs when the battle came. Because she was a Seer and he was a Hunter, or was he a Ranger? But either way werewolves didn't like them, and were guaranteed to seek for them at night, and it was night, and thunder boomed across the cloudless sky.

"Illamatar!" she cried. "Speak to me, you miserable creature!"

"Alli," he panicked, "Blasphemy..."

She turned on him. "Aimè, I DO NOT HIDE. I don't hide. And I can't see a thing in here."

He couldn't tell if she was being literal. It was pitch black spotted with darker shadows of even pitch blacker in the tomb, and he had a disconcerting idea that he was sitting on something dead.

"Illamatar, now would be a good time for guidance, what with the Fate of Mordor resting on my shoulders." She could only hope the war she simply Knew was brewing could be forestalled, just like in a story. Except, she reflected, this isn't a story. "Illamatar, you know THERE HAS TO BE A WAR because OTHERWISE LIFE IS TOO PREDICTABLE. You know that the ADVISORS have to somehow end up in this cemetery WITH ADVERSARIES ON ALL SIDES because this is real life and the climactic moments require a lot of UNHAPPY PEOPLE with grudges and you know that you're going to have to, ILLAMATAR, STEP IN AND SAVE THE DAY."

There was no response.

Alli sat moodily in the tomb, thinking of her phone bill, thinking of a lot of people on their way to CERTAIN DOOM in the cemetery, thinking of how Mordor was falling to ruin, thinking of how annoying it was that Roggie and Mardil couldn't just get along, and thinking how now wouldn't quite be the right timing for Eru to respond, given that it was just in the point of the story where she was supposed to say, and did:

"Well, it's not like it can get any worse."

[Anguirel]

Dracomir was becoming rapidly bored by wasting his time in the presence of the boorish Frej and the disdainful Lola. When Frej began playing with his hair and singing, however, he stopped being bored and became bloodwhimperingly furious.

He endured, cold and silent, Frej's cacophonous ballad and pompous expostulations, and then turned away. Lola glanced after him, quizzical but mocking, yet her young swain did not rise to the bait and left without another pause.

Even had he felt like talking as he left the office, he would not have been able to. His passionate rage locked his tongue behind his teeth. His tread was becoming heavier, the determined grimness of his gaze ever more implacable...

Tom Felton was off to fulfil his appointment with Alli, long ago made, and other business called him too. As he loped into the cold air of the castle's parapet, his keen ears heard the far-off, echoing sound of the howl of a wolf...and, running his hand through his extending, darkening hair, he re-echoed it.

The wolf dashed along the rampart to one of the western side-gates, slipped through an ill-maintained portcullis and left the Castle of Roggie, and Mount Doom itself, behind it.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

With breathless steps and Dwarvish cursing, Smilog clambered over the final step of the long staircase leading through Mount Doom. His father followed him at a slower pace, but still just as out of breath. Before them lay the long corridor that spiralled around the mountain. The floors were carpeted, but what value had been in them was now gone, for the numerous adventures of the moving Mountain had torn them to shreds. Potted plants that had once graced the corridor at regular intervals, now lay on the floor, with their soil spewed out like blood all around them.

"This way," commanded Khuz, "we must get to the control room." They marched on, each step more cautious than the last, Smilog took his axe in hand and began examining every shadow with grave detail. There were no windows, and the only light came from a torch that Smilog was holding; yet, in the faint light, they could see the remains of chandeliers and wall lamps.

A shudder ran through Khuz as they passed a map of Mordor that had fallen from the wall and now lay pathetically on the floor like an old and drunk tramp. They marched on in this manner for about half an hour before they came to the end. There was a door. Of sorts. At least, it had been a door at some point, but was now a bricked up hole in the shape of an archway with a 'Do not enter, there is nothing behind here, go away' sign on the front.

"What now?" whispered Smilog

"Hush!" instructed his father, "If I know anything about Mordor workmanship, it's this..." he pressed his hand against the middle of the wall. To Smilogs astonishment, although, not lasting astonishment, the bricks fell backwards and left an opening onto the side of the mountain.

They stepped out and saw that there was a short path leading to the door of Zoom, as it later became known. The control room of that dread place. Cautiously, they drew near and found that the door was not locked. Into the cave, they marched, slowly and quietly. Or, rather, as quietly as dwarves can get. The red fire light shone up ahead and before long, they found themselves before the numerous controls.

Stood at these controls was a tall figure, hooded and cloaked in black. Smilog approached the stranger and said, "Good day to you sir. Who are you?"

The creature turned and they saw that it was a human... sort of... It had enormous eyes, but they had no pupils. Its teeth were very unkempt and the hair drooped down to its knees. Beneath the cloak was a dress of blood red linen, covered in disturbing pictures of orcs and dragons eating cakes.

"I" it said, "am the driver..."

***

The Barrow Wight pulled himself together once more and then peered around at their surroundings. "I say," he said, "this is a most unkempt Mountain, what-what?"

"Well," said Tollin as he brushed the ceiling remnants from his front, "I'd like to see any home stay in good keep after moving around so violently." The Barrow Wight nodded and then lowered his head. His eyes fixed upon a small white scroll that was lying just where Pallando had stood just moments earlier.

"What do you make of that, old bean?" he asked, turning to Tollin. The Minotaur lifted the scroll and unravelled it. The runes were Elvish, but the Language was Numenorian.

"You Barrow Wights are supposed to be Numenorian or something," he said, "can you read this?"

"My dear boy," retorted The Barrow Wight, "we Wights are spirits sent to dwell in the Barrow-downs by the Witch-king of Angmar during his wars with the remnant of Arnor, and who remained there long after the realm of Angmar itself had vanished from the world." He cocked his head and then snatched the scroll, "But yes, I can read it;

In Mordor, they say evil is done
Sauron's hand may yet be gone
In the deeps, the horror dwells
Blue Wizards cast their spells
No song is sung by any bard
of what lies in the grave yard
All shall throw faces to the floor
Woe if you are assigned to Mordor"

The two odd fellows scratched their heads and wondered about this odd poem. Failing to ask why it coincidentally rhymed when translated into English.

Eventually, Tollin raised his head; "That Wizard said something about a grave yard. Should we look into it? Sounds like it could be important." The Barrow Wight took out his pipe and pointed to the exit.

"A Jolly good idea," he said.

[Celuien]

"Do you think it will work?" In whispered.

Panakeia replied, "I'm sure. Ouch! Lûgnût!" The orc had just poked her with the tip of an umbrella.

"Sorry. It's crowded in here."

That was true enough. The group huddled inside a small phone booth, uncomfortably sandwiched under Fuzziwick, friend of In Ego Toyota. They were making a phone call to some Mordorian bureaucracy, trying to find out where Anakron had been taken. Fuzziwick had already been transferred to fourteen different departments by the automated answering system as they attempted to find someone with the information they needed. In was beginning to lose patience and had suggested storming Anakron's former offices at White-All with his sword, as he claimed to be the world's greatest swordsman. Panakeia knew, however, that the concentration of orcish bureaucrats there was so great that they would only be more confused there than they were from the relative safety of their phone booth.

Fuzziwick was speaking again. Evidently, he finally reached another living person or orc to speak with instead of the computerized system. Panakeia waited expectantly. No luck. Transferred again. She sighed.

"In. What about this friend of yours we're supposed to find? Tell me about him again."

"A great man, once under the employ of the Blue Istari. But they fired him long ago. It was said that his spells had begun to go astray and no longer served them as they wished. But he may be able to help us."

"I hope so." Panakeia's eyes filled again.

Fuzziwick's voice boomed. "Yes, thank you." He put down the phone.

"We know where to go now. Let's go."

"Where?" asked In, Panakeia, and Lûgnût together.

"A graveyard, not far from here."

Panakeia's head fell at the reminder of Anakron's demise. In nodded sagely and said, "Very well. We shall go. But first, to find the last of our party. Wait here. Fuzziwick and I shall return shortly."

Whispering to each other, In and Fuzziwick hurried down a side alley.

"But how can we convince him to come?"

"We will. We must."

~*~

Before long, they returned with a third man between them, covered under a heavy gray cloak and hood. Somehow, he looked vaguely familiar to Panakeia. There was no time for questions and the man was silent, so she and Lûgnût followed Fuzziwick and In. Their next stop: a graveyard, and a new tomb.

It was pitch black, other than the pale glow of the moon on iron gates when they arrived at the graveyard. Anakron's resting place was not difficult to find. For once, Mordor had moved with efficiency and a new marble tomb already stood in a corner. They hurried toward it, Panakeia now in the lead, and saw an inscription on the door.

Anakron
Ex-Grand Anakronist

"Oh, Anakron," Panakeia sighed and began to weep again. The stranger jumped, but still said nothing.

Fuzziwick easily lifted the door from its hinges.

"Come!" In waved his sword and stepped into the tomb.

Anakron had been lain in the center of the tomb. The stranger stepped forward and looked him over.

"Yes. I think it is possible that he is not all dead, but only mostly dead. And as you know, all dead and mostly dead are not the same. Because if your mostly dead, you're slightly alive."

That voice! It was so familiar. Where had Panakeia heard it before?

He went on. "But of course, it all depends on what he has to live for." He threw back his hood, and Panakeia gasped.

"Phizzick!" she exclaimed.

"Yes. It is I. I, to whom you were once nearly wed, so long ago. I ask you, what does he have to live for?"

Outside, the howling of a wolf sounded across the tombstones.

[Formendacil]

"Maybe we should head back to the Palace and come up with another plan, before we begin our search again," Maika kindly suggested.

Hyarmenwë sighed. "Maybe you're right."

Elrogorn was not pleased. However anakronistic, improbable, and recklessly good looking he may have been (very, on all counts), he knew a lot about Wereducks.

However, before the handsome half-Elf could berate the two more serious companions with the need to depart post-haste, the sound of webbed feet padding down the tunnel behind them.

"What's that?" said Hyarmenwë, his agéd face aghast with fear. Not fear of Wereducks, so much as fear of the idea of Wereducks. Beside him, Maika stepped slightly closer to the old Gondorian.

"Flee!" hissed Elrogorn, drawing his shining blade. "Leave them to me."

Rather than bravely protesting, or fleeing immediately, Hyarmenwë edged further down the tunnel.

"Faster!" insisted Elrogorn.

Hyarmenwë, terrified and yet fascinated, glanced down the tunnel behind them, and then shuddered in horror. He grabbed Maika's arm to steady himself.

"Come, my dear," he said. "For once I completely agree with him."

Maika looked past Elrogorn, and could only agree. The sight that met her eyes was not pleasant. There were ducks. Hundreds of ducks. But they were more than just mere ducks; they were were-ducks. Their feathers were ruffled and a deep black, their eyes were a blazing red, and their bills a bright orange. And poking out of their bills were long, sharp fangs.

Maika and Hyarmenwë tore down the tunnel as fast as they could. Hyarmenwë had not moved so fast in years. He could feel his heart pounding, and wondered if he might not be wiser to face the mercy of the Wereducks than to keel over with exhaustion, but prudence said otherwise.

"Up there!" Maika shouted at him. Hyarmenwë suspected the young woman was not running as fast as possible, since she stayed close by him, and not far ahead, as she ought to have been capable. Behind them, he could heard the raucous sounds of Elrogorn and the Wereducks battling it out.

Looking up, Hyarmenwë saw that Maika was pointing at a trapdoor closed over a hole in the tunnel. Maika had already started to climb a ladder of metal rungs set in the wall, shoving open the trapdoor. Behind them, Hyarmenwë heard Elrogorn shouting at them.

"Faster! I can't hold them off!"

"It's stuck!" Maika shoved at the trapdoor unsuccessfully.

"Watch out!" shouted Elrogorn. "I'm coming too!"

Maika struggled desperately, and the trapdoor opened upwards. Shoving it out of the way, she climbed out of sight. Behind them, Elrogorn tore into sight. Hyarmenwë started to climb, feeling painfully slow.

Hyarmenwë had just climbed out of sight when Elrogorn grabbed the rungs and started climbing, the Wereducks right behind him. Hyarmenwë gave him and hand, and as soon as he was clear, Maika slammed the trapdoor shut right above the Wereducks, standing solidly on the thick wood.

"Where are we?" asked Hyarmenwë, looking around. They seemed to be outdoors, from the feel of the chill, fresh breeze, but night had fallen and there was nary a star to be seen, nor was the moon visible.

"A graveyard," said Maika, looking around at all the headstones and forboding insciptions of R.I.P (Rots In Pieces). Hyarmenwë, whose idea of a graveyard of Rath Dínen looked around queasily, wondering if this was an anakronistic place to be, but since Tolkien had not gone into detail about graveyards or tombs in The Lord of the Rings, no one offered him an answer to his unspoken question.

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

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Driver glared at the two Dwarves through small and shining eyes, the pupils of which were wide and completely black. Smilog cocked his head on one side and said, "So, what's supposed to be going on then?"

The Driver grinned and pointed to a large palantir on the top of the control panel, "The end is near," it said, "I have seen it. A great battle is coming; you know the sort, the kind that, if this ever gets made into a film, will involve hundreds of pounds worth of computer graphics. The kind that will shake all of Mordor. The kind of battle-"

"Yes," interrupted Khuz, "a big battle. What's that got to do with you or us?" The Driver's face turned to a frown and it sat in the chair with a sigh. Smilog peered at the Palantir, yet all that could be seen within it were swirling clouds and mists. The Driver lifted the Palantir up and presented it to the Dwarves

"See for yourselves," it said. So they lent forward with their eyes on the perfectly rounded seeing stone. The clouds dispersed and the mist cleared. There was a grave yard full of tombstones and a few tombs. The Palantir focused on one in particular; there was a group inside it looking at a body lying on a table.

There was one figure wearing a hood who seemed to have the attention of the rest of the party. A voice, faint and seeming far away, came from beneath the hood, "But of course, it all depends on what he has to live for." the hood was thrown back, this seemed very important for some of the other people there, but meant nothing to Smilog.

A wolf howled. The Area of vision shifted and looked upon a group of figures, standing above a trapdoor that was being forced from beneath; there was a look of dark foreboding upon the face of one in particular. Again, they heard a voice, on the edge of hearing, "This graveyard has a long history of association with forces of evil." Khuz's eyes widened as the Palantir shifted its gaze once again and they stared at an enormous army gathering on the plains to the south of the graveyard. The army went on and on, rank upon rank, battalion upon battalion, stretching off into the horizon like a sea of foes. The sound of a war horn filled the air before the face of Pallando flashed before the Palantir went dark.

The Driver gasped and let the seeing stone fall from her hands. Smilog placed his foot on the stone, his eyes set on The Driver, "Why did you show us this?" he asked.

"Because," The Driver rose from her chair, "what forces are gathered in the graveyard cannot defeat this army. They shall need all the help they can get. The Blue Wizards must be stopped. Why do you think I had to move the mountain? Anakron is dead, and we were so close to bringing him to the side of light. Curse those istari."

A silence fell between them, broken only by the rumblings of the Mountain. Before long, Smilog ventured, "You still havn't answered our question. Why do you need us?"

"You are Dwarves."

"Well spotted."

"Do you know of the clan of Gadol?" The Driver lent forward, casting a shadow over the Dwarves. She peered into their eyes, one by one, perhaps this was some kind of Mordorian tradition that they were both unaware of. The Dwarves shook their respective heads. "The Clan of Gadol dwell in the Ash Mountains. Long they have been there since the fall of Sauron. Secret and safe. A mighty force they are. Perhaps the edge we shall need in this war. That is why we need you two."

"So, you want us to take a message?" asked Smilog hopefully.

"Nay." Laughed The Driver solemnly, "Nay. They will not let you in. They have a Palantir and have seen this army, but they are proud and think it of no consequence to Dwarven kind. If they see one, or even two, Dwarves in the battle, then they shall open their gates and pour into that grave yard like a flood!"

***

Mount Zoom sunk into the distance, though it's stench followed Tollin and The Barrow Wight for many miles. One thing could be said for Roggie's rule of Mordor, there definitely were more road signs. A tall pillar stood in the centre of the cross roads with signs pointing in each direction, including one that simply said, 'Graveyard'. Feeling satisfied, the odd duo followed the path with long steps to save on time.

Tollin suddenly stopped and turned his head to the south. He pointed away with his morning star. "Do you see that?" he asked, pointing at an enormous black shade among the lighter black shades.

"That mass of black things stretching into the horizon?"

"Yes."

"Yes, I do see it. Looks jolly foreboding, doesnt it old boy?"

"Indeed." They marched on, the stench of death becoming more poignant as they neared the graveyard. There was a sound of shouting and banging, like that of an group of angry drunks trying to break down a door. The iron gate of the Graveyard hung open, but not inviting, if anything it told you, 'this is exactly the kind of place your mother told you that you would end up if you didn't stop misbehaving'.

Slowly, they walked into the cemetery with absolutely no feelings of joy about the fact other than, at least they weren't in Mount Zoom. A trio stood above a trap door, the sound of fierce quacking coming from underneath; the thumping continued ominously similar to a heart beat.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight, drawing his unnecesarily over decorative Sword.

[Diamond18]

Skittles wandered up to the foreboding gates of the gothic cemetary, sipping on a banana grape slurpie. She had grown bored back at Mount Doom, as everyone seemed to be leaving for more adventures, and explaining the intricacies of Tolkienism to Hissyfit had soon grown boring. It seemed that the mojo Anakron had slapped on her wore off with her multiple shifts in personality, and she had suddenly forgotten exactly what it was she had been going on about.

"Hissyfit," she had said, "where did everyone go?"

"I dunno," Hissyfit had replied. "I fell asleep two hours ago." Here she paused to yawn and scratch herself.

Just then, Skittles' cellphone beeped, alerting her to the fact that a text message was arriving. The message was from Ali, and the important bits were highlighted in red letters, which caught even Skittles' ADD addled attention.

"Let's go to an unnamed graveyard and have some fun, eh wot?" she said to Hissyfit, and Hissyfit, knowing that rats and rabbits and other assorted vermin liked to burrow under crypts, agreed.

Here endeth the flashback.

Skittles looked up at the massive gateway leading into the graveyard. A raven sat perched on one wrought iron finial, croaking out a warning before taking off in a flutter of black wings. Hissyfit, who had been contemplating climbing the fence and eating the bird, sighed.

"So this is the graveyard," said Skittles. "Eh."

She tossed her now empty slurpie cup in the trash bin (ominously marked: please do not litter or you will be chopped up into little bits and used to fertilize the flowers) and pushed the gate open. A chill wind whistled down between the headstones and blew Skittle's jet black hair away from her pale white face. "Thank you, chill wind, for reminding everyone of my basic coloring," she said, cheerfully. "Come along, Hissyfit, let's see what's shaking."

[Celuien]

Mordor had a strange way of bringing about unexpected events in the least expected (and usually least convenient) ways. Phizzick's sudden reappearance out of Panakeia's nearly forgotten days in Harad was the proof to that rule. Phizzick. Panakeia had not even thought of him since she was a lass of seventeen sitting on the veranda at her lost childhood home.

Nearly wed? Surely he exaggerated the entire situation. Panakeia recalled a slightly different scenario in which Phizzick, only a few months older than she, had joking asked for her hand, and she had just as jokingly (and with dazzling teenage coquettish charm) accepted him on the condition that he bring her an ice cream cone. There had been no ice cream, but a silly romance had followed. Just as she had once had so many other flirtations in her earlier days. But it seemed that Phizzick had taken things more seriously, building it into a drama worthy of any soap opera instead of the light-hearted society fluff their former association had been.

Still, Phizzick's story was what it was and now was not the time to have a full argument. Not with Anakron's life hanging in the balance.

Panakeia replied hesitantly. "It's been a long time, Phizzick."

"It has. But you still haven't answered my question. What does your mostly dead friend have to live for?"

From the tomb's center, there came a sound. Low and muffled, but distinct, and in Anakron's voice.

"Trruuueeeeee loooovvvvvveeeeeeeee."

Panakeia gasped. "He spoke! He's alive!" Her spirits soared. "And he wants to live for..."

"Blue gloves." Phizzick broke in to complete the sentence. "Not much to live for, if you ask me. He's obviously talking about those Blue Wizards, and if there's anything I hate, it's the Blue Wizards. Especially since they fired me."

"That's not what he said! He said true love. You all heard him." In nodded. "The wizards fired you?" Panakeia asked.

"They did. Said my magic wasn't quite up to snuff. My cures kept going wrong. Pack of lies. All I needed was a good MLT - mutton, lettuce and tomato. It's great. You ought to have one sometime."

"Maybe. But, Phizzick, please. Help Anakron. You heard him. True love. It's a wonderful thing to have. And he doesn't like the Istari either. That's how he got into this mess to begin with."

Phizzick squinted at her. "You're right. True love is a great thing. I know." He squinted harder, and Panakeia held her breath, terrified that he would accuse her of breaking his heart. "And as much as we're alike with our cures and all, that's why I'm glad we split up. I'd never have found my wife otherwise."

Waves of relief rushed over Panakeia. It was alright between them after all.

Phizzick kept talking. "Yes. What's it been? Almost thirty years now? Must be. But you say it's true love?"

"Yes. It is."

"Well, well. Can't let anything get in the way of that." He began to rummage through his pockets. "Let's see. MLT wrapper. Not that. And another MLT wrapper. Hmm. Where is it? Ah! Here it is!" He held out a shiny golden package in his palm.

"A chocolate?" Panakeia raised an eyebrow, recalling her own dubious cures.

"Not just any chocolate. This has something special. Practically guaranteed to revive the slightly alive part of anyone."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Then he's no worse off than he was before. What have you got to lose?"

That was true. Panakeia unwrapped the candy and put it in Anakron's mouth. Then, unable to bear the suspense, she turned and leant with her forehead against the wall of the crypt.

Startled gasps came from the three watchers. Then footsteps. Footsteps in Panakeia's direction. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a balding, bespectacled man with a huge grin under his beard.

"Hi. Good to see you again. Well, as me. I've been here all long, you know." He winked.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog stomped his way from Mount Zoom in a fierce and frenzied way; in all respects, this was a Dwarf who had had a bad day. He grumbled and moaned, swore and spat until he just frowned as he stomped. "I blame you for this," he muttered, "Roggie! You and your blasted mountain." Khuz hobbled along a little behind his son and eventually had to cough loudly in order to get his attention. Smilog turned swiftly on his heel and then sighed in annoyance as he watched his father hobble closer.

"You do know that there is a huge battle about to start?" queried Smilog, "only, by the time we get there it'll be over and maybe a whole different battle will have started; one that we have nothing to do with."

"Shut up!" shouted the old Dwarf, "my legs aren't what they used to be. Why couldn't that lass take us to the Battle in the Zoom?"

"She said it was too dangerous and quite frankly I'm glad to see the back of it."

They marched on, slowly and angrily; stomping their feet as hard as they could and with great intent of making as much dust fly up as they could. Weather this was to try and make a mysterious effect was was a mild coincidence, no tale tells, but most accept that it was the latter.

Above the black clouds of Mordor the moon was rising, it's great face's light unable to penetrate the rush hour like traffic of the clouds and so the moon felt rather unhappy and left out and so went off to sulk. Birds flew just below the clouds, circling around the grave yard awaiting their feast or, at least, light snack depending on who won. The stench of upturned soil and bellowing geezers filled the air, forcing the Dwarves to cover their noses and make unsavory faces.

There was a disturbance in the air; the silence of the land was broken by a most unearthly sound....

CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMP

Mixed with an eery and haunting;

BOOM... boom-boom-boom... BOOM...boom-boom-boom... BOOM

"War drums," murmured Khuz, "we have little time." forgetting their annoyance, the Dwarves hurried along the path with as swift a pace as they could. Leaping over rocks and roots that lay in their way and panting like fat children in a cross country marathon. Within a few swift minutes they came to the gate of the grave yard, yet as they stood beneath the arc of the gate, an eery voice trailed over their heads...

"Trruuueeeeee loooovvvvvveeeeeeeee."

"Blue gloves?" said Smilog, "who's going on about blue gloves at a time like this?"

***

Tollin's eyes fixed on where the sound of relentless quacking was coming; wereducks were something one didn't forget in a hurry. The Barrow Wight's golden hilted sword some how managed to glisten in the dim light of the Mordorian night. A red gem glowed in the guard and the pommel bore words in the Numenorian language. Not that The Barrow Wight had ever read them, that Sword had spent most of its life on a shelf above his fire place, he wasn't even sure if it was sharp.

"Looks like a terrible business, old chap," said the Wight, "they say were ducks can bight your face right off!"

"Who says?"

"Erm..." The Barrow Wight looked upwards and rolled his eyes around, "I'm not sure. But I'm sure whoever it is that said it, did indeed say it."

"I've never heard that," mused Tollin, "in fact, you're the only one I've heard say it. For all I know, the 'they' you speak of might be you. You don't have schizophrenia by any chance?"

"QUACK!" from behind them, the ghastly noise rose like... well... a rising sound. Almost instinctively, Tollin lifted his Morning Star and sung it down in the direction of the sound. There was an almighty 'splat' and a fading 'quack'. They lowered their heads and there, beneath the spikes and ball of the Morning star, lay the body of a wereduck; splattered.

"By Jingo," said The Barrow Wight, "looks like the blighter died instantly."

"You!" came an oddly familiar and probably bearded voice, "I thought you were surly dead!" Smilog trotted up to the Minotaur and the dead man and remarked, "you look right at home here, Mr Wight."

"Gosh." said The Barrow Wight.

[Kath]

Igor stood alone in the corridors of Mount Doom, having watched as Smilog and crew, Anakron and finally Skittles all ran off in different directions and in varying degrees of madness. He had the strangest feeling, as though he was supposed to be somewhere else, but as he didn't have any idea where this other place was he headed down to the now unoccupied chambers that had housed the Gondorian negotiators and fetched his ear instead of worrying about it. After all, these things generally seemed to sort themselves out in the end.

Even with both ears now attached the mountain was eerily quiet. Igor had got used to the antics of the other diplomats, as well as the steady noise of the orcs and guards that constantly moved around, but now there was no one in sight. Walking past an open door he saw a chair lying on the floor with papers scattered around it. In the great hall a goblet was slowly spinning in circles on the table, as though it had just been dropped there. He heard a cry from the hallway outside the room and darted out to see what was happening, watching in astonishment as an orc vanished into thin air with a quiet 'pop', his uneaten dinner falling to the floor with a crash.

The Dweomer? Igor wondered to himself as he crept towards the site where the orc had disappeared, but he dismissed the idea. He hadn't seen Anakron or heard his maniacal laughter in too long for it to be him doing this, and since the thing was stuck on ISMs at the moment it seemed unlikely to be the cause of all these strange events, unless there really was such a thing as a vanishISM.

Still musing to himself the sudden appearance of two tall men clothed all in blue caused Igor to emit a very undignified shriek and fall backwards, wincing as he felt himself land in the peas and gravy the orc had been about to eat. Glaring up at the culprits of this embarrassing incident Igor opened his mouth to give them a piece of his mind (not literally of course, he could unpick a few stitches, remove a bit of brain and give it to someone but he'd found he didn't tend to get it back very often and so rarely did it these days) but as his eyes travelled up he realised that perhaps that was not such a good idea.

"You're the Blue Wizards." He told them, and then rolled his eyes at himself. 'Way to be Captain Obvious.' He thought, before cursing at the valley girl language he'd just used. "What are you doing here?"

"Quack." Was the initial confusing answer, or so Igor thought. But as his mind caught up with his ears he realised that it had not been a person that had said that. Fear gripped him.

"Getting that." Came a grim reply, this time from above him.

Dreading what they were about to see after that noise Igor's eyes followed the extended finger of the Wizard closest to him, one moving somewhat faster than the other. Eventually though both eyes found themselves staring at the same horrifying sight. Leaping up out of the mess and behind the Wizards Igor peeked round their robes in shock.

"A - a - a Wereduck? In Mount Doom? Why? How?"

"It does not matter. It is in the wrong place and it will be moved. As will you."

Igor opened his mouth again to protest but found himself interrupted by the same small pop he had heard before. The noise echoed, getting louder all the time, and a blue light surrounded him as the corridors faded away. Suddenly the noise stopped and Igor lurched forward, landing on his hands and knees in what looked very much like a graveyard, facing a very disgruntled looking Wereduck.

Petrified Igor didn't so much as wait for the creature to blink (if indeed Wereducks do). A sprint start from his position on the ground had him heading away from certain death and into uncertain possible harm, as well as towards the voices that were, thankfully, coming from somewhere the Wereduck was not.

[littlemanpoet]

The balding, bespectacled, and grinning man who had tapped on Panakeia's shoulder, watched Panakeia as her face twisted from blankness to surprise to consternation to .... well, to something he couldn't quite make out: wonder? curiosity? the need to find a restroom? Unsure which it might be, he shrugged.

"You know, you really do look prettier without all that glop on your face."

She was still staring at him as if she had not been able to get her mind quite in gear.

"Say," he asked, "do you remember the last time we had words? Do you even know who I am?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Blue gloves and true love being what they were, the entirety of the tomb knew this situation was simply built to be dramatized.

"Aime..." Alli whispered to his lips in the shadows, "we're not alone. How have they not seen us yet?"

"I could stab them all swiftly."

"Aime, that's not my point. Maybe it is. Oh, Aime! Panakeia and Anakron and various and sundry extras, and I'm almost certain I heard Smilog, though I could so easily be wrong... and a man from Panakeia's past and blue gloves, Aime, blue gloves!"

"I know..." He didn't.

"Aime, everyone knows that blue gloves are symbols. Ceremonial garb for those serving the darker powers. Blue gloves! Oh, Aime! Blue gloves, and from Panakeia and Anakron, oh what shall I do! Where shall I turn!? We are trapped in this very small, cramped, dark, badly lit, slightly smelly, certainly damp and a bit moldy tomb that may or may not contain corpses, and we are not alone!"

"Shh, they'll hear you."

"Aime, there is only one exit, and they are between us and it, and the wolves," the sound of howls punctuated the moment, "are closing in, and blue gloves! They've turned on me, Aime. The Wizards and Wolves aren't enough, but my friends have betrayed me and block my escape! How shall I ever survive?"

And thusly, Alli swooned into his arms and whether their companions in the former resting place of the former Grand Anakronist heard any of their exchange, they did indeed block Alli's exit, and Alli did indeed believe them to be secret wearers of Blue Gloves. Things, to put it lightly, had just taken a turn for the worse.

[Celuien]

"Do you even know who I am?"

Panakeia continued to stare. Slowly, she answered, "Yes. Yes. I do know who you are. Elempí. We met in Dol Gaurgauroth." Her mind traveled back, as it was wont to do, and she relived the first moments of their acquaintance.

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."

Yes. That same man now stood before her. Elempí, Anakron's usually carefully hidden alter-ego.

"Well that's good. For a minute there, I thought you forgot."

"No. I didn't forget. I - I just wasn't expecting - Phizzick! What happened?"

The miracle-healer shrugged. "Beats me. I guess this was the part of him that was still alive. The part that was talking about true love and such. If you don't like it, talk to my lawyer."

Elempí looked ready to pout. "What's wrong? Aren't you happy to see me?"

Was she? Could she accept that Anakron was no longer Anakron, but instead had transformed into his alter-ego? Would Elempí turn out to be the holder of the good in Anakron, as the Grand Anakronist had claimed more than once? Would Panakeia and Elempí live happily ever after, after all? That future all hung upon Panakeia's reply to a simple question. Was she happy to see Elempí again?

Panakeia's lips began to form their answer, but just then a soft thump echoed in the chamber.

"What's that?" she whispered, startled by the disturbance.

In drew his sword. "We shall see." With the expert swordsman in the lead, the group turned towards a dark corner of the crypt, not knowing who or what they would find in its recesses.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The noise of the war drums was getting louder and faster; the earth was slowly begging to shake, causing some of the older standing stones to crumble or fall down. A great stomping began somewhere in the south accompanied by the faint sound of fell horns.

Smilog ate some jelly babies.

"I say," mused The Barrow Wight, "what the devil do you think those fellows will do?"

"Kill us all?" suggested Khuz, "but just why is another question. Those Blue wizards really do have a bee in their bonnet about something."

"It's times like this," said Smilog, "that I wish I had paid more attention during those political meetings." They agreed that this may have helped. But now they faced the south and could see a great black mass in the distance marching to join the greater mass of the main army. A blue flame leaped up from somewhere in the middle of the army, revealing, for a second, evil faces covered in fur and nasty stuff. The Barrow Wight trembled and placed his sword back in it's scabbard.

Tollin walked forwards and said, "I think we should investigate. Look, there is a ridge over there that we might get a good view from and not be seen." lacking anything else to do, save sit and wait for death, the others agreed and they tracked along the path with their heads down. Smilog cast his hood over the top of his helm and placed a hand on his axe haft while The Barrow Wight wrapped his torn cloak close about his person. Tollin alone seemed confident of, well, anything.

Within a few minuets of walking from the cemetery, they came to the ridge and lay on the floor. Smilog crawled to the edge and peered out. "What can you see?" asked Tollin.

"Terrible things," replied the Dwarf, "there are millions of them. Werewolves, orcs, trolls, were ducks and I think there are a few rhinoceroses." He bent his eyes to where he thought the blue flame had come from, then, holding out a hand to The Barrow Wight said, "pass me your spy glass, I want to see if the Blue Wizards are out there." The dead man obliged and Smilog fixed it to his eye.

He swooped across the terrible force, it's banners displaying the most awful symbols imaginable. Then, all of a sudden, he dropped the spy glass. "Oi!" cried The Barrow Wight, "do you know how much that cost?" The Dwarf scrambled off the ridge desperately.

"I think he saw me!" he cried,

"Who?" asked Tollin,

"Pallando!" said a voice from behind them. They turned to see the Wizard standing tall and menacing, his staff pointed towards them. He laughed and cocked his head, "did you really think you could spy on me? Well, what think you of my little... party?" he grinned.

"I've seen bigger." said Tollin

"No you havn't!" objected the wizard, turning to face the Minotaur, "I've researched middle Earth history, there has never been such a force! Now. I seem to remeber that Alatar was about to kill you, Dwarf, but he's a bit busy at the moment, so I'll do it!" He stepped closer, a blue light illuminating his staff and an evil grin covering his face. He took another step...

All of a sudden there was a cry from above and an orange blur flew out of the sky and landed on Pallando, knocking him over the ridge. the Orange wizard, 'Flash', stood before them, obviously at the end of some long song and dance routine.

"And that's why I'm so great! Woof!" he cried in an upbeat tempo. He threw back his head and laughed upon seeing Smilog and the others. "Well, paint me purple and call me Sharon, it's you, Beard man!"

[littlemanpoet]

"Thump."

It was soft and echoed. The narrative insisted it. One cannot disagree with the narrative. Elempí chose not to. He was too intent on going with the flow as long as the flow meant a happy Panakeia that he was what was left of Anakron.

Wolves howled in the distance. The not so distant distance.

Elempí took a turn, to the left. Which was for the worst. Because it faced the crypt. The swordsman led the way, which was just as well as far as Elempí was concerned. He tried to make sure that he was as close as he could be to Panakeia, preferably in front of her, or at least by her side. So it was with (only) mild chagrin that he found himself following her.

Wolves continued to howl in the distance. The not so distant distance. Quite near, actually.

The swordsman yelled. Another swordsman, or so Elempí assumed, for swordsmen were wont to yell in the midst of battle - and this sounded bloodcurdling and ferocious enough to be a battle cry.

But their cries didn't drown out the howling wolves in the distance. The not so distant distance. Quite near, actually. In fact, Elempí felt a very unwelcome tap on his shoulder. How did I end up behind everybody else? He turned, the hair on his neck rising, and looked at a very unpleasant maw that was opening wider.

"Lûgnût, don't yawn so close to me. Your breath stinks. And the wind of it raises the hair on my neck. What do you want, anyway?"

"Sorry. But I'm scared."

"Oh for cryin'-"

The wolves howled. The swordsman battlecried. But no swords clashed. Elempí began to wonder if they were just putting on a show of courage. At least it was free.

[the guy who be short]

Angawen's head throbbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Hookbill the Goomba]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gosh."

[Formendacil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

"Yes", a sepulchral voice grinded in reply.

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

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

"All good so far."

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

"Er...is that negotiable?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[the guy who be short]

Angawen woke up suddenly.

Escape! Escape!

All Gondorian restraint gone, she jumped out of the bed. It was dark, but she could see stars framed in the entrance of the cave, and she made for them. Aiya Earendil elenion ancalima! Aiya Varda, tari i elenion. She mused on how the stars so often gave hope to the West, and ran with all the energy she could muster.

She felt surprisingly strong for all the days of capt - no, she would not think of the anakronistic spell, or of the whereabouts of Voldemort, her captor. She did not know that it mattered little anyway; they had been consigned to the Waste of Narrative Irrelevance.

Making the entrance of the cave, she saw a great field of tombs in the moonlight. The cave she had been held in was in the base of a cliff bordering a graveyard.

She ran out into the graveyard, stumbling, wanting only to escape from her captivity. She saw gates in the distance, and she made for them, hoping thus to find civilization - what passed for it in Mordor - and gain directions to Mount Zoom.

Suddenly, she saw that on a path to her left and some way ahead of her were three people, also making swiftly for the gates. She recognised the tall gangly figure of Hyarmenwë, and the slight Maika. With them was a man whom she did not know.

Regaining her posture, she called "Hyarmenwë! Lord Hyarmenwë!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

When Aimè left Alli momentarily, she spared no time for logic and went off on her own. She stumbled over bones and managed to leave the tomb without anybody seeing; an impressive feat, given her own Sight was a bit off kilter.

She walked on two planes. In one, her boot lace snagged on a jaw and it crackled along behind her. In the other, stars shone brightly all around her and it wasn't so much as she walked as that she floated very calmly and certainly in the center of the universe. Illamatar was by her.

As her hroa fumbled into the night, her fea was, quite frankly, pretty chill.

When Aimè returned, his reaction went unnoticed by Alli's lack of proximity.

"Illamatar, why have you forsaken us?"

"I haven't. Do you doubt me?"

"I can't see."

"You're looking at me."

"Illamatar, that isn't fair. Why have my dreams disappeared? I used to know everything. I was the ideal spymaster. It was the economy of Mordor, for your sake. I didn't need spies, I just employed them. All of them. I shuffled papers and had Lola schedule and break appointments for me, and all of my workers had steady jobs and steady pay. None of them needed to work, I already had all of the information."

"You're whining."

"It was so easy! What did I do wrong? Why did you take away my dreams? The entirety of Mordor is ready to collapse! We're on the brink of war! Look--" She gestured to the reality in which her body lay sprawled over damp earth where she had tripped over a headstone. From their otherworldly vantage point, it was clear that the Ambassadors were surrounded.

Smilog and Co. strove with various wizards. Panakeia was busy with Anakron-istic love stuff. Angawen was... well... no sense in repeating the obvious. They were all busy, and they were all being closed in on by were-creatures of every make and model. Thunder boomed. Things were grim. The wizards cackled.

Hundreds of miles away, a surprise ending was beginning to occur. Roggie, King of Mordor, was ushering a cloaked stranger into his office, gesturing toward the warm fire.

In the cemetery, the sounds of howls kept getting louder. And louder. And more dangerous.

"Illamatar... why have you let the Blue Wizards do this to us?"

"I was bored."

Alli shrugged. It kind of made sense, after all. "But... we're all going to die--?"

The All-Mighty baaed.

Back on Middle Earth, Alli opened her eyes to find Tom Felton looking into them.

[Anguirel]

Tom Felton stepped from behind a rather art-deco sarcophagus and gave Alli a startled look. Then he glanced quickly away, as if pretending he had not seen her, and started creeping off back into the shadows.

He reappeared a second later, having emitted a muffled cry, rather as if he had been kicked. Tom was, to be candid, a complete mess. His previously conveniently unobtrusive racing broom was now lugged over one shoulder, though he knew he would now be quite unable to fly it. Indeed it hindered his attempts at stealth slightly.

"Er, hello, Alli," he said weakly. "Sorry I'm er, a bit late..."

The scene suddenly blurred as Tom advanced. He tripped entirely over a crumbling headstone and fell on his face, covering himself in mud. He rose, staggered on and then contorted as if a hippogriff and slashed his arm. Desperate, he threw his hands forward...

"They're trying to stop me... the Ithr..."

An elder tree that simply had not been there before was in his way, and he had to stagger through a succession of branches that tore his robes apart. Cold, and rather modest, he swathed a silvery spare garment, forgotten about till now, about himself, then leant towards Alli in relief.

"Ha! I've triumphed over them," he said in satisfaction. "They could stop Malfoidacil, but they can't stop Tom Felton. Alli, I'm going to explain in detail. You see, I was once a werewolf, but I surrendered to the Power of love and worshipped Illamatar, so, if you get it, I'm, like, not a werewolf now, nor a wizard, if you know what I mean. I'm just a pretty straight kind of guy, y'know. Now, we have to act quickly. I need to warn your Hunter friend where to shoot. We're about to be threatened by Fenrir Greyback, who is now bald due to a fortuitous lightning bold but was not explicitly killed by the laws of narration; by Wereducks; and by Mario, again. Then we need to foil the Blue Wizards, and I have to apologise to Maika and confess my undying love to Skittles."

Alli really was a splendid spymaster, he reflected. So remote, untouchable, poker-faced. He admired her insouciance in the face of his stunning information; though she did look slightly puzzled.

The Inaudibility Cloak glinted around the excited ex-wizard's shoulders.

Somewhere, in the distance, wolves howled, one in French, one in Italian...

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Barrow Wight stood atop the tomb of some great king of Mordor. It was tall and made of black stone, smooth to the touch and smelled of beans. His long black cloak swirled uncontrollably about him as he peered into the darkness where the great army was mustering. Smilog and Tollin were sitting on the edge of the tomb roof, throwing stones at passing birds and grumbling about the ill treatment Wizards had given them.

A fire leaped up somewhere in the distance; yet it was in the opposite direction to the army of the blue Istari. The Barrow Wight swung around to look at the new thing that was approaching. He gave a slight gasp.

"What is it?" asked Smilog, standing up

"It looks like..." replied the Wight, straining his eyes, "the casino staff from Mount Zoom. They are wearing armour made out of gold and bear swords made from what looks like beaten snooker tables."

Tollin picked up the telescope and looked out, "There are," he mused, "five hundred of them. Men and Orks." The new army filed into the Grave yard and began forming ranks in a circle about the great Barrow in the centre. The three oddlings (as they were later called) clambered down from the large tomb and made their way towards the centre of the Grave yard. Atop the hill they could see the flame that The Barrow Wight had spotted. It seemed to be burning bright, as if it were a challenge to the Wizards.

There was a large Orc holding a large stick that was on fire. He made a great cry and began to beat his chest. The rest of the army joined in until the noise was unbearable. Smilog leaped behind a tombstone.

"Gosh" said the Barrow Wight.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli stumbled over herself yet again, uncertain of the alcohol content of her blood. She blinked a vision of Illamatar surrounded by stars from her tired eyes. Let this end, she thought wearily. Just let me end.

She thought of Mardil, married in Gondor, and the frequency with which he had saved her life once upon a time. She thought she had been in love. Falling in with Aimè had changed nothing, though she would never have said it aloud. She thought of Roggie ruling Mordor without the aid of his best friend.

Who would spend lazy nights curled before blazing fires if not those two?

Alli missed her private home in Ithilien, but she thrived on her position as official know-it-all. She missed relaxed mornings spent writing in bed, snuggling, and playing with a cat she may never before have mentioned. But now she too missed her drafty office with Lola and her three-pile paper sorting system. She missed the castle and casino gossip.

The weather waged on in its own private battle for good (warm front) and evil (cold front). The werecreatures gathered (with conviction). The subplots combined into one large climax (with the hesitation the werecreatures lack).

When Alli stumbled, Tom caught her and she met his eyes and saw in them mixed emotions. Gravity and a random edge or two of her gauntlets pulled the Inaudibility Cloak completely from his person and life was suddenly a bit more verbal.

Seeing the silvery folds of Inaudibility fall about him, Tom realised that his entire, vital, speech had gone entirely to waste. He ran his hand through his gorgeously pale locks and then said, rapidly:

"Alli, there are werewolves coming, as you can hear. Despite my best efforts, we are quite doomed."

"Totallement!" barked Fenrir Greyback as he hoved into view, still happily mauling the French language.

"I passed through the fire and the chasm," the beast growled, "and am Fenrir Greyback no longer! Now I am Fenrir Whiteback!"

"Actually, since the thunderbolt singed off your fur, you're more a sort of pinkish-brown," Tom commented, stepping straight towards the wolf.

"You'll regret this, Mudblood, renouncing your destiny as a Malfoy and a Werewolf..." the creature spat. It now became clear that he had a cohort; a smaller wolf, with an unpleasant red cap and a long-chewed cigarette in its mouth, had approached from another direction. Alli looked not so much frightened as exasperated at the sight of him, but, taken up with Fenrir, Tom did not spare the newcomer a thought.

Alli gasped at Tom's until-now-unknown identity. She wondered suddenly if he'd known she was the Seer. She wondered how the quiet meeting of friends that had never occured would have gone if it had ever managed to happen before now. She wondered if Mardil knew. She nearly sizzled with rage. And Mario. Mario! How bliddy many times was she going to have to kill the little monster?

She screamed frustration and yelled for Aimè. If Mario spoke, Tom could turn on her. Incredible and attractive fighter though she was, three werewolves jumping her was not her top choice of ways to spend her evening or die. She wanted to fall asleep one night in the unforeseeable future and never wake up.

As for Tom, he continued to concentrate fiercely on Fenrir Pinkback. "Come and eat me," he said nonchalantly.

"If you insist," Fenrir leered. He sprang forward, clasped the Kensington lad in his claws and lurched his head forward for the final, decapitatory bite.

"Fenrir," Tom observed, "haven't you noticed that I have long, blond, hair? Golden house of Finrod, anyone?" Then he shrugged and plunged his fairly pitiful body weight into the bald wolf's mass, appearing to feel no pain as the wolf's paws slashed at his back. The werewolf, on the other hand, writhed and recoiled and steamed and melted, in accordance to the Oldest Cop Out that Goodies Melt Baddies.

Tom turned to Alli, a horrendous mess, blood and ex-wolf slime smeared all over him.

"Thus," he said weakly, "has Tom Feltonagund redeemed his oath."

"You didn't swear any oath! And you're covered with slime! Don't come near me, wolf! Aimè, where are you!?"

"Don't worry...about...me," Tom gasped out. "My...agent...will...cast me...new role...thinking...about...stage acting..."

Then he collapsed and his spirit departed from Arda, but probably returned to Kensington. Wolf-Mario stood by watching the proceedings, smoking boredly.

"Alli, Alli, you have to see this" whispered Aimé loudly. Scurrying through the maze of the crypt, he felt like he was trapped inside somewhere that only closely resembled reality. And he had a strange, unrealistic prize to show for it—a huge slab of gold.

He ran towards the flickering candlelight, but tiptoed the last few steps: an eerie atmosphere was all around. Plus, there were loud shouts and screaming coming from just around the corner. Aimé peered round.

"Aimé!" yelled Alli.

"You!" yelped a wolf wearing a red cap and smoking a cigar (probably the strangest wolf Aimé had ever seen).

"...urgh..." gurgled what appeared to be corpse, somewhat familiar-looking...

"Yeah, uh, hi" offered Aimé, too puzzled to be confused.

The wolf did a bizarre little agitated jig on the spot. "I will have my vengeance!" it hollered with a slightly spoof-Italian accented howl (probably the strangest wolf Aimé had ever heard).

Who is this freak? wondered Aimé. "Alli, I'm glad to see you! Look what I found!" He held up his golden prize.

"What is....is that?....MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!" bellowed the wolf. "What fortune! What wonder! It is the Golden Coin! It is the Sixth Golden Coin!" He chuckled manically.

"All, please tell me what this... creature is" said Aimé, very slow on the uptake.

"I am Mario!" And with that, the wolf suddenly grew to four times his original size. Then seven seconds later, he returned to normal, apparently unchanged. What a lame superpower.

Alli stopped short and looked at Mario quizzically. For somebody with such impressive longevity, he was boring.

He suddenly darted and she cried out, never expecting him to answer, "What are you doing?"

And he called out, "Taking a shortcut."

"A shortcut to where?"

"To the mushrooms!"

And with that, Mario took advantage of the darkly moist soil of the cemetery and grabbed a handful of 'shrooms of all colors, as well as an herb or two. He chomped away at them, wolf-drooling spittle and Alli and Aime watched in horror as multiple tranformations took his already lupine shape and distorted it more.

Their longest lasting enemy grew to twice his former height and changed color schemes. He grew the tail of a raccoon and felt suddenly much warmer.

Alli dove on instinct as a fireball destroyed the patch of ground on which she'd been standing.

Mario was a flamethrower.

He suddenly spun his tale quickly and levitated. She swore.

Mario could also fly.

"Aime, we have to get to the mushrooms!" she screamed.

He said, "Okay."

Veering on impulse and ducking highly heated air, Alli began to sweat attractively. Her pale skin took on a dewy glow and her outfit (mostly leather, all custum-made) made men swear many oaths. She tucked and rolled, wincing as her own gauntletted wrist and fist crushed into her stomach.

She grabbed the only mushroom left behind and laughed as Mario froze in midair, his tail spinning, a fireball forming between his jaws.

"Look what I found, buddy. Bet you thought I didn't know!"

"Not the poison mushrooms!" he shrieked.

"Aime, now we know how he kept coming back. He had a secret supply of 1-up mushrooms. Extra lives! And he's a thief, we knew he was a thief in the prequel! He's been pillaging places for gold coins! For every hundred, he gets another life. It's why we can't kill him. He gets another replay every time!"

She turned on him, throwing the rarer fungus at him. He tried to incinerate it and missed. When it hit him, his tail disappeared and he fell to the wet ground. The rain had stopped. The world was oddly quiet.

She plucked several more and shouted, "It's time for GAME OVER!"

And so it was that, with the help of her perfect aim, Alli Umfuil, Spymaster of Mordor finally took down Mario-wolf. She pegged him with poison 'shrooms until every superpower disappeared and he lay snivelling before them. She considered calling Hookbill the Goomba to touch him... she knew Mario would die on contact. She decided it wasn't worth the effort. It would require a save and a conversation she was too lazy to have.

"Aime? Would you like the honor? You are the hunter."

And so Mario died.

Alli heard a gentle baa of approval in her non-corporeal ear.

Suddenly Alli and Aime were in a different part of the graveyard. Smilog and Co. stood beside them, and the Blue Wizards were towering ominously.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Who the Morgoth are you?" yelped The Barrow Wight as Alli and Aime stood blinking in the pail green corpse light. Tollin gripped Smilog by the shoulder and pointed to the north where two points of blue light could be seen getting closer.

Smilog swore and took out his axe, "It's those Wizards," he said, "what do they want now? Why doesnt their army attack?" A laugh leaped up from the Wizards as they drew nearer and before long, the towering forms of Alatar and Palando were before them as menacing as fire mountains.

"I'm telling you, rice salad exists and can be a great help!" Alatar was saying, Pallando punched him and stepped forward.

"We do not attack because we do not need to," snickered Palando, "do you see our army, Aime?" Alli and Aime quickly turned to look at the wizards, slightly shocked that they had even noticed them. They had been more interested in why The Barrow Wight was emitting such an odd glow. Palando laughed again, "where is the King of Mordor?"

"He is not here," said Alli, "so why don't you all go somewhere else and bother some other people?"

"Do not cross me!" boomed Alatar, raising his staff, "Canst thou not see I am mightier than thee?" blue clouds swirled around him and Alatar's eyes became like a raging inferno of blue fire. He raised his staff and began chanting strange words. But he stopped. He looked down and saw that a long, golden hilted sword had passed through his stomach.

The Barrow Wight trembled as he removed his blade and watched as Alatar struggled to maintain his balance. "I say," said the Wight, "sorry old chap." The Wizard made a loud cry of anguish before falling down to the ground, face first. Palando knelt beside him and placed his hand on his assistant's head.

Thunder boomed from withing Palando. "You!" he roared, "You are a dead man!"

"Well spotted," said the Wight before Pallando struck him in the chest with the staff. The flailing body of The Barrow Wight flew through the air until it was out of sight. The remaining blue Wizard took his sword in one hand and his staff in the other, raising both hands, thunder and lightning surrounded him. Smilog gripped Alli and Aime by the arms.

"Run!" said the Dwarf. No one dared argue with his logic. The roar of anger from Palando was heard in Gondor. Roggie, wherever he was, sensed a change in the winds. Elrogorn and the others stopped what they were doing for a moment. All the other characters looked towards the sound of the enraged Wizard and the tornado of blue fire that surrounded him.

Palando sent forth a beam of blue light towards Smilog and the others. Fortunately, he missed and succeeded only in unburying some corpses. The Wizard looked down at his fallen comrade and Lo! He was not there. The winds stopped, the magic stopped. Palando turned this way and that looking for Alatar's body but it was no where to be seen. He ran towards a large stone pillar and climbed up it. He saw, in the south, a strange light growing.

Smilog tripped over a tree root and fell upon his face. Tollin picked him up and carried him on his back. Alli and Aime didn't think to ask why Tollin, a minotaur, was helping. Quite frankly, they didn't care. "Look," said Aime, "some stone steps. We can get a better vantage point from up there!" Not bothering to ask what they wanted vantage on, they began to climb.

At the top, they found a shelf with several small pillars dotted around. They came at length to the edge of the shelf and turned around to look out over the grave yard. They could see clearly the army that had gathered in the centre, minuscule in comparison to the massive were army the Wizards had gathered. "Look!" cried Alli, pointing down the steps into the over growth bellow.

Smilog looked and beheld a figure, like an old beggar man, bent over a staff, wearing a long brimmed pointed hat. In other lands they would have greeted him with kind words, but here they stood silent, each feeling a strange expectancy. Something was approaching that held a great power or menace.

No longer able to contain himself, Smilog yelped, "Your bow, Alli, shoot him quick! It's Palando!"

"Hail and well met!" came the voice from the old man, "may I come up that we may talk more easily?" without waiting for an answer, the old man leaped up the steps and before they knew it, he stood before them. An old man, dressed in brown with a long thorny staff. "Well met, I say again, friends." The man stepped up towards Aime and said, "do you not know who I am?"

"Erm..." said Aime, "Radagast the brown?"

"No!" cried the Old man, leaping back and lifting his hat.

"Alatar!" shrieked Smilog,

"Alatar..." mused the Wizard, "Alatar the blue, that was what they used to call me. I am Alatar the brown. I come back to you now, at the... erm... something of the tide." He looked out over the grave yard, "See, Palando! I told you rice salad could help!"

"So..." hummed Alli, "are you going to kill us?"

"Yes." replied Alatar.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The wind stirred about the shelf as Alatar the Brown stood as menacingly as he could before the group of odd individuals. Alli picked up a sword that was lying on the floor as a writer's convenience. Smilog drew his axe and Tollin his Morning star. Alatar raised his staff and laughed.

"Dost thou think that mortal blade canst harm me?" he cried, "thou fool! Thou FOOL! Do you not know death when you see it?" The earth trembled slightly as Alatar approached them. His brown robes began to whirl around as his wizardry began to take shape and his eyes blazed like a fire. Smilog lapped forward and swung his axe, but the Wizard moved his staff slightly and the dwarf was sent back down to the ground with a thud.

Alli held her sword up and said, "Before you kill us," she coughed, "I just need to know one thing. Why are you doing all this? Why Mordor?"

"It is coming!" replied the Wizard, "the battle."

"Yes," said Aime, "we can see that. There is that big army of yours over there."

"No," laughed Alatar, "the battle. The Dagor Dagroth. The end of the age. It is coming. Did you not hear the words of the seer?

'When the grey Wizard sheds his cloak
And the mountain is moved by dwarven folk
When the Black land is left abandoned
then the door of night will be opened.
War is begun by two powerful Mage
And thus will fall, the end of the age!'"

"Yes," coughed Aime, "but those are the words of Mal beer eth, the false seer. The only visions he had were from getting blind drunk."

"His methods were unusual," admitted Alatar, "but you cannot deny that some of it has come true. The wizard has shed his cloak... on many occasions. The dwarves have moved the mountain. War is begun by two powerful mage. Can you not see it is all coming true. The Dagroth is coming. We'd just like to be on the winning side."

"You're a loony," pointed out Smilog, "and your friend agrees does he?"

"Well..." Alatar thought for a moment, "why not? I think he does." The brown Wizard raised both his hands and grinned. " But now," he said, shaking his head, "Here we all end!"

"You first, old chap!" came a familiar voice, as a gold blade passed through Alatar's leg. The Wizard shrieked and fell down to his knees. The Barrow Wight crawled across the shelf to the other side, leaving a trail of blood as he went. Smilog stood up and kicked the Wizard in the face.

Alatar laughed, deeply and horribly. His face beamed brown light and his arms grasped his staff. The Wizard raised himself up and pointed his staff towards The Barrow Wight, saying, "You won't survive this time!" But at that moment, the sound of trumpets resounded around the grave yard. They were not the Wizards war horns. These were Gondorian horns.

The Wizard leaped off the shelf and ran as fast as he could back towards his army. Alli peered out in the direction the horn had come from and there she saw a group of nine riders, all dressed in purple with hoods over their faces. Their horses were jet purple with what she swore were yellow spots.

"What are they?" asked Smilog

"The farsegul," replied Alli,

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight.

[littlemanpoet]

Elempí had ducked behind a rock. Lûgnût was huddled beneath Elempí.

"What're you doing there, Lug?"

"It's safe by you, oh Grand Anakronist."

"But I'm not-"

A forlorn yet angry howl cut Elempí off in mid-denial.

Panakeia looked at them both, hands on hips and shaking her head. "Some warriors you two make."

"I'm not a warrior, I'm a lover."

"Shut up, Lûgnût," said Elempí, "and don't mimic my voice."

"What should we do?" Lûgnût whined.

"Stay out of the way of werewolves, sword wielding madmen, angry balrogs, and all-knowing omnipotent types. Not to mention armies."

"And watch out for Alatar the Brown and his purple riders," Panakeia said, pointing.

"But what should we dooooooo?" Lûgnût pleaded with irritating vehemence.

"Oh go snarl at somebody!" Elempí yelled dismissively.

Lûgnût pouted.

"Oh knock it off, Luggy, you're hopeless when it comes to battle and so am I. I belong in an ivory tower in Umbar. Or at least a jet black one, so long as it has books and scrolls and students that think my every word is golden gossamer lore. And you," he said to Panakeia, "quit standing there like you're disappointed that I'm not some kind of hero and come here out of the line of fire!" Elempí grasped her hand and pulled her beneath the rock. At least now the ugly Luggy cowering beneath him was offset by the winsome Panakeia beside him. He smiled.

[Celuien]

There were many unpleasant places in Middle-earth: the Dead Marshes, Barad-Dur before its fall (or so Panakeia had been told), a little tavern in anakronistic Mordor where men with unruly beards and strange devices drawn upon their arms wore black leather jackets and spoke of something called a Harr-Lee.

Panakeia would have preferred any of them to her present location. She had been standing in the midst of the battle, irritated by the absurdity of her companions. To start, Alli and company (Panakeia had not seen who was with the head spy) had slipped out a back door before she even had a chance to say hello. In Ego Toyota was continually shouting his name and announcing his fencing strategies to his opponents, giving them time to create a defense against his attack. The Blue Istari had mysteriously eschewed their usual colors for drab brown. And worst of all, Elempí was hiding under a rock with Lûgnût. Undoubtedly, under a rock was the safest place to be in all the mêlée, but oh! Wouldn't Anakron have been at the head of the battle putting these purple riders and whatever else turned up in their places, all the while with his black robes fluttering magnificently in the breeze?

A volley of flaming Crêpes Suzette flew at Panakeia's head, and Elempí snatched her hand to pull her behind the rock. There was an odd smile on his face.

Panakeia sighed. This was all still terribly confusing. Anakron. Elempí. They were one, and yet so different. Anakron had, of course, been her One True Love. But he was gone forever, replaced by his grinning alter-ego.

The battle grew. Arrows began to land around the stone and an ominous brown light flashed all around.

She had to tell him. Now. Before it was too late.

"Elempí...I...I..." Words failed her.

"What's the matter?"

"I...You asked me before if I was glad to see you." She looked down at the ground. "The answer is...Oh, Elempí! How could I be anything but glad to see you? It was you I loved all the time - you were the part of Anakron I always struggled to bring out. I don't know if we'll ever make it out of here, but I wanted you to know that. I love you."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The purple riders were at the head of the great army, Pallando the Blue and Alatar the brown were stood somewhere in the midst of things, grinning like mad-men. A horn sounded, then another, and another until the whole land was filled with the ringing noise. The army began to move; rank upon rank, battalion upon battalion, an endless sea of foes. Drums boomed and fell voices cried out. Banners were unfurled and swords were drawn. The Were creatures howled.

The Dwarf and his little band of odd folk stood atop the central hill in the graveyard. The leader of the Mordorian army that were alone here to defend them shivered in his armour. Alli gulped deeply and Aime took hold of a sword. Tollin finished putting The Barrow Wight back together and then drew his Morning Star.

"So," he sighed, "here at last is the end." Tollin breathed deep and looked out over the grave yard.

This was the fashion of the graveyard before the beginning of the battle: it was about a half mile in diameter, circular (almost) and containing many tombs. Grave stones were dotted all about the hillside and atop the great hill was a flattened slab, under which was buried some significant person who probably appeared in ATM 1. There were four gates; North, South, East and West. A fence of iron surrounded the place and spikes of steel had been forced into them.

The army of the Istari was surrounding the Graveyard; the noise of their trampling shook the bones of all who heard it. One of the Farsegul stood at each of the entrances, their purple robes looking like they had been preserved for years just for this moment. But so vast was that force that it was unlikely that they would be finished soon.

All of a sudden, there was a commotion below the hill. Smilog looked down and saw a strange figure forcing his way through the army of Mordor. It was a man who looked battle worn and swamp ridden. He fell at the feet of the Dwarf and panted like a dog who has swum the Anduin lengthwise... against the current.

"Andvari!" cried Smilog, "I thought you were dead."

"Nay, not so," he replied, raising to his knees, "but come, I have found the final clue. The greatest Gold hoard is in our grasp! Come away from this place and have gold a plenty!" The man's eyes seemed to be full of tears and desperation. He panted more and laid a hand on Smilog's shoulder, "We can escape through the tunnels and come to the hoard in a day or two. Shall we leave now?"

The Barrow Wight pointed out over the graveyard and said, "Sorry, Old bean, but can't you see we're a bit busy?"

"And can't you see that I am trying to save your friend from death?" Andvari shook his fists. But then, as if catching himself, he turned back to Smilog and smiled hopefully. "The gold is beyond count, sir."

Smilog stroked his beard and then turned his gaze all about. He looked at the forces of Mordor, gathered against all hope to fight to the death. Tollin, who, until recently, had spent his life in a labyrinth, now ready to die for the same lord who made him live there. The Barrow Wight who... Actually, he wasn't sure why he was here, but it was probably for some knobel and interesting cause.

"I'm sorry," said Smilog, "I have a thing to do here. It may be that I shall die here, this day. But this doom I take. Keep your gold, I do not want it." The eyes of Andvari widened in horror. He turned his head right and left, whimpering.

"You must come!" he cried, "they'll kill me it you-" he stopped and looked away, biting his lip.

"Who?" asked Alli, "who will kill you?"

Andavri made no answer, but stared at the ground. Eventually, he looked up and laughed a deep and haunting laugh. "My masters ordered it!" he cried, "Allatar told me, 'Take the Dwarf far away! He will get in our way. Tempt him with visions of gold and take him away and kill him.' So it was that I have followed you since the beginning. Oh, yes! But if you will not come away..." he sprang forward and landed upon Smilog. There was a yelp of pain and then Tollin tore the man away from the Dwarf. In his hand, Andvari held a knife, now stained with blood.

Smilog cried out in pain and Aime picked him up. The man laughed as the Mordorians pointed their spears at him. "Fools!" cried Andvari, "Fools! You cannot see it can you? Now there is no hope. The Dwarven army will not come for one of their kin shall not be in the battle."

"Yes they shall," cried the leader of the Mordorians, "We saw them mustering not one night ago. They will march with war against the Were creatures. They will be here before dawn."

Andvari twitched in Tollin's grasp. His plans were failing. But then, it seemed, that he laughed, or a voice from within him laughed. He raised his face and they saw that it was white and that his eyes were gone. Then, slowly, he began to chant:

The Great Hound Barked and the world turned white,
The Great Hound Sighed and the forest died,
The Wizard Blew His Horn. The Wizard Blew His Horn.
The snow snake hissed and the world turned round,
The snow snake grinned in his fine cold sin,
When The Wizard Blew His Horn. The Wizard Blew His Horn.
The horse wept blood and the earth did groan,
The tall horse reared from a lake of tears,
To seek a Champion. To seek a Champion.
The world was bleak and the Earth did fear,
The Wizard's Horn, the magic Horn.
So it screamed for a champion! It screamed for a champion!
The eagle laughed and the world grew black,
It stretched giant claws and it snatched the Law!
And the Champion stirred in his sleep! The Champion stirred in his sleep!

Andvari laughed and it seemed that a shadow grew about him.

"Look!" cried Alli, pointing to the North Gate. There stood Pallando with a great horn in his hand. He placed it to his lips and blew. The sound was like a thousand war drums and a thousand screams of terror. Andavri seemed to grow in stature, his face becoming like a hound. He was a Were wolf!

Thus began the Great Battle of the Grave Yard, of which many songs are sung. Few, correctly.
Will our heroes survive until dawn?

[littlemanpoet]

"I love you."

Panakeia had said the words Elempí had hoped to hear ... some day. Today it seemed all too soon, and he was shocked.

"Oh boo hoo hoo!" blubbered Lûgnût. "I'm in romance heaven and all my vicarious dreams have been fulfilled! Kill me now! Boo hoo hoo!"

"Get hold of yourself!" Elempí said. "Nobody's going to kill you. Go find an Orcette somewhere and have your own romance. Just wait till after the battle."

He turned to Panakeia, his little speech to the ninny having given him a wee bit of time to get a grip on his own situation. For he felt something like courage rising from deep inside. It was something he had been sure was part of Anakron, but now that he knew she loved him, he felt like he could face anything, for her, and as long as she was there to stand with him. It was downright derring do! He smiled at her.

"Never doubt my love for you, Panakeia, my Valinor, my Silmaril! Together we can face anything! Even this battle. Come! Let's join the others. All we need is swords!"

"Oh boo hoo hoo!" cried Luggy.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Andvari's form grew great and terrible. Fear went before him and dread followed his wake. All fled before before his face. All, save one. One figure, tall and broad with a heavy morning star drawn forth stood firm and would not flee before the Champion of Were Creatures.

The Barrow Wight leappad down the hill in amongst the hundreds of soldiers who rushed towards the army of Were Creatures who still poured into the grave yard. On his back, he bore Smilog the Dwarf. Smilog's eyes were bloodshot and his breath was short. He groaned and the rough ride went on. Yet, fortune had an odd plan for them, for at that moment, The Barrow Wight tripped on a stone and he fell forwards; Smilog landed on top of a large creature that was blubbering to itself.

Smilog lifted his head and cried out. Elempi quickly turned from what he was doing and stared at the Dwarf. The Barrow Wight scampered to his side and said, "I say, aren't you that Wizard chap?"

"Erm..." said Elempi, "sort of." Smilog cried out again, as his wound seemed to throw forth more blood. The Dwarf clutched at his shoulder and shrieked in pain. Elempi bit his lip and knelt beside the Dwarf. "There is some devilry in his wound," he said, "Dwarves are sturdy folk and should survive such a wound easily."

"Well?" said The Barrow Wight,

"Well what?"

"You know... do some jiggery pokery and get him on his old feet again."

"Jiggery pokery?"

"Or what ever the devil it is."

~~~

Tollin swung his morning star left and right, snarling as he did so. Andvari stood up tall in all his might; his great arms spread out and his fierce head facing the sky. The Wolf let out a mighty howl and then laughed. He reached behind his head and pulled a large sword from an unknown place (the tales say it was probably magic or something).

"You will not descend from this hill," growled Tollin, "If by my life or death I can hider thee, I shall. Get ye gone to the black abyss!" The Wolf laughed and swung his sword down at the Minotaur. Tollin leappad aside and lifted his Morning star up, spinning it on its chain. The great head of the weapon connected with the right arm of the beast. With a pain filled howl, Andvari thrust his arm into Tollin and pinned him to the ground with a single paw.

"Thou fool," grinned the Wolf, "Fool of fools! I am your doom! Die now and know that all thy trials are vain." In a fit of rage, Tollin bit the leg of Andvari, causing him to stumble backwards. Leaping in the air, the Minotaur swung his morning star down upn his adversary. But Andvari stopped his blow with his mighty sword and he let forth a deafening cry.

A tremor ran through the earth beneath them. Something was on the move. Andvari looked northwards and with his keen sight he saw the Dwarven host fast approaching. With a snarl, the were wolf struck out at Tollin, but he ducked and rolled between the feet of Andvari and then leaped upon his back.

With a cry, Tollin swung his Morning Star down upon the head of Andvari. There was a crack and a thud as the creature fell. Tollin stood atop the great beast and looked down at his fallen foe. With a cry, he leaped down the hill and passed all the forces of Mordor. He swung his great weapon, sweeping aside foes like leaves in a forest.

~~~

"What on earth is Jiggery pokery?" exclaimed Elempi. The Barrow Wight shrugged and stood up.

"You know, magic stuff." The Barrow Wight looked uneasily at the battle before them. "something that can at least get him on his feet for this dreadful thing."

Elempi looked up at Panakeia and sighed, "There is nothing I can do." he turned to the Barrow Wight, "I'm sorry." With bowed head, Elempi placed his hand on the Dwarf's shoulder and said, "I wish I could help. But all I remember is something about... oh, now it's gone again." He sighed again and muttered something under his breath.

With a suddenness that made them all leap back, Smilog sat up. The Dwarf looked at his shoulder and, though it was blood stained, there was no wound. "Looks like there is something left in you yet." said Panakeia.

"The Vala are merciful," muttered Elempi.

"Enough of this," shouted Smilog, drawing his axe, "to battle and death"

"To Death!" they all cried... Thus the winds of change began.

[the phantom]

****At Henneth Annûn****

"You may sit," said King Mardil II.

A dozen or so rough and tired looking Gondorians slumped into chairs surrounding a crude wooden table that nearly filled the small side chamber. Mardil, seated at the head, signaled to a waiting servant and soon the table was set with food and drink.

After the men had finished eating, Mardil rose and addressed them. "You have all performed your tasks admirably. When this crisis is passed and the need for secrecy is gone, your names will be known and honored throughout Gondor."

The men smiled grimly in acknowledgement. The man at the opposite end of the table rose and bowed to Mardil, and answered, "We thank you for your words, Lord. But know that you would have our service without promise of glory to come, or even the silver pieces that you provide as compensation for our efforts. The cause itself is worthy of all toil, and it is honor enough to play a part in ridding Gondor of injustice and evil."

The other men raised their glasses and let out a hearty "Aye!" and drank. Mardil nodded to the speaker. "You and the men of your house are true Gondorians, Bergil III. A happy day it was that King Elessar released Beregond from his service to be a blessing to the House of Stewards."

At that moment a messenger entered, bowed, and spoke to Mardil. "Your father sends his greetings and wishes to inform you that your wife and son are in good health. He also requests a word on the status of the plan."

"You may tell my father that all but one of my team of smugglers has returned. The one who was captured was apprehended entering Mordor, but was caught with nothing but the clothes on his back. He is loyal, and will not utter a word of our plan. And even if he does, it is too late for Roggie, the Blue Istari, or anyone else to stop us now. Operation Vaccine is nearly complete!" declared Mardil.

The messenger bowed again and exited the chamber.

"How soon will the final phase begin, Lord?" asked Bergil.

"When you and those under your command complete your final run into Mordor, I will announce a date for the... procedure," answered Mardil. "All the preparations are made. You have the final list, don't you?" Bergil nodded. "How long do you think this smuggling run will take? Six days?"

"That would be my estimate, sir," answered Bergil.

"Good," said Mardil, smiling in approval. "Go ahead and rest for the remainder of the day. My men will see that you have all the equipment and provender you need for the journey. You leave with the rising of the sun."

[Roggie of Morgoth]

Roggie was less than happy to be called from his steam sauna (originally a shower) to interrogate a political prisoner. He was willing to stake his power on the fact that he'd initially had others hired to do such things. However with Alli gone, the palace in regular motion, war on the brink...

He grumbled as he stalked into the dungeons.

"Man of Gondor, why are you in my country?" The prisoner did not respond, choosing rather to stare at the floor.

One of Roggie's representatives met his lord's eyes and spoke. "He carries nothing but that which is on his back, and this, m'lord."

He handed Roggie the spy's weapon, a beautifully crafted sword. Roggie inspected it with an eye for detail and spoke angrily. "What is your name, Ranger, and what is your business?"

The man did not speak.

Roggie demanded more harshly, leaning in to allow his own heat to draw sweat from the prisoner's brow. The man's discomfort was obvious. Roggie let a small ball of flame kindle within him, threatening. The man's eyes widened, but he did not speak. Even afraid, he was calm.

Roggie scorched the floor around his feet and the man cried out, "No!"

Roggie gestured violently, knocking his enemy's spy to the floor.

"Strip him," he said impatiently, "and find out what of his pretty little toes so delights him."

Roggie's guards were more than glad to find work, having been out of it so long. With Alli gone, their jobs had been to shuffle papers and look busy. One spoke again, hesitantly. "My lord, he said before you came, 'Rest assured that neither I nor my Lord wish to harm you or Mordorian citizens, but I cannot name my errand.' That is when we came for you. You know we would never normally bother you with such trifles..."

The Lord of Mordor grumbled, kindling slightly. He watched impatiently as the man's boots were removed. The man did not struggle, though he might have.

"My Lord!" cried one searcher, "he carries papers!"

Roggie did not touch them for fear of igniting them, but chose rather for the man who had found them to list their contents. If Gondor knew, so could his own men... whatever the contents.

"There is... my lord..." The man hesitated. Roggie growled and he continued. The Ranger spy watched the floor. "They are... drawings... and descriptions."

"Of what, minion? The palace? The casino? The countryside? Is Mardil trying to infiltrate? TELL ME!"

"They are, my revered lord... of a toaster, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Chuck Norris."

They questioned the Ranger, yet he refused to divulge his secret, though his name was given almost freely.

"Bergil," Roggie growled. "I have heard of you in my court."

After ordering Bergil to the dungeons for a prolonged period of uncertain incarceration with inattentive guards and less attentive cooks, Roggie disappeared to his chambers to mull.

Upon his desk he found a neatly printed letter, possibly from Lola, though it was uncertain. He had not seen her in a rather long time and had never quite learned to differentiate between her writing and anybody else's.

The sounds of his anger could be heard throughout the palace after he read that Mardil II had declared a Gondorian holiday for the following day, and that every person in the kingdom of Gondor was to travel to the nearest population center.

Roggie feared some dire stroke, but could not think what Mardil could possibly be hoping to achieve.

This post ended, consequently, on an uncertain note, with a smoking King of Mordor fuming in many literal ways within his study.

[Formendacil]

"Hyarmenwë! Lord Hyarmenwë!"

The old Gondorian heard his name being called, and stumbled slightly in his flight. Elrogorn grabbed his arm, and hauled him back to his feet before he could even begin hitting the ground.

"Do not listen!" said Elrogorn in a hiss, "it is a siren!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" said Maika, "that sounded nothing like a police car or ambulance."

"No, it sounded like Angawen," said Hyarmenwë.

"The snotty lady Gondorian?" said Maika.

"The same," said Hyarmenwë with a half-frown. "Angawen!" he shouted into the ever-darkening graveyard, "is that you?"

"Lord Hyarmenwë," pressed Elrogorn, "we really shouldn't pause."

"Right," said Maika. "If we're going to go through with foolishly making for the gates, let's get it over with."

[the phantom]

Mardil II looked up from his desk as his father, Denethor IV, entered the room. "We've been expecting you to join us for some time, son," said Denethor. "Are you almost finished? The entire household is ready to join the holiday throng."

"Yes, yes... I'm just finishing my instructions to Bregor and Gundor. They'll be leaving in the morning." Mardil dipped his quill into a bottle of ink and continued writing.

Denethor sighed and sat down across from Mardil. "So, you still think you can work with him?"

"Yes."

Denethor shook his head. "He's a balrog, Mardil. A BALROG! Nothing good has ever come from his kind. He can't be trusted. You ought- "

"We've been through this before," interjected Mardil. "My mind hasn't changed."

"You say he's not wholly evil, Mardil, but the fact remains that he is moody, aggressive, unreasonable, and is easily upset," argued Denethor. "I'm telling you, you can't deal with someone like that."

Mardil laid his quill aside, pushed his chair back, and rose to his feet. "You forgot one thing, father- Alli. She can deal with Roggie, and talk sense into him when no one else can. All I have to do is make her see the benefits of cooperation, and she will see that Roggie complies for his own good as well as hers."

"Oh, sure, Alli will be great help until the day that, in a fit of rage, Roggie squashes her and fries her to a crisp," retorted Denethor.

"That's never going to happen!" returned Mardil. "I've seen them together. Roggie would never hurt her. Maybe others, but not her."

Denethor stood, walked around the table, and placed his hands on his son's shoulders. "So, you truly believe in Alli's ability to influence Roggie enough to risk the lives of your two most loyal servants?"

"Yes," answered Mardil without hesitation. "And surely my willingness to entrust Roggie with the lives of my men will convince him further that I wish to work with him, and not against him."

Denethor squeezed Mardil's shoulders and smiled. "You are firm in your beliefs- just the way a King should be."

**********

All across the kingdom, in town after town, the residents of Gondor gazed in wonder at drawings and descriptions of anachronisms of all shapes and sizes. The collection of anachronisms was huge- the result of many many smuggling runs by Bergil and company. The rest of the collection was furnished by King Mardil himself, who had spent countless days and nights writing about the various anachronisms he saw during his stay in Mordor.

Slowly and surely, the entire population of Gondor was being vaccinated against the weakening dweomer. For, as Anakron had told Mardil behind closed doors, once an anachronism becomes commonly known in the real and present world, it loses its anachronistic power.

New assignments to Mordor fell to almost nothing overnight. The evil curse of the Blue Wizards was being undone. Roggie's realm was no longer growing.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog shivered and cowered below a tombstone. He looked at his blooded hands, shaking uncontrollably. He fought the tears that were welling in his eyes but he could not stop it. A thin hand gripped his shoulder and he yelped.

"Come along, old bean," said a kindly voice, "what's the matter with you?" it was The Barrow Wight and his sword was now deep red. Smilog avoided the Dead man's eyes and picked up his axe again.

"I've never killed anything before," he said slowly, "I felt so horrid." At that moment a great snarling werewolf leaped at them and Smilog immediately swung his axe wildly, not seeming to care that he was inches away from decapitating The Barrow Wight. The beast fell to the ground and made no further sound. Smilog fell to his knees, "What am I doing?" he cried.

"Courage," said The Wight, "you must have courage. There is nothing for it." he gripped the Dwarf by the arm and lifted him up. The whole graveyard was filled with the enemy and all seemed to be going wrong. The screams of the Mordorians as they were slaughtered filled Smilog's ears and he looked towards the south where he saw his father doing battle with a Wereduck. At last his nerves gave way to a feeling of duty. He leaped into the battle and did great deeds... so he said.

Tollin, with a fit of rage upon him, swung his morning scar left and right. He had come to the very end of the Were army. Behind him only the blackness of Mordor, before him the sea of foes. Sweeping were creatures aside like dead leaves on the forest floor. Even the very largest could not stand before him, his eyes were like fire and his face was terrible to behold. The Barrow Wight saw him as he decapitated a Werewolf. Thinking that next to Tollin would probably be the best bet for safest, he made his way towards the Minotaur, slashing as he went.

Pallando's face was set like stone. He could see that all was going well. If they could defeat this minotaur resistance before the dwarves arrived, then his victory would be assured. But he looked to where Tollin was, and saw that he would to great damage to his plans if not dealt with. None could get close to him. With a wide grin, Pallando poked Alatar and then pointed at the Minotaur. The Brown Wizard nodded and took out his bow.

With a suddenness that made some Were creatures step back, Tollin stopped his slaughter. The Barrow Wight rushed over to see what was happening, but two Mordorians stopped him. A long blue arrow stuck out from Tollin's chest. It burned him and was buried deep. He raised his Morning Star and swooped it across the line of foes that now approached, but another arrow soon hit him. Falling to his knees, Tollin cried aloud. The Were Creatures stepped back and whimpered slightly as he took up his weapon and killed three more.

A third and a fourth arrow soon followed. Tollin fell to the ground at the last and did no more. Satisfied, Allatar gave no more thought to him and turned his attentions to the rest of the battle. The Barrow Wight, on the other hand, dashed to Tollin's side and saw that he yet lived.

"Come on, old chap," he sniffed, "stiff upper lip, wot-wot?" Tollin smiled vaguely and looked up at the sky.

"Alas," he said, "this is my end, I fear."

"Don't say that," mumbled The Barrow Wight, "Let me get rid of those arrows and perhaps I'll find that Elempi chap."

"It's too late," Tollin sighed, "the arrows are poisoned anyway. My mind is going, I can feel it. Farewell, you old Wight. Do not vanish in the sunlight. Be sure to haunt your old barrow for many years. As for me, I go to a long rest. At the least, I have not spent my last moments in that blasted labyrinttthhhh. If only that Dwarf were here, I could thank him properly. Farewell, my friend, farewell"

Tollin smiled and breathed his last.

[Celuien]

The winds of change continued to blow, aided by the very large fans some of the Were-creatures had chosen to bring to the battle. Panakeia found the winds most annoying, as no matter which way she turned, her hair ended up in her eyes, sending her arrows (conveniently abandoned by an unnamed archer, who, mid-battle, had been recruited for the Mordorian Ollimpic Archery Team and so left the fighting behind) wild.

"Oww!" Luggie cried. Panakeia's arrow whizzed through his/her handkerchief and dragged the fabric betwixt its/their fingers. "You gave me a hankie-burn."

"Sorry." She shot another arrow in the air, but where it landed, she knew not where. Up and up it went into the sky, until it could be seen no longer. Most likely, it did not land in the side of an enemy.*

The Were-creatures pressed in from all sides. Panakeia was nearly out of arrows. What did it matter anyway? Outnumbered as they were, they were doomed. She ducked behind a tombstone with Elempí.

"What can we do? We're trapped and practically unarmed. Is this really the end?"

*It was later determined by the use of highly sophisticated and anakronistic physics equations that Panakeia's arrow was launched at an angle of exactly 72.6583 degrees from the graveyard surface with an initial velocity of 23.6 meters per second. Therefore, it should have followed the usual laws of projectile motion and landed 32.8 meters away from its starting point in Panakeia's borrowed bow after 4.658 seconds of travel. This, of course, does not account for air resistance, which was greater than usual on this day due to the effect of the winds of change.

No arrow was found in that location, but it is said that a mysterious arrow landed that day in a tiny Mordorian village far from the battle, and became the inspiration for a collection of love poetry. Was it the same arrow? To this day, the answer is not known.

[littlemanpoet]

Elempi knew that he no longer had the powers of Anakron, yet he had healed Smilog. It didn't make sense. How could it have happened? Had Smilog somehow healed himself? Did he have perhaps an accelerated recontitution of which he himself was unaware? Or did this have something to do with Illamatar? The moment the thought of Illamatar came into his mind, his hair folicles (those that remained) started tingling. Maybe it really was Illamatar!

Well, it was good information, if it were true, to keep in his hip pocket, as it were, for later. In the meantime, there were missiles of various kinds flying hither and yon, Panakeia loved him, and Luggie was being an ayessess yet again, and the blue wizards were brown, or was it purple? And planes flying high in the sky were sending out flares spelling strange words in the sky: "Mardil's Anti-Anakronism Innoculations - Free for the Taking" It felt like Arm-a-gettin'. So Elempi whipped out his #2 pencil - and flourished it in the air all around him as if it were a real sword. Too bad it didn't do him any good. Instead, it caught the attention of one of the Wizards, and a skein of power came at him just as his pencil was beginning a four beat measure to the tune of The Eighteen Twelve Overture playing in his mind. The skein made contact with the pencil, and .....

..... the skein scattered. Elempi stared at the pencil, unchanged.

"Hmm, do you suppose lead or graphite is proof against spells cast by rebellious Istari?"

"Duck!" cried Panakeia from not far away, and Elempi did so.

"No!" cried Panakeia again. "Duck at 3 o'clock!"

"Oh, that kind of duck," Elempi commented, but was tackled to the ground by said Duck before he could do a thing. Duck proceeded to beat on Elempi with its bill, armed as it was with rather long, dripping canines. Elempi's face screwed up in disgust at the thought of a teeth-equipped duck even as the stuffing was being beaten out of him.

"Watch out for the glasses!" Elempi cried.

"Oh, sorry," said the duck, and proceeded to smash up his face but studiously avoiding his glasses.

"Much thanks," said Elempi through puffing lips. He wondered if Luggie might get his manhood back in time to save him. Then he passed out.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The dead body of Tollin lay, as most dead bodies do, still. Most dead bodies, mind you. One dead body was stood up besides him with a sword drawn, beating off the approaches of several were creatures. The Barrow Wight swung his golden sword this way and that, slicing heads, arms and faces wherever he saw them. But as he laughed in the midst of battle, he heard the neighing of a horse. To his horror, a great purple rider drew up before him, holding aloft a mighty sword.

The Farsegul laughed and pulled back its hood, yet there was no head, only a small potato floating where a brain should probably have been. Above the potato was a crown seemingly made of lettuce. It laughed again and said in a voice cold and terrible, "Old fool! Do you not know death when you see it?"

"Well, actually-" began the wight,

"Die now and curse in vain! This is my hour!" The sword of the Farsegul burst into flame and its horse let forth a bellow. The flames stopped and the Purple Rider coughed, "Sorry about that," he admitted, "the horse has been eating too many peas. It's got a bit of wind, you see. But anyway, you will die!"

The Pink horse was spurred at the Barrow Wight, but he leaped aside just in time and sliced the head from the hideously dressed creature. Up from the ruin rose the purple figure, its sword in hand and its potato a flame. "You!" he cried, "You have killed my steed!"

"I know," answered the Barrow Wight, "cutting off heads usually does the trick."

"Don't be fascias," snapped the Farsegul, "I am the lord of the purple Riders. The Wizard Emperor, I am. Witch King had been taken apparently." Thus their swords met in battle and for a time, the Barrow Wight was beaten back, and forced to his knees by the strength of the creature. The sword was pointed at the neck of The Barrow Wight, "Dead man," cried the Rider, "Only by a dead sword canst thou die. So Die now, be you living or dead." He raised the blade to strike, but he stopped.

Horns! Horns on the hills! The Dwarves had arrived!

***

The skies were filled with strange signs and messages and it was not long before Smilog's head began to swim. Khuz was laughing in the heat of battle, hewing off feet and heads when they came low enough. Smilog felt sick. So much blood. So many screams. He had got into diplomacy to avoid this sort of thing and now he was in the thick of the thing he had most feared. Chopping another Werewolf in half he cried aloud, "How long will this night endure?"

"About five hours," said a voice, "Fear not, oh Smilog, son of Khuz, the time is coming when you must face great perils."

"No thanks," he replied, "great pearls, now that's another matter."

"Listen to me," the voice grew louder, "not for nought didst thou find thy way to being assigned to Mordor. Indeed, hast thou not seen the signs in the sky? The Wizard's fall is near."

"Now, do you mean 'wizard's' plural or singular?" asked Smilog as another Were duck fell to his axe, "because there are a bleeding lot of wizards around and I for one would-" He stopped and listened. The horns were heard on the winds. The Dwarves were near! The Dwarven host was here!

[Diamond18]

Upon entering the graveyard, Skittles tripped and fell into an open grave.

She landed facedown upon a fresh corpse, which was somewhat unnerving. The body was wrapped in cloth, but a stench still clung to the obscured figure. She struggled free and stood up, panting. "Hissyfit!" she cried. "Hissyfit! I've fallen!"

In a few minutes, the triangular face of her trusty friend appeared at the edge of the rectangular patch of sky. "Apparently," Hissyfit remarked dryly.

"The grave is too deep to climb out," Skittle complained. "I need help."

Hissyfit yawned. "I don't have opposable thumbs, I don't see what you expect me to do."

"Find someone who does!"

"Oh very well," Hissyfit sighed, looking very put out. Her face disappeared, and Skittles settled down to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

For a time, Skittles amused herself by forming shapes out of the damp, freshly churned earth. Then that became boring, and she peeked inside the wrapping to look at the corpse, which looked about as good as it smelled. She let her imagination wander, envisioning various ways to kill Hissyfit. The stench became more and more overwhelming, and darkness took her. The stars wheeled overhead, and every minute was as long as a life age of the earth.

Eventually, she began to see the folly in waiting. For a cat. So she mustered all the strength in her pale arms and dug her hands into the loamy walls of her prison. For a moment or two it seemed as if she would be able to scale said walls, but then it came loose in her hands and she fell back. Cursing, she stood and brushed herself off.

A wereduck flew overheard, blood dripping from its beak, and Skittles gaped upwards. New resolve struck her, and she screamed like a madwoman (fittingly) as she again attempted to claw her way to freedom.

Several more times she flung herself at the walls, only for the dirt to tumble down around her. This gave Skittle an idea, for she was both insane and resourceful. She unwrapped the body and wrenched one arm from its decaying socket. It made a rather disgusting squelchy noise, but Skittles had no time to waste on squeamishness. She began to hack away at the dirt with the exposed humerus, causing a cascade of falling earth to accumulate around her.

Eventually, after an immeasureable time spent digging with her macabre tool, Skittles succeeded in widening the grave and knocking down enough dirt to raise her towards the surface. She dropped the arm and scrambled out of the grave.

Hissyfit lay nearby, curled up on a fleece blanket, purring in her sleep.

Skittles said something to her, which I cannot repeat, but roughly translated, meant, "What are you doing?"

Hissyfit awoke and yawned. "Oh, so sorry," she said. "Someone just happened to leave that blanket lying there and I was done for. (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v226/sarahlitarose/getfuzzy200611195199.jpg)"

"Argh!" Skittles cried, but made no move to act on her previous fantasies. She could not harm her somewhat-faithful companion, as much as she might wish to.

She spat mud out of her mouth and wiped her face, then, drawing forth a switchblade, went to look for someone to punish.

She came across an army of Orcs, and slaughtered them. Then she lay waste to a flock of wereducks. A pack of werewolves sought to eat her, and she left them in various stages of bloodied ruin. She met a terrifying creature with a bouquet of flowers for a head, and sprayed it with industrial strength weedkiller. Insert whatever other foes were lurking about the graveyard, and imagine a suitable fate for them [here].

Eventually, exhausted, she lay down her weapons, and fell asleep underneath a tombstone in the likeness of the Eiffel Tower. She had many dreams as she slumbered there; one in which she floated on a sea of poppies, one in which Tom Felton professed his undying love for her whilst juggling flaming accordians, and one in which a wheel of cheese came to life and tried to eat her.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli caught sight of Skittles through the battle and from then on, her almost reliable friend had her undivided attention. A mistake had not been made when Roggie declared the woman warlordess, for she was fully more than capable of rendering once terrifying armies to states much worse than death. Alli watched bloody piles of former bad guys whimpering throughout the graveyard as Skittles passed them by, with Hissyfit daintily avoiding getting blood on her paws.

Not very long later, Alli saw Skittle fall down upon a grave and rushed to her aid, all enemies between them having been conveniently hacked and slashed. Alli knelt beside her and wiped away blood (which turned out not to belong to Skittles) and found herself at knife point.

"Skittles, it's me, Alli. Please don't flick the blade."

"How do I know," Skittles said accusingly, "that you are not just another werecreature cleverly disguised to look like Alli?"

"Because... um... you cat likes me?"

And true enough, Hissyfit was twining about Alli in an affectionate and distinctly undignified manner. Alli had always been this way with cats, really, and she was happy to know that Hissyfit was no exception. Until Skittles spoke again.

"Yes, well... Hissyfit is probably now WereHissyfit and is just cosseting up to her own kind." Skittles moved a finger threateningly over the switch of the blade and Alli refused to lose her immense cool by looking nervous.

"Come off it, Skit, I could tell you your life story if you wanted to. I'm the one who bliddy hired you for this job and let me tell you it's pretty you got us out of that battle. Why weren't you here sooner? I mean, now that you've killed all the bad guys, we can end the climactic battle scene and everyone can write their denouements so we can finish this story once and for all!"

"You woke me up." Skittles muttered obtusely.

"Like you were really sleeping when I got here." Alli shot back.

"I was dreaming of cheese."

"I'll get you a big brick of the stuff later, just come on, will you? The Phantom's got some concluding to do with Roggie before we can write 'El Fin' and forget this adventure ever really happened."

"You employ ghosts!?" The knife was again at Alli's throat.

"No... I mean..."

"Who is The Phantom?"

"I don't know. I mean... I've never heard the name before in my life. It just came to me. I think..."

The graveyard around them, bloody and dark, twisted, and perfect for not very nice occurances, suddenly turned the most brilliant shade of Good Gold (a quality of light trademarked by Deities Unlimited), cleaning itself faster than Tom Felton could have flicked a wand and said that cleaning spell Tonks used on Harry's stuff in that chapter in Book Five where the Order shows up at Privet Drive. Alli looked in wonder at the new and improved setting: graves stood straight, fresh graves were filled with dignity, and daffodils and daisies sprouted up with seemingly unnatural speed. The sun came out ("But I thought it was night?") and the world seemed to play that dawn melody, you know the one, it's got flutes to symbolize birdsong, and maybe an organ or something, but it does that thing with the crescendo and then a flock of song birds flitter away into the changing sky while maybe a small herd of deer blinks pastorally from their perfectly innocent persuits...

Alli was slightly blinded by the Good Gold, but she grinned.

"Illamatar. You couldn't have helped sooner?"

"Baa."

"Come off it. You know English. You even know Mordorian and Gondorian. Get with it. And who's The Phantom, and what's he got to do with Roggie?"

"Oh fine." The etherial llama who had appeared between Alli and Skittles, harmlessly impaling his incorporial form on Skittles's unopened knife, settled into place. "I thought that since the battle ended (Good Guys winning, of course), and the werecreatures were destroyed, and all danger had passed, I could give you back your Seer powers without it unnecessarily effecting the outcome of the story."

"Are you kidding me? Do you REALIZE how much it would have helped if I'd been able to foresee any of this stuff? Do you REALIZE HOW MANY PEOPLE WOULDN'T HAVE DIED!??!?!"

Alli shrieked hysterically, taking out her anger on Illamatar. He merely yawned.

"Go forth, young Alli," (she grumbled about being called young), "and finish this story. A contract must be signed and all characters must have, what we call in the Undying Lands, Their Final Word."

And so it was that every single character, none excluded, was conveniently transported to wherever their author had in mind to write their final scene (or two, if they're just going to be that way), with no care paid to logic, continuity, or anything else.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

When the army of the Dwarves had met the Were creatures there had been an almighty noise. Swords smashed, Axes hacked through heads, shields were splintered and there was the ever present shouting of dwarven voices. Dashing through the field, Smilog had met with the Dwarven King, Dave, and had told him all he knew of Mount Zoom and the plot of the Istari.

The Lord of the Farse Gul rode forth and stopped before the Dwarven King and Smilog. He laughed and threw back his hood, revealing, once again, the potato head and odd crown.

"Now comes the hour of doom!" cried the Farsegul King, "by my hand, oh Dwarven King, your doom now comes." He raised his sword and let forth a great screech of bone chilling depth and pain. The Potato headed one leaped down from the horse and stepped towards the Dwarven King. Dave lifted his axe in challenge to the creature, but a kick from the Lord of the Farsegul rendered the Dwarf floor bound. Placing his foot on the neck of Dace, the Farse gul raised his sword and plunged it down.

"No-ooo!" cried a voice, old and strain. Khuz leaped in the way of the sword and took the blow to his heart. Smilog cried out and swung his axe at the Farsegul, but his blade passed through the neck area.

"HA-ha-ha!" boomed the Farsegul, "No living creature can kill me!"

"Then its a good job I am there then, wot-wot?" The Barrow Wight stood before them with a bow and arrow. He fired. The arrow shot through the air with odd precision for a man with only half a left eye. Straight through the potato it sailed, carrying it far off into the middle of the battle where it had fallen upon a torch, burst into flames and been hacked at by frightened Were creatures. One Were duck picked up a slice and tasted it. He was about to shout 'Urica!' as he had just invented crisps, but was carefully cut to pieces by an insane Skittles.

The Farsegul fell pathetically to the ground and did not move another muscle. If it had any muscles. Which it didn't. Ahem...

Khuz lay dead upon the feild of battle, the rest of the Dwarves flooded into the Graveyard, but soon found that they were not needed. Smilog knelt next to his father and looked into his dead eyes. The Dwarf slowly stood to his feet and then dropped his axe to the ground. Tears filled his eyes as he watched the Good Gold stream into the Graveyard. The Barrow Wight threw the bow and arrow away and walked up to where Smilog stood.

All was still and silent. Looking back, The Barrow Wight could see that they were nearly half a mile away from the Grave yard. The barren wastes of Mordor was all about them, only a refection of the good gold came their way. Smilog was silent. The Barrow Wight lifted his head and nearly fell back, a tall figure stood before them, his wild hair and terrible eyes looked like the very pits of Angband. Blue fire seemed to envelop him and the staff he held seemed to be made of white stone.

"Death!" cried Alatar, "Death take you all! DEATH!" he lunged at Smilog, but the Brown Wizard was stopped by the Barrow Wight who held forth his golden sword. The cold dead light that had once filled the dead man's eyes was gone, now there was a bright white light that shone forth. Alatar stepped back.

"Leave this place," said the Wight, "you have no business here. Let the dead lie in peace." In a flash, Alatar vanished. The Barrow Wight sighed and looked to Smilog. The Dwarf was walking away towards the north. "Where are you going?" The Barrow Wight asked.

"I know not," replied Smilog, "so much has happened these last few days that I do not understand. They say that there is a man upon the Mountains of Cirath Ungol who can help those who have lost their lives and yet live. They call him Séar the Seer in Gondor, others call him Phil the Career counselor."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Mount Zoom is not my place. It never was. Roggie I always despised and avoided. My father was right, that job killed me. Although, it is he that has died in life. I live and yet know not why. Where is Tollin?"

"He is dead."

"Ah." Smilog sat down on a stone and sighed, "I thought as much, you know. What would have happened if I had never found him in that Labyrinth? I expect he cursed my name with his last breath."

"Nay, not so." The Barrow Wight placed his sword back in its place, "He thanked you for letting him live his last days in insanity." There was a pause. "Or something like that. Now, Séar the Seer, you say. Which way is he?"

Never again was Smilog the Dwarf seen in Mordor or Gondor. But, on the 23rd of December, five years later, The Barrow Wight returned to his home with an old, shaggy Dwarf holding a broom. It was said that the Barrows had never been so clean.

[littlemanpoet]

From graveyard battlescene nightmare to Good Golden Day Elempi suddenly found himself in autumn mildness amidst the Eat all yen fountains of Can Sing Ton Guard Inns. Elempi was standing before a yellow stone gazebo which stood at one end of the fountain pools. He looked away form the building and saw Panakeia at the far end of the walkway between two pools, and she was dressed in white, holding a bouquet.

"Panakeia? What happened? How did we get here? Where'd you get that awesome gown?"

"Psst! Anakron!"

Anakron? Elempi turned around and saw Lûgnût standing proudly in a black tuxedo (an orc in a tuxedo is an incongruence that one cannot get prepared for), and Elempi gasped at the sight. But he kept enough wits about him to say, "Don't call me that! I'm Elempi!"

"Oh whatever," Luggie waved dismissively. "This is your wedding, silly! And look at the luscious maid of honor!"

Elempi had noticed the orc dressed in a saffron gown, but had tried to ignore it, for there is only one thing harder to get used to than an orc in a tux.

"If this is a wedding," Elempi argued obtusely, "where are all the guests and what about the music?"

"Do you expect them to stand in the pools?" Luggie protested. "Look!" Luggie gestured to all four sides of the Eat all yen fountains, where stood hundreds of orcs, trolls, dwarves, humans, and Gondorians, too. Even Roggie stood at the back of the crowd, nodding benevolently. There were Alli, Aimíe, Skittles, and Igor.

"But I didn't propose properly! And where's my ring?"

At that moment, triumphant organ music let loose from the gazebo and anyone that had not been standing stood up. Panakeia started her slow march down the central walkway. All eyes were on her.

[Celuien]

Panakeia felt the heat of the crowd's gaze on her white-clad figure. She blushed. This was all so unexpected! One moment, she had been on the edge of defeat, lost in the midst of a battle and the next - she was here, wearing the exact gown she'd spotted in a shop window (and fitting perfectly!), and waiting to walk down the aisle at last. How was it possible? Was this even real, or had she indeed fallen in the battle, leaving this scene to be the last fevered imagining of her dying brain?

A whiff of chicken-scented breath from the Orcish maid of honor assured Panakeia that this was no dream.

"Go on, then," the Orc half whispered, half giggled. "Best not to keep them waiting."

Panakeia put one foot forward. Even the shoes were perfect - a pair of the very same shining, white, rhinestoned creations she had longed for. Everything was just as she'd imagined it.

But then, in a whirl of skirts and petticoats, she turned and fled without a word, leaving the guests to stare puzzledly after her.

"Gosh," said Lûgnût. "I wonder what that was about."

To be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

Elempí's jaw dropped. His eyes bugged out. He looked very unprofessorial. Especially in a groom's tux. What was Panakeia doing? It was obvious that she was high tailing it, as impressively as any white tail deer, out of the wedding. But what was she doing it for? Elempí was so dumbstruck that he didn't even bother to correct his ungrammatical thought.

Once over the initial shock, his eyes began to rove here and there, noticing the huge throng gathered there, half of them watching the receding high tail of Panakei'a headdress, half of them watching Elempí to see what his reaction would be. How embarrassing! He wanted the Fountains to leap up and drag him down under water. He was humiliated. Humilitated, even. Homogenized and horrificated. Subliminealized. Stumped. His legs gave way and he fell in a heap on the walkway.

"Woe is me. She doesn't love me. She has run away because she has realized just in time that she doesn't want to marry me." Someone kicked him in the leg. Hard. "Ouch!"

"Get up, you ninny!" cried Lûgnût. "She wants you to chase her down! Any orc can see that! She's behaving like any lovestruck orc-lass, she wants to be caught and tackled and pulled brought back by the whisker hairs."

"Don't be silly. Especially when it's disgusting," Elempí grumped. "She doesn't love me."

Lûgnût kicked him again. "Get up, you lousy excuse for an orc!"

"I'm not an orc!"

"Thank Illamatar! You'd make an awful one! Now go get your orc-lass and bring her back!"

"My woman, you mean."

"Whatever, just do it!" Lûgnût turned to the crowd, who had hunkered down close as they could to catch every word. "What do you say everybody, should Elempí go tackle his bride?!?"

"Yes!!!!" came the roaring reply, "Tackle the bride!" The words formed a chant. "TACKLE - THE - BRIDE! TACKLE - THE - BRIDE! TACKLE - THE - BRIDE!"

"All right! All right! Enough already!" Elempí dragged himself back to his feet and began to walk the way Panakeia had run.

"You better run!" cried Lûgnût. As if on cue, or queue, or mind the gap, or whatever, the band that had showed up for the reception, "Plink Foyd", started riffing on Lûgnût's words, and the lead singer was really getting into it.

"You better run all night and run all day....! ..... Run Run Run Run Run!" Mysteriously, a Wall started abuilding right behind the group on which videos of screeching lorries and varied misbehaving hooligans careened from scene to scene. Elempí couldn't help but get into the spirit of it, and he began to run.

[Celuien]

Many heads turned to watch the spectacle of Panakeia running down the high street in her wedding regalia. It wasn't everyday, after all, that a runaway bride turned up.

Out of breath and with aching feet, Panakeia ducked down an alley and leant against a tiny blue building. She ruefully pulled off she shoes, still sparkling under a layer of dust acquired during her flight. This was not the happily-ever-after ending she had wanted. But neither was the garishly over-perfect wedding she had fled. True, it might have been something taken directly from a magazine. But after so many struggles - the battle, Anakron's identity switch, death and undeath - it wasn't right at all. Panakeia simply wanted to leave Mordor fade into a quiet obscurity with her beloved Elempi, never to be heard from again. Except, perhaps, as a rumor in an epilogue.

But would that ever happen now? Panakeia hoped that Elempi would understand her flight was not about doubts about him, but had only been because she was overwhelmed by the setting. If only he could find her now!

But Panakeia wasn't entirely sure that she could find herself. The route she had taken had been haphazard, and Panakeia hadn't been paying great attention to her path. She was lost. She would have to contact someone - somehow!

The answer came as she looked up at the tiny blue building. Public call. She could try to call someone from there, and hope that she could make it back to the Can Sing Ton Guard Inns in time to explain things. Even if it wasn't exactly what she wanted, the noisy display was better than missing her wedding entirely.

Panakeia tried the door. It wouldn't budge. That made no sense at all. Why would it be locked? She tried again, shoving against the door with all her might, and closed her eyes as a curious tingling sensation passed over her.

When she opened her eyes again, Panakeia gasped. This couldn't be the inside of the tiny box. It just wasn't possible.

"What?" she cried.

"What?" came a louder, equally surprised answer from behind an odd structure in the centre of the spacious room. A man in a suit came out from behind the...thing, waving a small, blue-glowing device in front of him. "Not again. Why is it always brides?" He waved the device in fron of Panakeia, and she stepped back.

"What?" she said again, meaning to say, "What is that? And what is this place? And...what are you talking about?" For the man was speaking again, and Panakeia couldn't make any sense out of his rapid commentary.

"Been around things pulled out of time, have you? Leaves a trace. Particles. Sort of a magnetic effect. Must have been what pulled you in here. There. That ought to fix it." He kept waving the little glowing thing in front of her.

Panakeia gasped again as a tiny glowing stream of dust rose from her gown and trickled away across the room.

"You wouldn't happen to want to go to Chiswick, would you?"

"Chiswick? What? No. I was in the Can Sing Ton Guard Inns."

"At your wedding. And you don't want to be late. Right then!" He ran back to the middle of the room and threw a switch.

There was a sudden lurch, and Panakeia nearly lost her footing. Then another lurch, and the man ran back across the room to fling open the door. They were in the Guard Inns, only a little way from the Eat all yen fountains.

"There you are." Panakeia, feeling rather dazed, stepped out the door. She whirled to see it close behind her, and her jaw dropped as the blue box faded into thin air.

She continued to stare, spellbound, at the spot where the box had been, until a noise from the fountains roused her from her daze. Lûgnût and a few scattered guests were running up to her.

The orc started to ask a thousand questions, but Panakeia cut it off with one of her own.

"Where's Elempi?"

"Tsk, tsk," the orc smirked. "Ran away from your own wedding."

"Where is he?" she repeated crossly, in no mood for delay. She needed to explain to Elempi.

"Off looking for you."

Panakeia groaned.

[littlemanpoet]

Elempí ran until his legs ached, then jogged until he could not keep his breath, then walked until he realized that he had no idea where Panakeia might have got to.

"Well that was ripping silly!" he said aloud to himself in his best imitation of Limey dialect (such things were notorious in Dweomer ridden Mordor).

He looked around. He was near a big building surrounded by a tall black wrought iron fence, outside of which was a sign reading Wessman Stabby. A red-robed almbudsman orwhateveryoucallit stood by a gate in the fence, allowing some people through and turning others away (sometimes with an entertainingly swift kick). Elempí went up to him.

"Pardon me sir," he attempted in his best imitation British, "did you happen to see a - erm - bride run by?"

The redrobed man's thick gray brow rose. "A bride, you say?"

"Yes," Elempí nodded encouragingly.

"Running, you say?"

"Yes sir," Elempí nodded even more encouragingly.

"Whatever for?"

Elempí sighed. He was going to have to explain. "We are to marry, sir."

"I dare say not, if she's running, don't you know!" The almbudsman laughed at his own wittiness.

"Sir," Elempí attempted again with extreme patience, "did you see her?"

"Ah, um .... No. I should say not."

"Oh. Well, thank you anyway. I must be-"

"But there was a white robed nun came in just before you got here, and I thought to meself how frilly a nun's getup it seemed."

"Well that might be her then, wot?"

"I'm thinking that it might indeed."

"Spendid! May I go in?"

"I should say not!"

"No? Why not, sir?"

"It's a special day. Rites and observances and all that. Can't go in if you're looking for your bride."

"Oh. But if I was going in to observe the rites, then I could go in?"

"Yes."

"Well then, may I go in?"

"What for?"

"To observe the rites this special day, sir!"

"By all means. In you go!"

"Many thanks, sir!"

"Mind you watch out for the statues! They're a bit lively today!"

Elempí hustled into the Stabby, wondering what on earth the man could mean. He passed through the oversized double doors and found himself in a spacious hall. All manner of men and women were walking about, wearing all manner of styles and periods of costume. There were many empty pedestals. And all the personages seemed to have a gray cast to them. That would make it relatively easy to find a white dressed nun, he thought. One grayish fellow seemed friendly enough.

"Hello there, I'm wondering, sir, if you might have seen-"

"Greetings. And who might you be?" The man's hair was wild and worn over his ears. He wore a frock coat and seemed in bad health.

"I'm Elempí of Umbar, sir, and who might you be?"

"William Wilbur of Forth of Fifth."

"You don't say!"

"I just did."

"Well, so you did, sir. Did you happen to see a nun dressed in white? Or a bride who looked like a nun? Or a n-" Elempí stopped, confused.

"I did. She went to the poets' corner." William put his hand to his mouth to whisper conspiratorially. "Watch out for the busts!"

"Many thanks!" Elempí grinned. He wondered what busts the man was referring to as he made his way down the long, tall, and relatively narrow hallway in the direction of what was supposed to be the poets' corner. He hoped he would know it when he saw it. And he hoped Panakeia would be there.

[Celuien]

Amdist the celebrating throngs gathered in Wessman Stabby, there was one very forlorn figure snuffling in a nondescript corner of the building. Indeed, with her drab brown dress and bloodshot eyes, she looked as nondescript as the dusty corner.

And who, of all the celebrants, had reason to be sad? It was, of course, Panakeia. But how had she gone from bridalwear to yesterday's laundry?

After arriving back at the Guard Inns to find Elempi as missing as she had been earlier, Panakeia had fled once again, this time to her little flat. She had to search for Elempi, and there was no way to run an efficient trek through the city in her gown. And so she quickly changed to traveling clothes and then, as she left again, handed her elaborate wedding dress off to a passing Orc whom she noticed looking at it longingly. The dress had only brought her bad luck, despite being quite fashionable, and Panakeia didn't want it. And then she went off in search of her beloved.

The search proved to be more challenging than she had anticipated. Elempi was nowhere near the Guard Inns, as far as she could tell. And worse, the ever present crowds had grown denser. No matter how much she tried to move against it, Panakeia found that the crowd was slowly and irresistibly pulling her along to the southwest, and before long, she found that she had been shuffled into the vast halls of Wessman Stabby, where a celebration of some kind was in full swing. Even the Orc who had claimed her gown was there. But she didn't see Elempi.

Seeing the dress reminded Panakeia of the day's disaster, and she hurried away to as distant a corner as she could manage to have a good cry. She did not know how long she sat there before a gentle tap on the shoulder brought her back to reality.

[littlemanpoet]

Elempi came to the Poets' Corner.

"I wouldn't go there if I were you," said a voice. Elempi looked around. "Over here. No, here. No no no! Over here." Elempi found the source of the voice. It was a dreaded bust. None other than Sir Water Scotch & Rye, to be precise.

"I always thought that scowl was very lifelike," Elempi remarked.

"Of course it is! Now don't go over there."

"Over where?"

Sir Water Scotch & Rye indicated to his right with a nod of his head, which set his shoulders rattling on the pedestal.

"Careful!"

"Never you mind! Just don't go over there!"

"Why ever not?" Elempi asked.

"You'll be stepping on deadmen's bones, that's why ever not!"

"Erm, that is hardly avoidable in this great Stabby, don't you think?"

The bust rolled its eyes. "You do not want to step on that particular grave."

Elempi went over for a look. Jeff Chaw Sir. "Shouldn't that be Sir Jeff Chaw? And why have I never heard of him?"

A deep groan came from beneath the ancient stones.

"You stepped on him," the bust accused.

"Did not."

"Maybe not with your feet, but with your words."

"That hardly counts."

"It counts most of all!"

"Whatever. Have you seen a bride?"

"A bride? Here? Whatever for? There's no wedding today."

"My bride ran away. Cold feet and all that. I'm trying to find her."

"I'll tell you what I saw if you get off that grave."

"I'm not on the grave."

"Liar."

Elempi looked down. The groan came again from deep beneath his feet. "Why, the stones moved!"

"Hmph!" cried Sir Water Scotch & Rye.

Elempi stepped off the grave. "So what did you see?"

"Nothing."

Elempi groaned. In harmony with the voice from beneath the stones. It was actually pretty nice to hear. It sounded a bit like 'Illamatar Save the Queen'. Well, it would have to a pack of hounds. At any rate, there was no white gowned bride in the Poets Corner, so Elempi forsook the place and Sir Water Scotch & Rye and ambled on up some steps beside massive sarcophagi in honor of much dead royalty, until he stopped, listening to a sound that seemed familiar somehow. It was coming from a little corner tucked away between the tombs of Deadwood the Confettior and Henpecked IV. Someone was sniffling. Crying, even. The someone was not in the white bridal gown, but it would not hurt to ask. Maybe this person had heard from Panakeia and was weeping in sympathy. Poppycock, you twit, Elempi said to himself. But why not?

He tapped on the weeper's shoulder.

"Pardon me, but have you seen a bride running away from her groom?"

[Celuien]

That voice! Panakeia would know it anywhere. How Elempi came to find her, she didn't know or care. He had found her, and that was enough. She leapt to her feet and threw both arms around him, nearly knocking Elempi off his feet.

"You found me! You found me! Oh, you wonderful you." Passersby in the Stabby started to gather to watch the impending happy ending.

Elempi looked rather startled, but happy at the turn of the events. There was one question, however.

"Why'd you run away from me?"

Panakeia's eyes and mouth went round. "Away from you?" she cried, and her arms circled tighter. "Never! It was just Roggie, and the Orcs, and the crowd, and all the fuss and bother. But no! I didn't run from you. And..." - here her voice dropped to a whisper - "I'll never run away again."

There were no words for the remainder of the reunion. The watchers cheered, and from above, someone dropped white rose petals. As luck would have it, the observance for the day was a general wedding ceremony for all comers, and Panakeia and Elempi hardly knew what happened before being handed an official triplicate stamped form proclaimed to all the world that they were, in fact, wed.

"Ready for another adventure?" asked Elempi.

"We've already started one," Panakeia replied with a bat of her lashes.

And so they left, faded into the crowd. It was said that they eventually found their slow way out of Mordor and came at last to Umbar where, as must happen at the close of every comedy, they lived happily ever after.

[littlemanpoet]

~ F I N I S ~

[piosenniel]

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