ATM II RPG

[piosenniel]

-- Assigned to Mordor II --


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She pitied the ambassadors that got between them all.

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

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

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

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

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

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



--- Feanor of the Peredhil

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli sat in her office with her booted feet propped upon her desk, ignoring all demands to the contrary that her parents had spent her childhood drilling into her. With her arms crossed behind her head and her eyes gently closed, she reflected over the past week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~<*>~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ms. Martinet will observe. I will return soon."

[Kath]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir. That is a truth.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well then how do you explain – ”

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

Sitting back, Igör waited for Ms. Martinet to decide that she’d had enough. There was no point in him trying to stop this now, but a few sharp words from her and everyone would settle back down.

[Diamond18]

Skittles squeezed her eyes shut and stuck her fingers in her eyes. Oh, the noise! Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise! That’s one thing she hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skittles shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[the guy who be short]

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Boromir88]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Diamond18]

"I know!" Skittles poked her head out from under the table. "It's the middle one. Because this isn't the most preposterous game ever -- Calvinball (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calvinball) is! Am I right?"

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë son of Hyarmendil had entered Mordor determined not to like it. Well, more accurately, he had entered Mordor knowing that he would not like it. When you are as old and experienced as the Keeper of the Keys of Minas Tirith was, some things were predictable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With this encouraging though, Hyarmenwë's mind snapped back to the "icebreaker" game. Possibly half a minute had passed, thought being faster than sound, and Bearugard was still the one being questioned. Everything had gone somewhat silent. Apparently one of the Mordorian diplomats (Scitls, was it?) had just made a rather out-of-place comment.

[Anguirel]

The Lord Dracomir Malfoidacil, of all the Gondorian envoys, seemed the most at his ease. He knew this place and reacted to it with mild disdain, not psychological bafflement. He was here to carry out his mission to slay Dumbledore...er...get that Potter boy expelled...er, deal with this amusing diplomacy, and he intended to see it through as Malfoy...a Malfoidacil, rather...should, effortlessly and contemptuously.

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

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

Or:

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

Or:

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

I am the Scion of a Pure Line.
I am the most dangerous entity here.
My hair and my skin are pale.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Lord Dracomir turned paler than normal quite suddenly when a quietly disembodied voice spoke into his ear. No others showed any form of notice.

"Dangerous indeed. Baa."

As suddenly as it had come, it was gone. Within seconds Malfoidacil had convinced himself that it was his imagination acting up again.

[Lhunardawen]

What is wrong with me? Maika thought to herself, with a bit of panic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Formendacil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hyarmenwë, why don't you next?"

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

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

The questions didn't go over too well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyarmenwë sighed.

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

"You are correct," Hyarmenwë nodded as graciously as he might to a Mordorian. "Who's turn is it now?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"It is mine." Alli stepped forward from shadows that nobody had seen her slip into. The noise died down once more as the diplomats awaited instruction.

Or at least it did for a split second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Roggie just got word of a large number of escapees. He is not happy. He's called off negotiations and forbade me from trying to convince him to restart them. However he did not remember to forbid me from getting other people to talk to him. I want the three of you to talk him around. You are free to refuse. Ms. Martinet will preside to guarantee safety and to take notes. What say you all?"

[Diamond18]

Skittles titled her head to the side, much like a dog, and gave the idea some thought. Then, as a strange gleam came into her eyes, she responded, “Personally, Allamee, I’d rather torture the Gondorians. Roggie wants ’em interrogated, right?”

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

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

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

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

“Skittles!” Alli said sternly.

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

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

[JennyHallu]

Ms. Martinet sighed and rolled her eyes at her employer, then turned to Skittles with exasperated logic.

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

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

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

"Exactly. You think I want to hang around in the presence of a calm, rational balrog who might remember people taste better toasted? Besides, it's fun. You don't think I'm going to stop, do you?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"If you want things doing," grumbled Smilog the Dwarf, "then ask a professional! I don't have time for this." he leaped off his chair, it was a little too big for him and he hit the ground with a thump. "If negotiations are called off, then I see no reason to re start them. Some of us have little time on our hands." He looked at everyone in turn and then finally at Alli.

"I bid you good day," he said angrily before turning around dramatically and, tripping over his own beard. He fell forth and whacked his chin on the hard floor, he let out a cry of annoyance and many began to snigger. Feeling dejected, the little Dwarf sat back down in his chair, hoping that everyone would ignore him now.

"So, are you volunteering?" asked Alli, with a smirk towards Smilog.

"No!" said the Dwarf sternly, "On second thought, yes! Yes I am. Better a Dwarf is sent to do this job then a-" he suddenly remembered how outnumbered he was, "well, you know. We Dwarves can be... very... persuasive..." he coughed quite violently and clutched at his heart. Before anyone even considered that he might be in trouble, he stopped and stood up straight. He folded his arms and looked Alli straight in the eyes, She thinks she can manipulate me, he thought, I'll show her. I'll show them all! No one manipulates a Dwarf!

[Anguirel]

Filthy little mudblood! How dare the ghastly low-born creature defile his perfectly groomed locks...

Then Dracomir's heady mixture of rage, contempt and panic was calmed by a firm, irrefutable voice addressed to Skittles. Or, as Dracomir suspected, Nancy.

"You're a tree, dear. You're above that sort of thing, aren't you?"

It was the secretary, Ms Martinet. Dracomir flashed her a speedy grin of appreciation as Skittles stretched out her arms, humming something apparently meant to represent the tweeting of birds nesting in a great, strong, oak.

Note to self. Or one of one's selves. Skittles can be neutralised by being reminded she is a great oak tree. By the way, Ms Martinet continues to be rather impressive. Must discover her first name...

Dracomir mentally shrugged off such thoughts, turning suavely to the Lady Spymaster.

"I would not normally deign to speak with a mere mudblood King of Mordor, madam, but since our acquaintance stretches back some considerable distance," he smirked slightly, "I will assist, if not exactly willingly, without reluctance. Mother always says that my persuasive skills are without peer."

The Lord Malfoidacil stretched slightly, yawning at an impressive volume without sacrificing any of his style. "The King of Morder should be absolutely nothing. It pains me to say it, but I have had much experience with drunken oafs and mudbloods," he draaawwwled.

And it was true. A certain gamekeeper came to mind. But at this point they were interrupted, not by a Giant, but by a Dwarf-Smilog, who had hitherto remained sourly aloof from proceedings. He had too plebeian and rustic an accent for Dracomir to bother listening to whatever he was saying, so he watched the stunted fellow's beard moving up and down. He was interested to see whether it was free-flowing or stiffened with some kind of salt. Or, whatever. Actually it was really amusing.

"Grrrurrrph, Dwarves grrrk grrrn rrrk persurrrarsirrve," the Dwarf insisted, before coughing loudly. The Lord Malfoidacil brightened up. Perhaps this mission was going to be rather entertaining after all.

[the guy who be short]

Angawen sat penseively in her quarters. She still could not believe she had let such emotion overcome her. For years she had been mineral-like in her lack of emotion, her ability to keep her head in all situations. Just one international crossing and her ability to control herself seemed to have vanished.

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

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

****
A muffled "come in."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes. And I?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyarmenwë remained quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

"He has more years than you."

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

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

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

He waited for her to go on.

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

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

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

"Lord, I accept."

[Boromir88]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[JennyHallu]

Ms. Martinet had remained silent through the dwarf's offer of help and Malfoidacil's declamation. Everything that man says is a declamation, though. He's almost as bad as Hyarmanwe.

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

"But what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malfoidacil cleared his throat. "Lola?"

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

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

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

"Does she not like this Lola?"

Alli grinned. "I'm not sure if she likes Lola or not...but the two are never together. Their personalities are...hmm...'mutually exclusive' is the best I can do."

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë had returned to his room in an ill mood. The "icebreaker" had been pointless, the negotiations had not even started, and now they were cut off pre-emptively. He was also ever so slightly afraid that Mardil would abandon the diplomats to the tender mercies of Mordor, if the negotiations were not reopened. And such a life held nothing but horror for him.

There was a knock on his door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lord, I accept."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Diamond18]

"I would not normally deign to speak with a mere mudblood King of Mordor..."

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

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

In Entish.

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

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

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

"I must change my clothes!" responded Skittles, in high dudgeon. "This calls for leather!"

[Kath]

Igör had wandered off after being dismissed. He was still smarting a little from the comments made in the negotiation room but as he thought of them he recalled Skittles’ accidental relieving of the tension and couldn’t help but smile. He was glad she was involved in this, if anything would confuse and bewilder the Gondorians enough to persuade them to sort things out she would.

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

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

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

Leaving her to her madness Igör moved toward Alli, and motioned her to one side. Malfoidacil was still in the room and it would not be wise to let him know what the other Gondorians thought of him. Alli joined him over away from the others and listened to what Igör told her with an expression ever he couldn’t read. Finishing his story, Igör waited to hear whether this was useful information, and whether she wished him to do anything with or about it.

[Lhunardawen]

Maika was quite disappointed that Alli had to arrive and ruin all the fun. It was not a regular occurence to have fun with Gondorians - probably because this was the first time she ever met at least one - and she wanted to enjoy this icebreaker as much as she can. But looking at the Spymaster's face she could tell something was up. Yep, something was definitely up.

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

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

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

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

Maika had barely picked up Alli's response - if she had responded at all - when she raised a hand to excuse herself and walked towards a concerned-looking Igör. Maika sighed. For her sake, or her skin's rather, she hoped it could be done.

[Anguirel]

Dracomir had been irritated by Alli's obvious evasiveness on the identity of Lola, and was inwardly absolutely livid when the misshapen Igor took the Lady Spymaster aside to give her information in a manner which was quite obviously designed to exclude him. He was currently isolated from his fellow-diplomats, without being in the slightest particle trusted by Alli, despite all they had been through. He had hoped, apart from anything else, to have a friendly conversation catching up on events since Dol Gaurgauroth...

He knew, however, that the only hope of coming closer to success in his vital task was keeping his emotions untrackable, and so he smiled and cleared his mind, though not without a mental curse at Aunt Bellatrix-why couldn't she have taught him Legilimency as well as this Occlumency rubbish...?

Dracomir now found himself alone with the Mordorian diplomat Maika. Perhaps he could cultivate some kind of friendship here that would prove useful in the long term.

"You seem worried about your fair complexion in the presence of the boorish King Roggie," he sallied. "As you can see, I suffer from a similar problem. It's a clear sign of nobility of blood. I often find a Disillusionment Charm can help lessen the effect of exposure...would you allow me to help?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli had listened to Igör gleefully. Though negotiations were in a bit of a rut (she chastised herself for the understatement), she trusted in her people's abilities to restart them... at least eventually. And when they did, knowing that the Gondorian officials didn't like each other or trust each other... Ooh, she was excited. Igör had no idea and awaited a response to show through Alli's cool eyes, or at least for her dark red lips to slip softly into a deadly smile. Alli shot a glance at Malfoidacil, drawing his wand in the direction of Maika, before answering quickly in a soft tone revealing nothing.

"Igör, if you can find out more without them knowing it, feel free. Thank you for telling me this; it is helpful."

Dismissed, Igör left, presumably to roll a body part or two through the Gondorian suites.

Alli returned to Maika and Malfoidacil after a moment of thought. Skittles in leather... oh my. Lola was coming... that should be a treat. And dissention in the ranks... Alli couldn't help but wonder why Mardil had chosen these particular ambassadors, most especially Bearugard. Alli remembered him from before she was assigned... he was one of the worst nobles, she'd thought, with no care for the lives of those beneath him. Alli had spent her life quietly loathing monarchies for their continued oppression of the proletariat. Now she worked for one, yet she did not dislike it. Roggie's power structure cared nothing for nobility and though Gondorians might think it due to the distinct lack of nobility in most of Mordor (why, Alli had often wondered, were there so few? Surely the hadn't been immune from Anakronisms...), it was not. Before Roggie, Khamul had quietly run the country through the mafia; no nobles. Now Roggie had advisors specially chosen meritocratically, not for their blood.

"Malfoidacil, please refrain from casting spells upon my workers, no matter how clever you find your charm work to be. Maika, I will speak to Buildings and Grounds workers about it. More likely will be that we'll merely have to open a window. If you like, I have skin cream that works wonders, and it is not even from Panakeia."

Maika stared blankly at Alli over the joke, but her eyes brightened some around the edges, knowing well stories of last year's escape. She'd seen it all on reality television and knew that Panakeia once profited from the sales of really, truly bad makeup products.

"If you will please wait for Lola to arrive and for Skittles to return, Lola will surely guide you all to Roggie's audience chamber wherein he is currently lurking in a foul mood. He will refuse to see you... ignore him on my orders. Pound upon the door until it opens.

"Tom..." Malfoidacil looked up quickly. "If you have time later tonight... it has been a long time. Share stories over drinks? You'll be pleased to learn that I'm fresh out of veritaserum... We'll be stuck with fruit juice, I'm afraid. What say you?"

Without waiting for response, Alli grinned and left, shooting the words "I'll be in my office." over her right shoulder.

[Diamond18]

Skittles got sidetracked on her way to her quarters by a procession of large cats singing in six part harmony.

Not really.

She reached the room that had been provided to her upon her arrival at the Mount Doom Palace and Casino and threw open her trunk. She had to dig through several layers of silk and taffeta to reach the pleather and spandex, but dug right past those cheap imitations to get to the real thing at the bottom. She pulled out a black catsuit and smiled.

When she left her room, she was a different woman. Sort of. She was still ten feet away from sane, but instead of skipping or waltzing along, she lurked from corner to corner. Like a cat, only on two feet. Most of the time, anyway; sometimes she crawled, but only when she really felt like it.

She met a few hapless orcs along the way, whom she had to silence lest they talked. Talked to whom, about what, no one besides Skittles really knows, but she felt that this was of the utmost importance. A quick snick of the switchblade and they went down before even knowing what had sliced them.

She sidestepped a trail of fingers rolling down the hallway and reentered the negotiation room unseen and unheard by all. (In truth, everyone saw her, but no one really cared.)

Gliding like liquid oil, she sidled up to Dracomir and said in a low, menacing voice, “Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”

He turned slowly and looked at her as if she had sprouted an extra head, so she reached up to feel her neck and shoulders, just to make sure. Nope, she thought, somewhat disappointed. Still just the one.

[Anguirel]

Tom surveyed Skittles with an even, patronising gaze. He did, he admitted to himself, think the black leather rather more tasteful than the former hideously bright melange that the star of the Mordorian Foreign Office had preferred wearing before...now that Alli had left, he was strictly tempted to respond with "As a matter fact, yes" followed by a quick Full Body Bind Curse, but he rejected the plan for the moment as overcomplicating an already convoluted situation.

Time for a charm offensive.

"Why, Skittles, you look ravishing," he said. "Positively, ah, oakish. Doesn't she, Maika?" he added with a step back, only to find that Maika was no longer in the immediate vicinity. "Ah, well, take my word for it. My lady, if an oak tree had decided to take up a career in stealth, cunning and assassination, it would be...your very spitting image."

Another step back.

"So, um, Skittles, do you know anything about this Lola character who's going to be joining us?"

He kept his left hand clenched tightly in his robe's inside pocket, his wand ready to be out. Just in case. Smalltalk with this maiden could be quite tricky, and he really didn't like getting hurt.

[Diamond18]

Skittles felt an odd twinge, and blinked. Something nagging in the back of her head told her that she was angry as this incredibly pale boy standing next to her, but she couldn’t quite remember the reason. Did this have anything to do with the unfortunate breath mint incident? No, that had happened last month, and was taken care of...

She shook her head, and heard the end of Dracomir’s question.

“Yeah, I know her,” she said. “Her name is Lola, she was a showgirl with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there at the Copa, Copacabana, the hottest spot north of Havana, where music and passion were always the fashion. Then she got into administrative assistance, and the rest, as they say, is historically inaccurate.”

Dracomir nodded, and made a noncommittal noise as if debating whether or not to believe what she was saying. Skittles wrinkled her forehead and said, “You are a very charming boy, but I think I came here to carve my initials onto your face. Can you do me a favor and remind me why?”

[Anguirel]

Dracomir was rather relieved. His tactics of distracting Skittles from her original purpose, if not making her altogether forget it, seemed to be working.

"I can't say I ever knew why," he replied. "You were obviously far too cunning and intelligent to tell me of your, ah, motives. Planning to take me by surprise, that sort of thing."

What Skittles had told him of Lola was interesting. So she was a sort of Mordor good-time girl. "Everyone likes Lola," Ms. Martinet had said. Certainly, he could see a possible clash of character. The stern secretary was probably unwilling to tolerate chorus-girls. Well, now they had only this woman to wait for before their audience with the King...

In the meantime, Skittles had to be kept relatively calm and somewhat less switchblade happy. Tom thought that trying to converse with her own exceptional eclecticism might just work.

"Skittles," he asked, "what's your favourite colour?"

[Lhunardawen]

"My lady, you seem worried about your fair complexion in the presence of the boorish King Roggie," Dracomir's voice cut into Maika's worried thoughts. "As you can see, I suffer from a similar problem. It's a clear sign of nobility of blood. I often find a Disillusionment Charm can help lessen the effect of exposure...would you allow me to help?"

Nobility? Maika almost laughed, but caught herself. Nobility. It was funny. Or was it? Without realizing it she was soon turning the word over and over in her head, but a quick sight of the waiting Gondorian made her stop.

"I would advise you against speaking ill of Roggie in the presence of a Mordorian, sire," she replied with a slight glare. "And as for your offer, you're welcome to try. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"Warn me of what?" Dracomir drew his wand from inside his robe anyway, and without waiting for an appropriate response started waving it towards her...when Alli came to her, uh, rescue.

"Malfoidacil, please refrain from casting spells upon my workers, no matter how clever you find your charm work to be. Maika, I will speak to Buildings and Grounds workers about it. More likely will be that we'll merely have to open a window. If you like, I have skin cream that works wonders, and it is not even from Panakeia."

Maika sneaked a smug look over at Dracomir as Alli rebuked him, and turned to Alli with a blank stare at her offer. Sighing inwardly in relief that the product was not from the infamous Panakeia, she decided to accept it. She doubted it would work, but who knows?

After Alli had given their orders and asked Dracomir (Tom?) to what seemed like a date, Maika quietly followed her out of the room. She caught her a short distance down the corridor. "Alli," she almost whispered, "so, can I give this skin cream a try?" Asking help from an ex-Balrog winger? Maika could not believe the depth to which she had fallen.

[Diamond18]

"What's your favorite colour?"

Surely, Dracomir had no idea how disasterous a question this would have been to ask giddy-Skittles. He would have doomed himself to a detailed description of every color in the rainbow, and the many variations of said colors. Luckily, she was in leather-mode and simply responded:

"Black and red, the colors of blood."

"Oh. How nice," Dracomir replied.

She leaned closely and asked, "Tell me, Draco-packo, do you dream in color... or black and white?"

[Anguirel]

Tom was slightly disconcerted-by the increasing proximity to him of Skittles-and her knives-but at least the conversation they had strayed onto seemed comparatively harmless.

"Actually," he answered, his right hand sweeping through his adorable hair, "I don't dream that much. I have a bit of a case of insomnia, as it happens, and the Occlumency practice and stuff doesn't help. If you want to talk to some dream-obsessed drip, you'll be wanting that Potter boy."

Now, for a change, Skittles looked confused. "Who?"

"Oh, you wouldn't know him," Dracomir answered sourly. "He's idolised as a role-model by too many small children to ever get Assigned...twerp of a celebrity..."

Once again, the Lord Malfoidacil had to breathe deeply and suppress his violent emotions before he could speak again. He had acquired new powers since he had last met Daniel Radcliffe, terrible new powers...if they ever met again...Tom grinned viciously.

Then a new thought for destressing occurred to him, and he took a strange device-two sticks, attached by a string, with an hour-glass shaped lump of yellow plastic suspended between them.

"Have you ever seen one of these? It's called a Diabolo..."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

*Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!*

All the hallmarks of a rather upset Dwarf. Grumbling and muttering, Smilog marched along the corridor with his head bowed and his arms folded across his fat stomach. Trying to convince Roggie to begin negotiations wouldn't be easy. Leaders are idiots, he decided.

"That dratted creature," he muttered under his breath as he walked past a door ladled ‘Alli Umfuil’.

*Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!*

He walked on. His boots really were heavy and beginning to aggravate his athlete's foot. Or rather, lack of athletics foot. Just as he passed a small bench marked "In memory of The Incompetent Doctor Hookbill" he realised he'd been there before. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, when he saw two men walking towards him he quickly stomped along the corridor as casually as he could.

Left? Right? Up? Up? How could here be an up? Stairs? Shut up brain. His mind wandered as he tried to work out where he was. Retrace you're steps, he told himself before backing into a large suite of armour and having it all come crashing down on top of him.

Fuming, Smilog leaped out of the metal and saw that there were several people staring at him. "And that’s for my mother!" he cried, and gave the head a kick. "It was accusing me of... of... being a... Gnome." that'll convince them he thought in vain.

*Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!*

He walked through another series of corridors, seeking the chamber of Roggie. He just turned another corner and thought he was on the right track until he came to the door marked 'Alli Umfuil'. He stared at it, fists clenched. "That dratted creature!" he cried.

*Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!*

[Celuien]

The never-ending din of traffic, horns, and assorted ubiquitous irritants of city life drifted in through the half-open, chintz-draped window. The noise wafted through the room, settling on the form of Panakeia of Harad as she napped on a divan. She twitched now and then in response to any particularly loud sound, but was apparently accustomed to the racket of Lûndûn's busy streets.

But her rest was not fated to last. Outside, a speeding PT Cruiser slammed into a stopped garbage truck blocking traffic (one that, in Mordorian fashion, delivered rather than collected rubbish) directly outside her window. Fenders bent, metal grated, and Panakeia's eyes flew open. Stretching cat-like, she pulled herself to her feet and went to the window, slamming it closed with a glare and a bang.

"Confusticate and bebother these Orcs!" she muttered. Panakeia did not appreciate being awakened. This day was not going well; shares of Àivônë, the cosmetics company she founded after her adventure with the Offending Party, were off their peak price. While this made little difference to her savings, as she sold most of her interest in the company shortly after founding it, what stock she retained for dividend income would suffer. She had come to rely on that income, though she knew Anakron did not approve of her company, even if the products it produced were genuine – by Mordor’s standards. But he couldn’t fault her, she thought. After all, she was barely involved with the corporation following the sale.

Anakron. At least something would go well today. They had a dinner appointment for the evening. It had been cancelled, rescheduled, cancelled, and finally rescheduled for tonight. Things were busy in White-All with all of the non-approved escapes from Mordor, and Anakron's time had been scarce. Too scarce.

A faint smile curved around Panakeia lips. After so much delay, he would make it up to her. Surely he would. Perhaps even with the proposal she so eagerly awaited. Anakron had to know that she was ready for the step. Why else would she constantly speak of celebrity weddings or show him magazines filled with gowns and rings over dinner?

The time for their rendezvous was drawing near. Panakeia hurried to her closet to select a dinner dress. She returned to her divan an hour later, clad in a gown of pale seafoam green and a sparkling necklace of emeralds and diamonds. Makeup was carefully omitted from her toilette. She knew that Anakron disliked it, and though she ordinarily would have used just a smidgeon for her own satisfaction, tonight was different. Nothing must go wrong with her plans for the evening. She had the oddest feeling of now-or-never. Yes, tonight was the night.

A sharp rap at the door caused Panakeia's heart to skip a beat. She jumped to her feet, and with a quick glance to her mirror to check her carefully coiffed hair, opened the door with an expectant smile and greeting to Anakron...only to see Lûgnût, genderless Orc of Caer Pairadocks.

The smile faded from Panakeia’s face more quickly than an ice-cream cone melting in the summer sun.

"What do you want?" she snapped at the officiously simpering Orc.

"Greetings, good evening, and all other well-wishes and salutations to you."

Panakeia tapped her foot impatiently. "Yes, yes. Get on with it," she said. These meddlesome Orcs never ceased to annoy her, particularly if the Orc in question was Lûgnût. She had not forgotten his role in the Offending Party's tasks the year before.

"It is my task to inform and otherwise make you aware that as the presence of Anakron Istkon Vayor, otherwise known as the Grand Anakronist, is required at the negotiations currently transpiring at the Mount Doom Palace and Casino, he will, regretfully, be unable to dine with your most charming self this evening."

A flush of crimson suffused Panakeia's cheek. Had it not been accompanied by a heated glint in her eye and a set jaw, the color could have been called attractive. As it was, the combination showed only fury. How could he do this? Anakron had already cancelled several times. This was the last straw.

A horrifying thought occurred to Panakeia. Was he falling out of love with her? After all they'd been through? Panakeia was determined to find out once and for all.

"Lûgnût! Where did you say Anakron was going?" The words were clipped and short.

"To the Palace of His Highness, King Roggie of Mordor, at which magnificent locale…"

Panakeia cut off the speech. "Get your car," she ordered. "We're taking a little trip."

"To which destination is it your desire to wend?"

Could anyone be more obtuse? Panakeia stared at the Orc. "We, my friend, are going to find Anakron. And we are going now. Any questions?"

Despite the question, the expression on her face was enough to tell that questions would not be entertained.

Lûgnût gulped and led her to a bright orange Hummer, emblazoned with the image of a Siamese cat.

"Are you sure you will not reconsider?" he asked hopefully.

"Be quiet and drive!"

And the Hummer sped off, bearing one worried Orc and one angry woman in the direction of the unsuspecting Grand Anakronist.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli stopped at the sound of footpads following her down the flagstone hall way. She turned and raised her eyebrows at Maika, waiting for the Mordorian on-hiatus-ambassador to state whatever purpose was important enough for her to have followed Alli rather than waited inside the chamber for Lola.

"Alli," she almost whispered, "so, can I give this skin cream a try?"

Alli tilted her head a little, studying Maika with the intensity of a cat observing a dangling string. She half-smiled for a moment before allowing herself to grin.

"Of course, Maika. Would you like it now, or later?"

[Lhunardawen]

A shiver ran up Maika's spine as she looked at Alli grin.

"Maybe now, if you're fine with that. It would probably take some time to apply it, and I have to be prepared before Lola arrives..."

"Of course. Now, shall we?" Alli swept her hand and walked towards the place where the precious face cream lay. Maika fell in step with the Spymaster, her confident stride belying her uncertainty. Bah, whatever. She felt more and more pathetic by the second.

~*~

Maika stared back at the ghostly white face in the washroom mirror. It seemed hesitant to get into this. The Mordorian diplomat looked down at the tube in her hands. It was smooth and milky white, surely not unlike the semi-liquid it contains. "If it works for you, you can have it," Alli had said as she handed her the tube from its hiding place - a drawer in her office desk. Whoever kept face cream in her workplace? Alli did, apparently. Never mind the weirdness of it, but Maika was just thankful that it really was not from Panakeia. She had double-checked it on her way to the washroom, to be sure.

She was about to open the tube when she noticed a few thick hair strands standing on top of her head. It probably explains why Alli looked at her oddly a while ago. That Dracomir! she thought angrily, recalling his crazy wand-waving. The stupid stick must have caught her hair somehow. Dropping the tube, she pulled off the two ebony chopsticks and slightly shook her head, letting her jet black hair cascade down her back. With a powerful grip she took hold of the entire bunch of hair strands with her left hand while gathering the stray ones to it with her right. Then, with a few deft flicks of her wrist, the bunch transformed into a bun, and one by one she replaced the chopsticks. There.

She grabbed the tube again, twisted its cap off, and lightly squeezed its body - then stopped. How was she supposed to know how to apply this thing? She wracked her brains for anything from television that might help her, and the only thing she got was that whatever happens, she must resist the temptation to just smear the cream carelessly all over her face. Those soaps in TV always show that the unlikeliest, most embarrassing things happen in public washrooms. Come on, Maika, think! There must be something from those advertisements!

A few moments later she was back to squeezing the tube. To her surprise, the cream was colored green! Maika almost barfed in disgust. I thought she said this wasn't from Panakeia? But a quick reminder of Lola arriving - from some unexplored area at the back of her head - urged her to get it over with, so she squeezed a little amount of the caterpillar-colored cream onto her ring finger and dotted it on her forehead, both cheeks, the tip of her nose, and chin. Then with both ring fingers, she spread the cream evenly all over her face using tiny circular motions, not at all as expertly as the clause appeared to say. Magically, it seemed, the cream turned from green to colorless...and with a lovely powder smooth finish, too! At least the package did not lie in that respect. She hoped it would do its intended work just as well.

Maika finally stepped out and walked into the corridor, her head held high by the weight of her hair and the chopsticks. She hid the now-closed tube in her palms as she had nothing in which to keep it. Well, no one's bound to notice anyway. Thank goodness its manufacturer knew how to disguise the hideous color of the product.

She quietly sighed in relief upon reentering the room, with Skittles already in leather and Dracomir holding some weird plastic thingy, and no Lola yet in sight.

[JennyHallu]

"Oh, how exciting. New faces!"

The sultry voice from the doorway earned the undivided and immediate attention of all in the room, as was probably intended. Posed seductively in the frame stood a curvaceous, voluptuous young woman, and it seemed natural to scan her from the feet up. Delicate small feet in tall stiletto heels gave way to shapely, toned legs, under a sparkling red dress that accentuated a perfect hourglass figure, and seemed somewhat strained to hold anything other than her tiny waist. Slim arms, a creamy throat, and finally a perfect face with a pouty expression partially obscured by thick, wavy, silky blond hair. Women's eyes narrowed. Men's jaws dropped. The woman smiled slowly, like a cat, vamping into the room to sit on the table, thighs crossed.

A tall, blond man was first to find his voice. "You've got to be--"

She giggled. "Call me Lola, honey."

[Anguirel]

The moment the noble Lord Dracomir Malfoidacil of Gondor sighted the woman who had just entered the room, he dropped his Diabolo. The yellow hour-glass-thingy rolled and bounced off, giving out irritating plasticky noises. Some of the newer, less hardened Mordorians milling about shrank out of its way, for its escape had evoked a mental picture of a certain bouncing Ring of Power...

Tom, in the meantime, had quickly-well, quite quickly-got his breath back and his jaw had not dropped-well, not that much. He produced his wand with an irritated flourish, and muttered "Accio Diabolo!" The plastic object whooshed back towards him and he disposed of it with a cool "Evanesco," before putting away his wand again.

With a great deal of care, he turned slowly and bowed courteously towards...Lola.

"You must be the Lady Lola I have just been talking about with Skittles here," he remarked. "They call me the Lord Dracomir Malfoidacil. But actually, the name's Felton...Tom Felton."

Looking back towards Skittles and Maika, who had returned a short time ago with a rather dubious looking tube clutched in her hand, he remarked, "Well. Looks like it's time for us to face the music and drop in on His Mordorian Majesty. Let's be off."

He swept forward confidently, and held out his hand to Lola as though quite convinced it would be taken.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Fury mixed with pride was always dangerous, especially in the small confines of a Dwarf's head, and especially this Dwarf. "All these corridors look the same,” he muttered angrily" and he decided finally to sit down. He found a bench (coincidently, the same on that he passed earlier) and began pondering many things: not least why a garden bench was in a corridor.

Orcs, men and other things walked by, ignoring Smilog as he sat with his legs swinging over the edge of the bench. He took out his axe and whetstone and began sharpening it, muttering and mumbling to himself. It wasn't long before someone sat next to him and began to eat some strange meat. "Pork," he said and offered some to Smilog.

"Nay," retorted the aggravated Dwarf, "I have business at hand." The one who sat by was a short man, not short enough to be a Dwarf, and he had no beard anyway. On his fingers were many golden rings and about his neck was a fine necklace with a great gem hung from it. His orange tunic and brown cloak, coupled with his green boots made him look almost comical. But Smilog was not in the mood for jests and wanted to get to that Roggie fellow as soon as possible. He hadn’t come all this way to get lost in some confounded corridors!

"May I introduce myself?" asked the man extending a hand for Smilog to shake.

"No," replied Smilog as he leaped off the bench, "I need to find that Roggie fellow. I hear he's around here somewhere."

"He'll probably be in his office." said the man, "up stairs, I believe. First on the left."

"I know!" lied Smilog, "now, if you will excuse me..." the Dwarf turned away and stomped off to see if he could find some stairs. The man began to follow him, but Smilog tried to ignore him and walk on all the same, grumbling curses in Dwarvish.

"I heard that!" cried the man, clapping Smilog on the shoulder, "that was not a nice thing to say."

"Oh, be off with you!" cried the now fully irritated Dwarf, "Can't you see I'm busy? I have important business to attend to."

"Andvarri," said the man.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Andvarrri, that is my name."

"Is it?" Smilog walked away, one step, two steps, and three. Andvarri? That name meant something to him. Yes, he had heard the name. "What did you say?"

"My name is Andvarri." he replied, bowing, "I see that you have heard of me. Well, Smilog the Dwarf, I had heard you were an ill-tempered little runt, but stay your axe. I have need of your services."

"That is what they told me to get me to come here on this ridiculous errand. I want no more pointless quests, thank you very much."

"That is sad, you have heard the legends, I take it?" Smilog stopped his stomping and listened, "the gold. The endless mountain of Gold?"

"The Gold of Andvarri, it is said, is cursed," retorted Smilog, "and how can you be he? The legend is thousands of years old!"

"Ah, it was my great grand father to the ninth degree that first established the Gold. The eldest son of our blood line who bares the birthmark of Andvarri is given this name." he lifted his hair from his brow to reveal a mark that looked alike to an anvil. "I assure you, that gold belongs to me. Wherever it lies."

"And I suppose you want me to find it?" said Smilog, "Sorry, as much as I wish to find a mountain of Gold, every Dwarf since the legend was born has sought it and found it not. Unless you had Andvarri's map, the finding is... is... impo... impossible..." the man was holding a small scroll of paper. He smiled widely.

"What say you now?" asked Andvarrri.

"Well, let me finish my business here and I shall help ye."

"Ah, this business here concerns the treasure. Roggie, I believe holds an artefact that will aid us, though he may know it not."

"Let us not speak of this in public. Come, show me to his chamber..."

[the guy who be short]

The conversation died down as all three diplomats pondered the possibility of discrediting Malfoidacil. The relative quiet was broken by Bearugard, who said softly "Surely Mardil would not choose to send Malfoidacil if he had not the utmost confidence in the boy? This is a vital mission; he cannot afford to send the untrustworthy."

Angawen laughed to herself, though her face remained as blank as virgin snow. Hyarmenwë was here for his loyalty, she knew that. But she... Mardil knew she held no allegiance to the Kingdom or to him. But then, she supposed, he must also have known that while it was favourable, she would remain by his side. And he knew conditions would be favourable for a while yet. What better manner to command loyalty than to appeal to her self-preservation and promotion?

But this Bearugard, he was a mystery. She did not know him to be especially loyal, though she knew little about him. "Mardil is not omniscient," she replied aloud. "Still... I do not see the boy outsmarting him."

Hyarmanwë, meanwhile, was also stuck in thought. Send the untrustworthy rang through his head. Send the dinosaurs, the men of yesterday. It was entirely possible that the entire envoy had been to rid Mardil of undesirable elements. He was too archaic, Angawen too inituituve - not to mention a woman! Malfoidacil could have been sent for the very reason that they now doubted him - a suspicion that his loyalties lay without the Kingdom. Bearugard puzzled him as he puzzled Angawen. But Hyarmanwë, though he felt this information important, did not share it with the others. The thought of his being considered inadequate disquieted him, and he did not will to offend the others.

"Of course he couldn't!" Bearugard replied.

With that matter shoved aside (though persistantly nagging), Angawen allowed another thought that had been waiting to rise for a while now bubble up.

"Is it not injust that we are held here without the slightest indication concerning the current diplomatic predicament?" she began, and the other two swivelled round to face her, shaken out of their own thoughts. "We have been told nothing about the potential duration of our stay. We could be long term prisoners here. Prisoners in Mordor."

Hyarmanwë's mind leapt back to his disposal theory. Would Mardil care? "What could we possibly do about it, Lady? We are held here with guards posted at each end of the corridor. We must await Lady Alli."

"We cannot allow ourselves to be held infinitely. To do so would be to allow that woman to manipulate us most dreadfully."

"Come now!" said Bearugard, "you're just upset that she made a joke of you."

Angawen expertly ignored him and continued "Do what you may, I shall not stand this dishonour. This is not how ambassadors from a greater realm should be treated. In Gondor, we would have more respect."

****

Angawen approached the two guards at the end of the corridor followed closely by her own men, and further behind by the two Gondorians. This was what she lived for.

Upon approaching the guards, her immediate reaction was to recoil, and it was with utmost self-control that she overcame the desire. One of those guards was an ordinary, moustached, red-faced man holding a spear. The other was an orc.

What a land this was! Orc and man side by side! She barely kept her composure, retching inside. But she forced herself to take it in her stride. She had resolved herself in her room - no more emotion.

Carefully ignoring the orc, she addressed the man. "You! Guard! Send a message to Lady Alli! I wish to see her at once."

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron was a guest of Lord Roggie. As such, he had rooms separate, and close to, those of the most important individuals present at the Mount Doom Casino and Resort. And there was the matter of easy, quiet, and relatively secret access to and from the place of meeting. Things had been arranged.

Anakron left his rooms and entered the hallway, just in time to see one red-dressed vampish ambassador enter the chamber where discussions would be held.

His own black cloak flowing behind him, his tall and wide brimmed hat securely placed, his eyes would be seen as mere slits. His staff upon which sat the most regal Siamese Cat, kept time with every other left step. He turned the corner and entered the room.

The vamp was exuding sex appeal from a table, the foot of her crossed leg pumping suggestively. A piece of work indeed. Anakron wondered how much work. He gave out an "ahem", which served to give a rather rakish man the chance to pick his jaw up off the floor and regain some semblance of composure, pulling his eyes away from the attention grabber in red.

"Anakron," he announced. "Grand Anakronist and all that. Here to observe. Carry on."

With that, he swept into the room and removed himself to a corner of the room, behind the vamp, which gave him full view of the other ambassadors. The others' looks of suspicion, confusion, curiosity, and forced condescension, quickly gave way to disregard. Anakron preferred it that way.

He hoped Panakeia would not be too upset over the cancellation of their most recent plans. It was beginning to get annoying. He wondered if it had been unwise to attach himself to a woman, no matter how charming and winsome; and interesting. But when they were together, time flew. He forgot that he was grand anakronist. He forgot about himself entirely, and it was Valinor to do so; or so he assumed, having never been there. Maybe I ought to convey Valinor to Mordor. No, likely some bit of Mordor would infest Valinor in return, and we musn't have that. As he watched the others, his mind wandered now and again to Panakeia, and it was most satisfying; almost as good as being with her in person.

He wondered how long it would be before the proceedings began, stifling a yawn.

[Diamond18]

No sooner had Dracomir whipped out his strange, yellow plastic toy than Lola arrived and he dropped it. Skittles watched it curiously as it rolled and bounced across the floor, then watched with even more curiosity as Dracomir retrieved it and made it disappear. She didn't find anything odd in this, being both insane and from Mordor, but she did think it was awfully cool. As Dracomir deserted her for the voluptuous Lola, Skittles turned her attention to trying out the neat trick on a switchblade.

"Evanesco," she said, waving her fingers over the blade. Nothing happened, which made her angry, so she tossed the blade across the room. It sailed out the open door and lodged in the windpipe of an orc who had chosen that inopportune moment to happen by. He staggered to the side, gurgling black blood, and as he fell to the floor he dropped the crate of nitroglycerin lolly-pops he was carrying to Roggie's chambers for afternoon snack.

KA-BOOM!

Everyone jumped as the Orc went up in flames just outside the meeting room. They peered out in horror at the blackened, charred remains smoking on the cracked marble floor. They shivered at the senseless loss of life, each thinking how it could have been them. Also, the wainscoting was absolutely ruined.

Anakron turned to scowl at Skittles, and she smiled guiltily.

"Evanesco," she squeaked, and ran out of the room.

[JennyHallu]

Lola laughed cheerfully at Skittles' antics and the welcome distraction they proved. She had no intention of giving Malfoidacil the joy of her arm, or any other personal attention, and Roggie was always so much more fun when he was a little impatient anyway.

Malfoidacil was, for some reason, sputtering, and Lola found it delightfully nonsensical, and told him so. "B-B-But she can't do that," he protested. "She's insane! She can't just say the word and be sure she's disappeared!"

"How do you know?" Lola asked reasonably, too reasonably, eyes sparkling with mischief. "For all we know, she did turn that knife invisible."

"No she didn't!! Obviously she didn't!! I could see it, so could you!"

Lola yawned. "Now I see why you returned to Gondor. Poor boy! Who cares if we saw it? The orc never did..." Malfoidacil was boring her, and she turned her attention to the strict looking man behind her. The Grand Anakronist himself...what fun that could be! She stretched languidly, lifting her hands high over her head to accentuate her slim figure, and giving her neck the tiny shake she knew would send a ripple down the length of her platinum curls.

"Why are you standing back there, Anakron? Enjoying the view?"

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron gave her a measuring look, homing in on her eyes. It was known in diplomatic circles that Lola was liked. That is, she had an uncanny ability to get what she wanted from whom she wanted it, when, and how. Anakron could see that she was fully skilled in at least one means of attaining her goals, at least in terms of the opposite sex. Such things had ceased to work on him long ago, however. Should he allow her to realize this, he mused? He decided that he would rather allow her to know that her escapades of allure were almost repulsive to him, but not in so many words. Thusly, he would afford himself the chance to see what other weaponry her arsenal contained. It could be most useful to know about that.

"Your insinuation, my lady, is beneath your dignity, one would hope," Anakron murmured casually. "Be that as it may," he continued, "I find your - ah - shall we say - epicurean approach to diplomatic preparation - energies misspent if aimed in my direction; however," he went on, "I find the - ah - view, as you put it, of your efforts as regards other personages - to be most educational. With all due respect, of course.

"Why do you ask, my lady?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog walked alongside his new associate, although he still eyed him with some suspicion and disliking. He smiled too much for a man in Mordor, and still too much for a man in general. The Dwarf stayed quiet though, the prospect of a never-ending mountain of gold was something he couldn't just let pass by.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ow!" he said as the door closed, "Have you got any bright ideas?" he asked Andvarri.

[Lhunardawen]

"Skittles!" Maika yelled after the witch-wannabe ambassador of Mordor. But apparently the explosion had weakened her hearing, or perhaps she pretended not to hear, or maybe she was running away from Anakron or Dracomir. Whichever the case, Skittles's childish mischievousness was delaying them. Maika wanted to leave right away and go visit Roggie to get this whole thing over with -- or to finally prove if the face cream was effective?

Maika shot a stern look at the still wide-eyed Dracomir. The boy was annoying her immensely; this was his fault. And wasn't he supposed to be a civilized Gondorian? Not that the Mordorians were uncivilized, but, well, she had always imagined that all Gondorians carried themselves more decently. Or something. She resisted the growing compulsion to walk over to the charred remains of the poor Orc and see if there could be some of those nitro-pops left so she could pop them forcibly into Dracomir's mouth.

Suddenly aware of her increasing anger, Maika forced herself to calm down, and think about what could be done. There was no way she was running after Skittles, not in stilettos. Lola and Anakron were engaged in something...something her nineteen-year-old mind was not meant to comprehend. Maika turned openly towards Dracomir, who looked at her quizzically in reply.

"Let's see what else you can do," she declared, her tone of voice dangerously provocative. "Create a diplomatic solution to this mess you've made."

[Kath]

Pleased at Alli's response to his information, Igör sidled out of the room again and fast-limped back to the Gondorians quarters. Boringly, nothing of much interest occurred along the way. It was one of those lovely, sunny days that were so rare in Mordor, which suffered from a phenomenon known as English weather, so everyone without a job to do was outside enjoying it, as well as some of those that did have jobs and were happily engaging in a bit of skiving.

Fortunately for Igör, this included the two guards Angawen had left to keep her rooms defended. Wandering in as casually as possible for someone so habitually noticeable, he closed the door behind him and stood in the middle of the room in thought. He couldn't know which room the Gondorians would talk in. It could be here, the old man's room or the boy's room. He needed to find a way to eavesdrop on all three room at once.

Leaving the right side of his brain musing quietly about that, Igör brought the left side to the fore and began searching the room for anything that might tell him why Angawen was chosen by Mardil to come on this mission. He wondered whether it was just for amusement's sake, as the woman was obviously uncomfortable with the whole experience, snapping at him like she had. His search proved fruitless though.

Bringing his right brain back into action Igör was pleased to note that it had found a way around this problem. Angawen and Hyarmenwë had rooms right next to each other, and while Bearugard's was next in line it joined onto Angawen's at the back as well. So, if a small hole was made in each wall, and something placed by it, everything said in each room could be heard. Smiling, Igör pulled a knife from one of his skin pockets, climbed up onto a chair and did just that. He then carefully removed his left ear, as it was slightly better with long distances, and attached it to the wall in the middle of the holes, by means of a piece of chewing gum, stored in another pocket for occasions such as these.

Jumping down again Igör replaced the chair, and watched with satisfaction as his ear camouflaged itself so it was the same colour as the wall. He couldn't recall where he had gained this ability, but is had proved useful in more than one situation. Making sure he left the room in exactly the same condition as it had been when he arrived, Igör crept back out through the doors and along the corridor back to the negotiation room.

He had to stop creeping when a blur of leather hit him and he crashed to the ground with whatever was inside the leather writhing on top of him, apparently under the belief that it was being attacked. Managing to grab an arm before the knife held by it's hand skewered him, Igör found himself looking up into the confused and insane face of Skittles.

"Skittles? Aren't you supposed to be going to see Roggie?"

He waited a few moments for an answer, but when nothing was forthcoming aside from some vague comment along the lines of "But you can't see me! I'm invisible!" he gave up and took a penknife from another pocket. Showing it to Skittles he promised her that she would get it if she showed him the way to the conference room and, eyes shining at the prospect of sharp things to play with, she led him back the way she had come.

Following her through the doors Igör found himself in the midst of an argument, with Maika issuing what sounded like a dangerous ultimatum to Malfoidacil over the situation he had apparently created with Skittles.

"Create a diplomatic solution to this mess you've made."

"No need!" He called brightly, attempting to calm things down a little. "Skittles is right here. Now, are we going to see Roggie or not? I seem to recall that he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

[Celuien]

Lûgnût screeched up to the gates of the Mount Doom Palace and Casino. The Hummer's engine had hardly stopped humming before Panakeia bounded out the door, a stormy expression on her face. The journey from Lûndûn had not been pleasant. Despite the deference granted their official vehicle, they still encountered the traffic jams, construction and road rage typical of a Mordor highway. The unpleasantness of the trip was compounded by Panakeia's dislike of Lûgnût and his/her/its constant blather about how many procedures were being broken by her unexpected journey. She didn't care about protocol. Her future with Anakron, the only true love she had ever known, was at stake. Regulations could go to Mordor, she thought, before recalling that they already were in Mordor. Her scowl deepened.

Panakeia strode up to one of the Palace guards, Lûgnût following a few feet behind. Where, she demanded to know, were the negotiations taking place? She was a member of the Grand Anakronist's party and needed to join him at once. A glare in Lûgnût's direction silenced any protest of her claims by him/her. Directions given, she pushed ahead without a word, contemplating what she would say to Anakron.

She didn't want to be angry. Experience told her that anger was the least effective way to deal with Anakron. He wouldn't understand, and would most likely dismiss her anger as unjustified hysteria. And maybe she was being unreasonable. Anakron was an important official, after all. He had responsibilities. She knew that when they began their relationship. As she pondered their beginnings at the end of the battle with A Slan, the werewolves, Anakron's death and return to the living, Panakeia's anger faded. Yes, she did love him. It would be enough, she decided, to see Anakron. That was all she really wanted. Now that she was here, they could meet after the day's negotiations concluded. The restaurants in the old Resort had been excellent. Roggie's reconstruction, she was sure, would not have neglected so essential an item. Their plans would not be disturbed too badly after all.

Panakeia reached the conference room. Her hand went to the doorknob, and a smile crossed her face in anticipation of seeing Anakron. She pushed the door ajar --- and saw red in every sense of the phrase. A blonde in a scarlet gown (too tight and revealing for a proper lady, Panakeia thought) perched on a table, evidently very trying her best to capture every man present in her snares. And succeeding. Panakeia was sure that Anakron was staring at the woman, and the fire heating her temper went from simmer to high. Unwilling to compromise her ladylike dignity, she swallowed the insults for the vamp that rose in her throat and addressed Anakron in a cool, level voice.

"Anakron. May I speak to you? Alone?"

Anakron's eyes widened slightly at the sudden entrance of the most unexpected Panakeia, dressed to the nines, which he rather approved of, though he thought that she should perhaps have used a little bit of make-up, but he certainly wasn't going to tell her how to perform her toilette. He had been expecting Skittles to re-enter, and found the sudden appearance of Panakeia quite pleasant by comparison.

"Of course." He stood, aware that the ambassadors gathered in the room were watching the two of them with sudden curiosity. Out in the hall, he turned and faced her. She seemed most put out over something. Anakron wondered if some Mordorian orc had done something overly anachronistic and bureaucratic and she had come all this way to complain to the grand anakronist himself. She certainly could have clout if she wanted it, but she either never thought of it, or did not consider it something she wished to involve herself in.

She was staring up at him, her arms crossed in front of her, a look of growing impatience on her face, her foot tapping.

You look ravishing, my dear. He thought of saying it, but thought it inappropriate in the current setting. "What?" he asked, a little ill at ease with how curt his voice sounded.

Panakeia shifted uncomfortably. Anakron's voice sounded terse, a bit short. But why? Was he upset over her arrival? Unhappy to see her? And that blonde - who was she? Was she the reason for Anakron's coldness? Panakeia trembled at the thought of losing Anakron to a mere vamp. But one question at a time, the most easily answered first.

"What?" she echoed in a trembling voice. "I came all the way from Lûndûn, and all you can say is 'what'? Not even a hello? Aren't you glad to see me?" She carefully avoided the crucial question of the woman in the red dress, hoping that Anakron would volunteer a satisfactory explanation before she needed to ask.

Anakron closed his eyes momentarily and felt tautness in his face, felt the muscle below his left eye twitch, and his lips draw down. Stress. He managed a smile so quick it probably looked like a grimace.

"Hello." He swallowed. "Of course I'm glad to see you."

He wanted to reach up and caress her face, smooth away the fear in her eyes, but it would not be appropriate here, with the powerful and influential casting glances their way. He kept his hand at his side.

"This is about our-" He couldn't bring himself to say the word here in this public place, that anakronistic word, date. "-arrangement. I'm sorry I had to break it. It couldn't be helped. These negotiations-" He left his sentence unfinished, nodding toward the room they had just left, willing her to understand.

Panakeia was now convinced of Anakron's displeasure. Despair began to work its way into her thoughts. That odd expression on his face couldn't have been anything other than distaste. Distaste. It couldn't be so. She longed to pour out her fears to Anakron. To be told, with a brush of fingers to her hair, that she was being silly, and to laugh at her foolishness after his reassurance.

But she couldn't. She thought again of the broken dates, of the woman on the other side of the door, and anger mingled with pride took possession of her actions. "Negotiations? Is that what you call this little business?" She pointed at the door. An empty laugh escaped her lips, and Panakeia was startled at the harshness of its echo in the hallway. "Oh yes. It all looked quite diplomatic, especially your friend sitting on the table. Most diplomatic. Is she the head ambassador? Of what nation, pray tell?" No sooner had the words been spoken then she regretted giving them voice. But they could not be undone. Panakeia stiffened, fighting the impulse to apologize.

Anakron was stunned. He stared at Panakeia. Was this the same woman he had found so engaging? So captivating? Jealous of a mere tramp whose dress declared to the world, 'I am using sex to get my way'? Anakron couldn't believe it. For the first time in a long time Anakron spoke before he had thought.

"Maybe I shouldn't be involved with any woman."

As soon as the words were out, he winced. How had he let himself say that? Of all the wrong times to say a thing, this was the wrongest. Anakron didn't even care that his thought was constructed in bad grammar. He waited for the inevitable bad reaction, flinching inside.

Shouldn't be involved with any woman? That last phrase stung Panakeia to the quick. Anakron did have doubts about her. That explained everything from the continually broken dates to his indifferent greeting, and she suddenly felt a drop slipping down the side of her face. Not wanting Anakron to see her tears, Panakeia spun on her heel and fled from his gaze. After wandering for a while, mourning Anakron's rejection, remorse for her rash words gnawing at her conscience, she found a bench in a lonely corner of the Palace and burst into sobs of misery.

[Diamond18]

“Can I have the pocketknife now?” Skittles asked, as Anakron’s girlfriend fled sobbing down the hall.

“Oh, yes, here you go,” said Igör, handing it over. This was perhaps not the wisest thing to do, but Igör had promised and he could not lie, so from freak to freak the knife went.

“Score!” Skittles said, inspecting the handle. “This is part of a limited-edition set of classic Disney pocketknives! I have all the others, but never could get ahold of Mickey-Mouse!” She pocketed the pocketknife (naturally) and gave Igör an enthusiastic pat on the back. “Thanks paleeoh!”

One of Igör’s eyes popped loose and went bouncing over to stare up at Dracomir, and Igör rushed over to pick it up before the Gondorian either smashed or evanesco’ed it. He plucked it from between Dracomir’s feet with a murmured apology and blew some dust and hair from it before reinserting it.

When he turned around, Skittles was nowhere to be seen, and he frowned. Anakron had rentered the room and sat down, looking rather gloomy, and Igör shot an encouraging smile his way. Half his face was still frozen into the frown, as it was rather hard to change expressions on the dot. Anakron caught the look and shifted away, trying not to look disgusted.

Meanwhile, Skittles was on her way again. She carried on an engaging conversation with Mickey as she wended her way down the many ominous, twisting, gothic halls in the Palace. She knew that she had an appointment with Roggie, and intended to visit him, but she felt like taking the scenic route to his chamber. She also knew that she was expected to travel with the others Alli had asked to speak with Roggie, but frankly all they seemed interested in doing was sitting around, looking at each other, and waiting for something to happen. Correction: looking at Lola. She found all this terribly boring, so struck out on her own and figured that the longer she wandered before finally turning up at Roggie’s door, the more likely the others would be there as well.

As fate would have it, soon she heard a quiet whimpering from a particularly dark and lonely corner, and pocketed Mickey to go investigate. She didn’t want to sully her new blade with blood, so she got out one of her trusty switchblades.

She found Pancake, that lady who had come to see Anakron, curled up in a tight little ball of misery on a bench underneath a pool table in a deserted billiard room, and so she hopped on top the table. Hanging herself upside down to get a good view of the pancake-lady, she said. “Hello there. Why so sad?”

“Oh go away,” the woman sniffled.

“Awww, whatsamatter, Pancake, hon? Why does the lady cry?”

“Panakeia,” she said between gulps, her upper lip stiffening slightly at the opportunity to correct someone. “My name is Panakeia.”

“What did the mean man say to you, eh?” Skittles cooed. “Nasty, mean Anakronism Conveyor. Want that I should hurt him? I make him sorry....”

“No, I should not like that,” said Panakeia, though Skittles thought she could detect the slightest bit of hesitation. “And please do not talk to me as if I am a baby. Really. I am old enough to be your mother, by the looks of you.”

Skittles affected a pout and made a clucking noise in her throat. “I wouldn’t hurt him much. Just enough to make him sorry.”

“No, thank you,” Panakeia said, firmly this time. She crawled out from under the pool table and straightened, fighting to regain a little dignity.

Skittles sighed. “So much for hell hathing no fury,” she muttered. “Okay, suit yourself.” She swung herself down from the table and shrugged. She sauntered out of the room, but paused in the doorway and inspected her fingernails, saying carelessly, “I could put itching powder in his trunk.”

“No,” Panakeia was unmovable. “If I want to put itching powder in his trunk I am quite capable of doing it myself, thank you.”

“Awright,” Skittles capitulated, and then decided to sprint down the hallway at full speed and see how far she could run up the wall before doing a backflip. She was quite pleased with the result.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron stood transfixed in the hallway, watching Panakeia disappear from view. Should I go after her? Don't be silly, you can do no such thing. Negotiations are underway, or soon will be, and you need to be here. What to do about Panakeia though? He sighed. Give her time. She'll come around. He did not believe himself.

He was aware of pairs of eyes from various onlookers in the hallway, as well as those in the room, all of whom had been listening to the whole thing. Anakron frowned in disgust as he thought of Lola watching it all in her wicked delight. Things had not started well at all.

He turned and entered the room again, willing the whole predicament to a corner of his mind to be dealt with later. He resumed his chair, noticing but not giving response to the stares of those in the room. He put up his legs in a fashionably Strideresque manner - the story was well known and the look quite becoming - threw his hood over his head, and stared balefully at the others, waiting for something - like Skittles - to happen.

He couldn't keep Panakeia out of his mind. What had that been all about? The canceled date, to be sure. Hadn't it? Surely it wasn't really about this Lola woman, and petty jealousies. Surely not! Not if Panakeia was the woman he knew her - well - believed her to be. Suddenly things were not nearly as clear as they had been. What in Mordor had it been about? His mind ran in circles as he watched the others.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog sat on the floor, nursing his bruised chin. His voice now slured and he drooled uncontrollably. "Cruss that drated creaturr!" he slured, "I'll gif him what forr!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Celuien]

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

"Ouch!"

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

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

"Whatever."

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

"Whatever."

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

"Whatever."

~*~

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

She would tell Anakron after the conference ended for the day. She would tell him, and then go home.

[Lhunardawen]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Roggie of Morgoth]

Roggie moped. His kingdom was falling into despair and he could do nothing about it, based upon the fact that a lot of his subjects were there against their will. He really needed to read Il Principe to get a grasp on how to control a potentially uproarious principality, but would you know it, he couldn't find a copy anywhere and he was woefully ignorant of Italian.

He sat on his throne in his audience chamber, looking at tapestries that were gifts from the mafia. Khamul had presented Roggie with those decorations that had hung in Dol Goldur before Galadriel and Celeborn had destroyed the place. Kammy had had them dry cleaned and sent the bill to Lothlorien before finding them a safe new home at Mount Doom. Elendil dead upon the ground, Isildur cringing like the worm he was, holding a broken blade, ready to take a cheap shot and stab Sauron's foot. Who injures lower extremities? What sort of a fair fight is that? Oh yeah, he thought angrily, Mardil.

Roggie rubbed his sore half-leg through his flame retardant breeches, cursing the King of Gondor and the cold virus that had frozen and shattered his leg. Mardil... Mardil that stole my leg. Mardil that stole my citizens. Mardil that plans to steal my kingdom.

Roggie stood, stretching, roaring his frustration and watching the tapestry go up in flames, burning into a small pile of ash on the floor. He glared into the large fireplace. He looked out the window and tried to spot the stranger he had so recently thrown out of it. No luck. The dwarf was also missing. Perhaps he'd taken the hint.

Perhaps he'd gone for reinforcements.

No... no, that will never do. War! Mardil will pay, and he will pay dearly.

With that thought, Roggie stalked to the back of his chamber, pressing a hidden stone into the wall and watching an entire wall shift to let him pass. It closed silently behind him and he was gone, having disappeared into the unending labyrinth of secret passageways through the volcano. They'll never find me here, he thought bitterly, making his way to his top military adviser. He wondered if he'd told her yet that she was... no matter. She would learn her new government position soon enough. And then... War.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé woke up. He was lying on his back and he could barely see. "Where am I?" he groaned. Wow, did that sound hackneyed he thought to himself. "Fell clichés, will I ever avoid ye?" he said.

"Probably not" answered the girl standing over him. Aimé stared quizzically, wondering who she was, then smirked. She looked wonderful, and not just in contrast to the dank surroundings.

"And what do you have to smile at, mister?" she said. "You can't possibly be proud of yourself. What kind of man would treat me the way you did?" Seeing the completely oblivious look on the young man's face, the girl elaborated. "Those thugs? Those thugs last night, who tried to rob me? There were three of them and I still tried to fight them off, and what did you do?" Aimé tried to think. Probably tried to resolve the situation with the magic of his verbiage.

"I resolved it with my magical verbiage, didn't I?" he asked. The response was not quite what he expected; it was a glass bottle flung at his head. He ducked with all the skill of a professional dodger.

"You ran away and left me!" she screamed. "Now, I'm leaving this horrible place and I hope to never see you or anyone like you ever again."

"Sweetheart! Angel!" he shouted. "I got us here didn't I? And you're safe and well, and no harm came of it, right? And didn't we have a wonderful night?" He smiled his trademark killer smile.

It did not work (to Aimé's considerable puzzlement). "It was wonderful to the extent that I can be physically harrassed by bandits and be manipulated by a fraud under the influence of intoxication. Don't worry, I'll get home alright. I sold those little trinkets of yours to the Orc downstairs. I told him they were precious jewels from the tomb of Elrond Halfelven. Dear Eru! Your associates are dumb. Next time, if you want to impress a girl, show some courage."

"But I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"Pah!" she almost choked with laughter, and walked out the doorway.

Aimé, not noticing this attack on his 'skills', turned instead to his own problems (and by turning to his own problems, we must understand this as his focusing harder on his own problems than he had been previously, for he is extremely self-centred and prone to never thinking about anything other than his own problems). First of all, he was still in hiding; and while laying low was, at times, rollicking and fun, it was often cruel and hazardous. Second, he had a feeling that he had been drinking in order to forget something troubling. Something particularly worrisome. And what's more, he had a feeling that this forgotten thing was something really important. He'd had this feeling for the best part of a year. What did it all mean?

"Where am I?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

As Smilog stood panting outside Roggies chamber, his back against the door, his eyes were as wide as the walls of Minas Tirith. There was only one possible explanation for Roggie's erratic and, quite frankly, irrational behaviour. It is this very reason that Smilog not only guesses, but loudly states to the nearest passing being...

"He's totally mad, isn't he?" he said to a rather large and seemingly friendly Orc who was dressed as a clown.

"Don't talk to me about him!" cried the clown Orc, "He calls this 'comedy Tuesday' and so my sector has to come here dressed as clowns."

"Its not Tuesday," Smilog pointed out, and almost immediately wished he hadn’t as the Orc then stormed off blurting out all kinds of insults and swearwords and some words that no one had ever heard before. Holding his breath, Smilog realised that he had better get back in there and convince Roggie to restart negotiations. If I can't handle him, he thought, what chance do the rest have?

He pushed open the door and rolled behind a table and cowered down, listening for Roggie. Yet he heard no sound. Smilog thought this terribly odd, so he peered over the edge of the table and saw that he was the only being in the room. Then he saw a rat dash across the floor and had to re think his status as 'only living thing in the room'. This revelation led Smilog to Roggie's desk to investigate. Indeed, his investigations brought him to the drinks cupboard and to Roggies stash of Gondor's finest Ale and wine.

What was more, he found a good store of pipe weed and a small bag of gold, all these things Smilog soon placed in his pockets. Except for the wine, he drank some of that and hid the rest in his pack. Now, the issue of Roggie, he thought, where has he got to?

[Anguirel]

Decisively spurned by the luscious Lola, Dracomir simply pretended he had never initiated a conversation, like an agile white cat who has failed to make a jump, and licks its lips, pretending nothing has happened.

(Tom had received a modicum of Classical education at his Kensington day school, and Dracomir rather more at Hogwarts. In any case, he was familiar with the application of the Virgilian simile.)

"We're wasting our time, wasting our presence here, momentarily disobeying Alli, and procrastinating. No wonder we're all in Mordor." Maika stated. Dracomir was annoyed. Disdainful lines like that belonged, as of right, to him, and besides, he wasn't in Mordor, officially, and anyway Mordor was a state of mind, as the most cursory reading of Doctor Faustus showed. But before he could so much as start mouthing, Maika shut him up again with yet another curt utterance, tacitly backed by Lola. Really, this was too much.

Finally getting the opportunity to riposte, he unusually concluded that actions speak louder than words. Skittles had hared off again and for some bizarre reason, she was the only one currently being remotely amenable towards him, so, having enough of the current boorish company, as he convinced himself, he non-verbally established her location with the Four-Point Charm and apparated after her, arriving beside her with a loud crack.

"Couldn't be bothered to wait for that lot," he explained, affecting once more his faux-proletarian tones in order to sound hard. "C'mon-let's go and find Roggie."

[JennyHallu]

JennyHallu's post

Lola sighed in agitation, throwing Anakron an exasperated glance. "Really," she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. "That was incredibly dense." Then she hustled forward quickly enough to direct Maika towards the most circuitous route to Roggie's throne room she could think of. All her attempts to delay the proceedings were going to naught, due to Maika's impatience and Dracomir's ridiculous pride. Now she must resort to tricksier methods, and hope Alli (whom she considered a true friend) didn't get wind of it.

Frankly, Lola Martinet couldn't care less about the results of the 'negotiations'. She loved Mordor's chaos and impracticality fiercely, and would do anything to protect it, and in her mind, protection meant all those fools who didn't recognize the beauty of neon lights and triplicate forms were rightly the first to go. What was really the harm in them wandering off? Those who stayed away weren't assets to begin with, and the rest of the emigrants returned, chagrined, sick of being defensive of their glasses and manicures and hairdye and similes, and all the other things that made Mordor so unique among all the countries of Middle Earth.

And Roggie? Roggie was a silly fool, caught up in dreams and delusions of grandeur, unaware that his true grandeur was revealed in his towering, imposing form, and the noble flicker in his flaming eyes. He was, however, easily manipulated, and therefore useful. His current snit was the best method she could see for preserving the status quo. After all, it wasn't as though Mardil wanted any piece of Mordor for himself...

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

Lhunardawen's post

Maika quietly sighed in relief when she heard Lola's footsteps following behind her. Even without turning around to actually look, she noticed that Dracomir chose not to come with them. It bothered her a little, but he will go where he will. In any case she was glad that finally something was being done.

Only now that she was on her way to Roggie's throne room did the real significance of their mission occur to her. The fate of Gondor and Mordor and the poor unknown or little known or known-but-no-one-really-cares lands between them, if any, because having been in Mordor practically all her life she had no way of knowing, are in their hands. And she barely knew what to say once she was before His Hotness - what could they say to convince him? And speaking of hotness, there was her skin to worry about. With all these concerns slowly weighing on her mind she did not notice that she had fallen behind Lola, who was now leading the way. Maika did not mind. She concentrated on her aforementioned concerns which were enough to confuse her and thanked Eru (if she could - did Mordorians do that?) that Lola was there to worry about the directions. Maika blindly followed her, lost in her own thoughts. A foreboding silence fell on the two ladies.

Soon Maika returned from her seeming out-of-body experience, which kind of sounded cooler and more mysterious than saying what she actually thought about, surprised to see that they were still walking down the hallway - a hallway that looked vaguely familiar. A fleeting glance at Lola's confidently swaying hips told her that she knew exactly where they were. But Maika did not.

"Lola, where are we? Aren't we supposed to be--"

"Oh there you are, my dear," Lola exclaimed, flicking her hair over her shoulder as if her hair was all Maika was worth talking to. "I thought I've lost you."

"I think you intend to," Maika muttered dryly at her hair. It swayed mischievously in response.

"Don't worry," the lady in front of the hair assured her, none too effectively. "We'll be there in no time."

No time indeed, Maika shuddered. Not wanting to let her rising fear shine through for Lola to take advantage of, she again summoned the silence, which willingly fell on them again. (In case your morbid imagination shows them being squished flatter than pancakes and leaves you wondering how they can still manage to walk, you should be informed that silence, though can be heavy, is not concrete.) She felt panic rising within her, as well as the fear that Skittles or Dracomir or both of them have already reached Roggie's office and finished speaking to him and reached a diplomatic solution and informed Alli of her absence in the proceedings and suggested dismissing her for lack of professionalism. Overwhelmed and paralyzed, the only thing Maika could do was send a mental distress call to Dracomir - whom she hoped had telepathic abilities though she herself did not - to rescue her from Lola. The line was busy.

[Diamond18]

Skittles had grown tired of doing backflips and reverted to sitting cross-legged on the stone-tiled floor, playing jumping jacks, when all of a sudden with a loud crack Dracomir appeared beside her.

Oy, she thought enviously, how does he do that?

"Couldn't be bothered to wait for that lot. C'mon-let's go and find Roggie."

Skittles untangled her legs, pocketed her jacks and bouncy rubber ball, and leapt to her feet. "Can we appear in front of him with a loud, sudden crack and give him a fright?" she asked eagerly. When startled, Roggie tended to expell flames in a most entertaining, if dangerous, manner.

"Er, well..." Dracomir's bravado faded just a bit. "Roggie's further away and a being of more power. I could tell what direction he was in (North, South etc), but nothing more."

Skittles was unfazed. "So. What direction is he in?"

"Let me see." With a flourish Dracomir pulled out his wand and invoked a locator spell. "Ah. North. Definitely North, with a dash of downwards." He turned slowly, holding his wand out like the needle of a compass.

I could describe to you in detail the many adventures and mishaps they encountered as they travelled the length and the breadth of the Palace/Casino, following the ever changing directions of the wand. But that would take a long time and a lot of narration. Instead, I offer you this:

"Watch out for that wall."

"Are you sure that's the right way?"

"Maybe it's broken."

"Do you like cats? I like cats."

"That orc just looked at us funny. I'll be right back."

"You know, the nice thing about black leather is that orc blood doesn't show up."

"Well you can't go there, obviously there can't be a secret, hidden entryway behind that majestic tapestry depicting the Battle of TiG XV."

"I told you so."

"Maybe we should stop and ask directions?"

And so on, until Dracomir invoked a Good God will that woman never shut up? muting spell.

They wandered for an even more intensely boring length of time in silence (or, at least, Dracomir didn't hear what Skittles was saying) until finally a merciful end was put to the madness. "We are getting close, now, quite close," said Dracomir with excitement, as the wand began to beep and its tip blinked red. (Or maybe it only did that in Skittles' warped perception.)

"Yes, yes, I can almost pinpoint his exact location now, he's...." Dracomir spun around and, in the process, poked Roggie in the stomach.

Roggie let out a roar, singing Dracomir's pale locks and marring his porcelain complexion. Then he seized the wand between his thumb and forefinger and snapped it in two. Then he crumbled each section into a fine powder and sprinkled it over the stunned Dracomir.

Then he gave the pseudo-Gondorian ambassador not a second glance nor another moment's thought, turning to Skittles instead. "There you are," he roared. "I've been looking all over for you. Come with me!"

They departed for the undoubtedly complex and deeply cavernous labyrinth once more, in a cloud of fire and ash.

At that moment, or actually, a couple moments before, a rift in the space-time continuum occurred. Such things happened quite a lot after those daft Wizards created the Dweomer, and at any moment strange things such as this were prone to happen. Quite simply put, at the moment Roggie seized Dracomir's wand, the current reality split into two separate entities, and went their separate ways, totally unbeknownst to each other.

In one reality, Roggie snapped Dracomir's wand in two. In the second reality, all he did was forcefully poke Dracomir in the stomach and then rap him on the head. In both realities, he then gave the pseudo-Gondorian ambassador not a second glance nor another moment's thought, turning to Skittles instead. "There you are," he roared. "I've been looking all over for you. Come with me!"

What happened to these two realities, separated at birth? Well, in the first reality, the one in which Dracomir lost his wand, Dracomir quit both wizarding and ambassadoring, (devastated by the loss of his wand) and took up hair-styling in Hollywood. The negotiations continued without him. Eventually the negotiations failed (when the remaining Gondorians were slaughtered by Roggie and his warlordess) and so Gondor and Mordor went to war. The casualties were high. Eventually flames engulfed Middle-earth, and the world ended.

So, let's follow the second reality, the one in which Dracomir got a poke in the tummy and a rap on the head, then was left standing in the hall with his wand and his bruises, while Roggie and Skittles departed for the undoubtedly complex and deeply cavernous labyrinth once more, (once more), in a cloud of fire and ash.

[Boromir88]

"You! Guard! Send a message to Lady Alli! I wish to see her at once." said Angawen to the human guard.

"We have orders to stay here and make sure that you don't leave." replied the guard.

"Well does it necessarily take two guards to watch over one spot?" interjected Hyarmenwe.

"Orders are orders, sir."

"But, you can obey your master's orders and still go and fetch Lady Alli. Since it doesn't take two of you guard one area."

The human guard gave in, "I'll go and get the Lady." he then turned towards the Orc guard, "You stay here and make sure they don't leave. And if they give you trouble just give them some trouble back"

The Orc guard grunted. He seemed taller and stronger than the typical Orc Bearugard was used to seeing. The man went to go get Lady Alli and he stopped as the Orc followed him.

"What are you doing?"

"Following you." The orc replied.

"No, no, no. I'm going to get Alli you stay here and make sure they don't go anywhere. Got it."

"Yep, you want me to stay here."

"And make sure they don't leave."

"What?"

"Make sure that they don't leave!"

"Oh, of course. I am not to leave this spot."

"And they don't leave neither."

"Who?"

"Them!"

"Oh that them."

"Yes, do you got it?"

"Clear as mud."

The man went off to go fetch Lady Alli and the Orc brute stood there watching the diplomats. Bearugard approached him. The Orc wasn't much taller than him, but the Orc clearly had been to the gym and did some weight-lifting 3 times a week.

"May I ask what are you doing?" said Bearugard.

"I'm staying here in this spot, like I'm supposed to." replied the Orc.

"Good job, I hope you get a bonus. I'll see you."

"Hold it!" shouted the Orc, "I was also told to make sure that you don't leave neither."

"You mean your orders are to make sure we don't leave?"

"Yep."

"I regret eavesdropping on your conversation, but your buddy didn't say we weren't to leave, he said them. Right?"

"I guess."

"Well, you see, we are not them. You're supposed to make sure they don't leave... not us."

"Oh, ok then, sorry to be troubling you. Go right on ahead."

"Thank you. I'll make sure to put in a good word for you."

"No problem."

"Well, come on." said Bearugard looking back to the two diplomats who were now much relieved to get passed the guard.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

How long he had been out, Smilog could not tell. His head was wobbling more than Bombur on triple cake Friday. That wine was strong stuff for sure; so strong it had knocked him out cold, or it may have been the lamp, which lay in pieces just beside him. He struggled to his feet and waddled around, stumbling and gibbering incoherently to himself. It wasn't long before he began to sing...

We Love fishing for the sea
Because it gives us lots of glee
For into the mouth of the moth we go
To find the singing toad's crow!

Oh to be a family’s mouse
Would make me look like a house!
And then I’d look at all the cats
And say to them “Bats!”

He fell forwards onto the hard stonewall. Except, it wasn't so hard. In fact he was sure it was hollow. "Wasc awll thisc then?" he slurred as he repeatedly punched the wall. After many efforts the wall opened and Smilog fell through it and landed flat on his face in a dusty passageway. The door closed swiftly behind him, as if it too did not like the look of this odd place with its strange smells. Smilog tried to stand up, but only fell down again and soon began to sleep.

When he awoke his head ached worse than the Witch King's head when Eowyn stabbed him. He stood up and looked around at the strange surroundings, it was a long corridor, dark and dingy, probably inhabited by some giant spider, knowing his luck. Slowly he followed the passage until he came to a turn. Then another. Then a crossroads. Then another. Then a turn again. What was this place? A labyrinth. "I have Labyrinths!" he cried aloud to himself.

"Don't talk-sss to me abot-ss Labyrintttthhhsss!" came a voice from around the corner.

"Who's there?" demanded Smilog walking towards the sound.

"Oh, nobody!" came the reply, "its-ss all a dream! Go to shleep!"

"If its a dream, then how could I go to sleep?" queried Smilog. There was a pause.

"Erm..." said the voice, "Its-sss a sss-strange dream. Yeah, that'll do. And I'm an invisible ghos-sst!"

"Look, I'm not here to play silly beggars," huffed the Dwarf impatiently, "and you're not an invisible ghost. I can see you... you..." he stopped as he realised what he was talking to. A large, hairy, smelly Minotaur!

"Go on!" said the creature, "run and sss-scream. Like all the others-ss!"

"Well, for a start it wouldn't be a fair chase," observed Smilog, sitting down, "I can see from here that your leg is trapped in that bucket. What's your name?"

"Name?" mused the Minotaur, "Well... erm..."

"You know, 'name'" Smilog teased, "the thing most beings have to identify themselves by?"

"I know-ss that-ss!" The Minotaur stood up and fell down again. "Tollin, is-ss my name! Tollin Gaurhoth! At your sss-service."

"Smilog, the Dwarf, at yours." he helped the creature up, "perhaps we can help each other get out of this place?" Tollin shook his head and slowly began to weep. It was odd to see such a terrible creature cry to heartily and with such sorrow. Almost like seeing Sauron himself curl up, suck his thumb and call for his mother.

"I've been here for years!" cried Tollin, "I've not found even the slightest hint of an exit!"

"Why don't we follow that sign?" asked Smilog pointing at a large illuminated 'exit' sign hanging on the wall.

"I did not ssss-see that." said Tollin scratching his head.

[littlemanpoet]

Lola fled with, apparently, the most cutting rejoinder she could think of: "dense". Two possible meanings could adhere to the comment, neither of which were to the point. So Anakron cast them from his mind. He was worried about Panakeia. Where had she gone? Was she in trouble? He considered leaving the negotiations to go find her; but he was, after all, the Grand Anakronist, and he had a job to do .... even if the anakronisms were not conveying as he wished. Regardless of his personal inclinations, he must see to the negotiations. Gondor and Mordor were at odds. Anarkon's power came from the Blue Istari, and so his allegiance was to them and their purposes, even if he disagreed with them.

He looked up for a moment, halting his ponderings, to see that he was alone in the room. Apparently the negotiations were not happening here after all. The ambassadors had left him without a word. Something deep inside the Grand Anakronist lost its moorings. How dare they leave him without a word. How dare the Blue Istari interrupt his happy life in Umbar and force him into the thankless task. Misunderstood. Accused of corruption. Of evil. Of turning things to his own ends for his own narcissistic pleasure. How dare they think such things about him. How dare this negotiation interrupt the one bright thing in his sorry life!

He rose. His teeth were bared. His hand clutched the staff as if it were a neck he could choke.

"They do not know whom they are ignoring at their peril," he grated. He had held back from conveyance of late because it had been going wrong. Things were coming mixed. Fantasy and reality combined in macabre ways. Mixed technologies from incongruant future times destroyed each other before onlookers. People were getting killed and not coming back to life.

"I care not." Anakron knew that the potential for evil had always been there, and he saw that it was now rising from its formerly dormant seed. He felt it within. He knew that this would most likely be the end of any joy he had envisioned with Panakeia, and somewhere deep inside, a lonely little man wailed at the inevitable loss. He would spare her. It would be the only promise toward civility he would make. "Let them weep."

He walked out of the room and down the corridor that led to Roggie's depths. He raised the staff.

"Convey."

The Siamese Cat howled.

A car appeared suddenly before him and skidded into the wall, crashing. It burst into flames; its horn blared. A man covered in steel, riding a horse, a long pointed shaft held in his arm, hurtled down the corridor past Anakron. A man wearing a mask, tanks on his back, pointed a black shiny thing at the horse and rider. A trigger was pulled and held. Bullets rained and tore through the armored man and his horse and they went down.

"Too simple. Too brash. I need something more subtle."

Anakron continued down the corridor and searched the darkness of his rage.

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë's chest was pounding. They had slipped past the guards. They were still in the palace, it was true, but they were technically out of bounds, and the rule-abiding noble in Hyarmenwë was terrified at the thought that they were technically in a legitimate position to be Assigned to Mordor- or soon would be.

Speaking properly, giving the guards the slip merely meant that they were breaking the rules set by Aluminé Umfuil, which was certainly a breach of proprietry in and of itself, but it was not automatic Assignment, any more than opposition to Mardil meant Assignment to Mordor. No, Assignment to Mordor, basically boiled down to association with an anakronism. Being an anakronism, accepting anakronisms as normal, or making, producing, or perpetrating anakronism: these were what Assigned one to Mordor- not disobediance to the Mordorian spymaster.

Based on that theory, one should presumably be able to move about in Mordor if one continued to act as a true Gondorian, didn't condone the anakronisms about oneself, and didn't absorb any of their anakronistic ways.

A difficult enough task by itself, Hyarmenwë reflected. He had once come very near to Assignment himself, nearly twenty years before, and had lost one of his own family to Assignment. Mordor and Assignments thereto were not to be taken lightly.

But neither were negotiations with Mordor, Hyarmenwë had managed to convince himself. He was here for the love of Gondor and the benefit thereof. And with negotiations stalled and potentially trapped in Mordor for life, it made logical sense to do some scouting- so long as one was careful not to contaminate oneself.

"Which way, do you think?" he asked Angawen, who was the most eager to venture out of their proscribed domain, when they came to a meeting of corridors.

"Left," said she. "The air smells differently- more stuffy and less wholesome. In other words, the smell of normal Mordor."

They turned left, away from the centre of the palace, and towards the smell of what they did not necessarily realize was smog. Soon they found themselves at the end of the corridor, where a small door opened onto a zig-zagging staircase that led to the street below. Angawen and her bodyguards leading the way, they descended the fire escape.

What a horrible land! Hyarmenwë thought in horror as he moved his aging feet down the many stairs. There was no fear of him condoning or accepting the anakronisms. Every strange thing about the land sent shivers down his spine.

"Look! Some of the locals," Angawen pointed at a group of disillusioned teenagers slouching against the building across the street from them. "Let us go question them as to where we can find the best source of the local gossip."

"If we must, let us get this distasteful task over with," said Bearugard with a sniff, and he stepped courageously forward into the street. He was very nearly run over by a yellow PT Cruiser.

"Hey mate!" shouted the ork driving through his open window. "Use the bloomin' crosswalk, alright!"

"Crosswalk?" a shaken Bearugard turned to Angawen and Hyarmenwë.

"An anakronism," said Hyarmenwë with a shake of his hand. "Best not dwell on the thought."

"All right, all together!" Angawen ordered, as soon as the coast was clear. Before any more automobiles could materialize to run them over, they dashed across the pavement.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Roggie's been here," grunted Smilog.

"How-sss can you tell-sss?" asked Tollin scratching his head.

"Because it smells of fish!" the Dwarf trotted along, following the illuminated signs, there was even one that said, 'don't forget to wash your hands, Roggie!' Smilog snorted and chuckled over this. "Did his mother build this place?"

"I ttthhhink sss-so," mused Tollin as he picked up a large morning star up off the floor, "I was-sss wondering where that had got to." Smilog looked at the black head of the weapon covered in steel spikes that would easily cleave through solid rock. Smilog may not have been a good mining Dwarf, but he knew a thing or two about steel weaponry.

"What's that for?" he asked, "Do you get many intruders in this place?"

"Only that-ss Roggie," sneered Tollin, "him and his-sss fishhh!" He hummed to himself while examining the chain and handle of the morning star. "I don't know why I ussse thissss," he continued, "theresss notss enough room to swing a cat in here. Believe me I've tried!"

"What, swinging a cat?"

"No!" bellowed Tollin, "usssing this thing."

"It's a morning star," corrected Smilog as the passed a small door marked 'food', "Wait a moment!" cried the dwarf turning and staring at this. "Food? Have you ever seen this?"

"A few timessss," said Tollin, "It'ssss locked."

"I see." hummed Smilog, "wait a moment! You're a Minotaur, yes?" Tollin nodded, "well, you should have unusually great strength. Can't you knock it down?" the Minotaur thought for a moment and then shrugged.

"I'll give it a go," he said and hurled himself full pelt at the door. The rotten wood frame crumbled as soon as he touched it and the rest of the thing fell forwards onto the dusty floor.

"Good grief!" cried Smilog as a stench of rotting fish poured out of the room, "Ack!" he screamed, "what's in there?" there was no answer from Tollin so Smilog held his nose and went in to search for him. He found the Minotaur stuffing his face full of rotten fish and smiling like an imbecile. "What are you doing?"

"Eating fish!" cried Tollin, "Want some?"

"No thank you," Smilog was nearly sick, "I think we should keep moving. Roggie can't be far away. If we find him, maybe we can get out of this dreadful place." reluctantly, Tollin rose and plodded along behind Smilog with his head drooping down. "I just hope there is a bath at the end of this labyrinth."

They journeyed on for a little while before coming to some spiralling stairs that wound high up into the mountain. Smilog looked at the steps and could see fresh footprints there, he also heard someone breathing heavily somewhere up the stairs. "Roggie, is that you?" cried the Dwarf, "I want to talk to you!"

"Go away!" came the reply, "we're closed!"

"This isn't a shop!" Smilog was getting angry and so he began to ascend the stairs. "Now stop messing around and listen to what I have to say!" There was no reply. He called out Roggies name many times angrily but no answer came.

"Maybe he's dead," said Tollin, "especially after all that silly shouting!"

"Don't be-" began Smilog, "wait, what happened to your lisp?"

"It comes and goes," Tollin stated with firm affirmation. As Smilog rolled his eyes they heard something coming down the stairs. At first thy thought it might be Roggie, but the sound was different, less like someone walking down the stairs, more like something flowing down them. Three seconds later a huge flow of stinking green liquid game gushing towards them and knocked them right off their feet and sent them to the bottom. "What is this stuff?" wept Tollin.

"Sour milk!" cried Roggie from above, "now leave me alone!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Of a sudden, the air began to shake, the ground grew heavy, and the world seemed to mix clichès with all the glee of an ancient and shrivelled creative writing teacher on medication for a misdiagnosed disorder.
The Gondorian Ambassadors froze in their steps, looking behind them to the looming Mount Doom Palace and Casino. Those inside, including the hopelessly lost Tollin and Smilog, the gleefully plotting Roggie and Skittles, and the woefully incapable-of-finding-the-monarch-and-his-crazed-companion other Ambassadors, shivered, previously convinced that Mount Doom was dormant, now slightly concerned.

Alli, seated in an armchair by the fire, staring broodingly into it and missing Aimè while pretending to do the paperwork laying lonely on her lap, looked up.

Anakron Istkon Vayor froze in his very long and wrathful steps, looking suddenly at the staff in his hand. Without hesitation he ran back toward where he had come from, hiking his abnormally flowing - but in a good way - robes high, his pale legs covering ground quickly. He found a balcony with the ease that could only come from a writer wanting him to quickly find it without worry over split infinitives or actual story-based reasonings for it being conveniently there and he looked down at the road far below, his nose wrinkling artistocratically as the fumes from the city rose toward him.

His imperious eyes scanned the ground for the source of the world's shaking, occasionally glaring at the staff in his grasp and finally found it.

The Gondorian Ambassadors spotted him from afar and seemed to diminish in size as the Mount Doom Palace and Casino grew.

"May the Valar take pity upon us..." murmered Hyarmenwë, his eyes growing round. "We must return!"

Before another word could be spoken, another character hijacked, another run-on sentence composed, Mount Doom Casino and Resort, due to an anomoly in the Dweomer/Reality continuum, sprouted wheels and drove away.

Alli had risen with the first of the shudderings and ran, spotting Anakron and stopping.

"What is happening and why are the Gondorians standing in the road that SHOULD be outside of this palace!?!?!?" Anakron glared at her superfluous use of punctuation and capitalization and held onto a railing for balance.

Already in the distance, Angawen, Hyarmenwë, and Bearugard stared in disbelief as the mountain they had only just left zoomed away.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"No, no, no!" cried Smilog, "Not again! Not again!" the mountain shook violently as it drove over the plains of Gorgoroth with insane speed. The Dwarf struggled to his feet and began climbing the stairs, even though they shook like Aragorn on bath night. Tollin swiftly followed on, trying desperately to keep on his feet, though the g-force was beginning to press them against the sides of the staircase.

"What is going on?" cried Tollin, "This is an unusual Mountain indeed! But this has never happened before!"

"Yes it has!" cried Smilog as he hung on to the banister and climbed desperately up the stairs, "and its my fault, I think!" Tollin was about to ask what he meant, but just then they saw Roggie crawling through a door at the top of the stairs. "Oi!" cried Smilog, "will you help us?"

"No!" Cried Roggie as he vanished behind the door and seemed to lock it behind him, "you're not coming out till I've stopped this Mountain!"

"But I can help you stop it!" The dwarf desperately hung on as the violent rumbling of the engine began to shake the chamber. "I know what's going on!"

"Shut up!" cried Roggie, who then left. Tollin moved up the stairs with determination, he was stronger than Smilog, so he was able to carry his newfound friend up the stairs. When they came to the door at the top, it wasn't long before the shaking of the mountain caused the door to fall apart as well as the stairs beneath them. Smilog and Tollin almost fell to their deaths, but the Minotaur hung on to the edge for all he was worth and climbed back up.

Eventually, the shaking seemed to dye down and become smoother. They must have come to a flat plain and be cruising along quite nicely. "What did you mean?" asked Tollin, "you know what’s going on?"

"Sort of," grumbled Smilog, "its a long story. Basically, my father was involved with Sauron quite deeply." Tollin gasped and looked strongly at the Dwarf, "I wasn't, by the way. I was too young at the time. He was involved in some super secret mission that Sauron gave him and all the Dwarves he had on his side. It was called..." Smilog paused and drew breath, "Project Zoom!"

"You know about that?" cried Roggie from behind a corner, "you little traitor! I'll kill you!" He dashed at the Dwarf, but Tollin stood in his way.

"Listen to me!" cried Smilog, "I am no traitor! I hated my father's work, and he repented fully of his deeds after he saw what damage the project could do. The plan was to make Mount Doom mobile, just in case anyone tried to destroy the One Ring, also to just wreak havoc in Middle Earth. The project was abandoned when Sauron decided that his victory was guaranteed, he threw all the Dwarves out of Mordor. My father told me all about it, he said they'd done enough that if anyone found the secret, they could resurrect it easily. I was assigned to Mordor to find the Zoom project and destroy it!"

Roggie huffed and puffed unhappily, small fires busted out all over him as he tried to process all of this information. Tollin strode forwards and looked around, he saw that there were on the first floor of the Casino. "We should try and get to the control room," he said, "i assume there is one?"

"Yes," said Smilog miserably, "the Crack of Doom! I suppose asking you to re-start negotiations is folly now, Roggie?"

[Anguirel]

Completely unaware of the dire and hopeless fate, encompassing the doom of the entire world, that his parallel self was now undergoing, Tom picked himself up, quite carefully and in some considerable pain. Somehow, he thought following the ghastly Balrog and the dangerously unstable Skittles was not the most prudent course of action, though he needed to get the King to listen to him in some way or other...

The hall in which he found himself was sparce and empty, but though apparently unguarded, it was easy of access, and he could not be sure whether some other guard, or creature, would enter at any moment and interrupt his increasingly hopeless musings. He contented himself with surveying exits and entrances, doors, how easily passable they looked, and whether there were likely to be any traps, in punctilious detail.

Then the whole place shook and he fell flat on his face again, smashing his handsome nose. A hasty Reparo sorted out the fracture but did not staunch the flow of blood, and Dracomir was becoming rather a gruesome sight, covered in red gore not unlike Potter had been after that Petrificus Totallus spell last year. There was another sudden tremor, and though the lack of windows meant Tom had no clue what was going on, in the interests of self-preservation he scrambled through the nearest door, which, thankfully, was open.

The door had a simple but hefty bolt, and Dracomir operated it to lock himself inside for the present. The shaking in the hallway didn't seem to affect this chamber, or rather, this suite, for he was now obviously looking at an antechamber. The furnishings were plush and in green and silver. There was a shelf with what looked like potion ingredients in one room beyond, and a four-poster bed, like the one in his room at Malfoy Manor, in the other. All in all, the Lord Dracomir Malfoidacil felt extremely at home.

Rather too at home. For a cold-eyed portrait of a white-blond man of haughty bearing was hung up opposite him, the words ABRAXAS MALFOY inscribed on the lower part of the frame.

"Took you long enough to get here, you little ingrate," the picture remarked in a proud voice.

"...Grandfather...?" Dracomir murmured nervously...

[Roggie of Morgoth]

"Folly indeed." Roggie growled, trying fruitlessly to find a large red button on the wall that was labelled 'Push me and all of this will stop in a very tidy manner and the world will make sense again.' "Skittles, my chief war advisor, we will finish our discussion as soon as I discover just who is driving my palace without my permission."

Skittles grinned maniacally, flicking her switchblade open and closed in a manner most disconcerting. "Can I fix the problem when we find it?"

"We'll see."

"Ooh, goodie. Can I trim the Dwarf's beard?"

"Go ahead."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog leaped backwards and put his hand on his axe hilt, "Come one step nearer," he warned, "and I'll shove that knife where the sun don't shine!"

"In Mordor," pointed out Tollin, "that could be anywhere." Skittles frowned at the Dwarf and turned to follow Roggie as he wandered off. They walked through the ruined casino while the Mountain hummed along at a pleasant speed not yet showing any signs of stopping, however. The card tables were all broken and scattered all over the place; it was a carnage of cards and a terror of tables! It took a lot to stop Smilog from being sick.

Roggie grumbled in council with Skittles while the Dwarf and his huge companion followed on behind them. Skittles kept looking longingly at the knife and the dwarf's beard while Smilog held his axe tight in his hands. Tollin seemed a little apprehensive and more than a little suspicious of something, "Its not right," he said, "Something is not quite right."

"What do you mean?" asked Smilog, "Of course its not right, there is a mountain driving around!"

"Well, there’s that," Tollin replied, "but it’s been on smooth ground for a while now. I know for a fact that there isn't this much smooth ground in Mordor. Unless it’s going around in circles, it may have stopped!"

[Anguirel]

"Well, you abominable little worm, you haven't achieved that much yet, have you?" the portrait of Abraxas Malfoy went on.

"Well..."

"I thought you were supposed to be," the painted lips gave a very definite smirk, "negotiating with the King of Mordor by now."

"Well..."

"Well what, you lily-livered mealy-mouthed incompetent little leech?"

"Come now, Grandfather," Dracomir cut in, "isn't that slightly excessive?"

"No, it is not, you insufficiently sinuous earthworm! The portrait in the negotiation room told me in good faith you were alone with Mordorian ambassadors at least twice, and yet failed to place them under the Imperius Curse! Neither have you employed Veritaserum in order to unearth compromising secrets! Neither have you..."

The portrait ranted on and on, bringing up stratagems and spells whose very names made Dracomir's blood chill slightly, as in, get cold, not, like, relax. Tom could not help feeling that in his heart of hearts he did not naturally belong to this family. He admired their almost ludicrous capacity for evil, but he could never equal it. He shuddered at Abraxas' latest helpful suggestion. Surely his ancestor hadn't really expected him to be able to summon a Nundu?

"Still," the Malfoy picture said, almost charitably, "you are, after all, a scion of my blood, however undeserving, and I am prepared to aid you to a certain extent."

"I see," Dracomir sneered back, giving as good as he got. "That's a relief. I thought you were going to rant for the next Age of Arda."

"It's a pleasure, insect," Abraxas replied. "Now, proceed to the mahogany table by the Potions shelf. There are some presents for you there."

Sullenly doing as he has told, Tom shuffled to the table in question, feeling Abraxas' eyes swivel to keep trained on him. Arranged on the tabletop were a variety of peculiar objects; what looked like a sheet of parchment, a silvery, insubstantial cloak folded up, and a vial containing a bright purple, fizzing liquid.

"Pick up the parchment," Abraxas barked, "and tap it with your wand, while saying I solemnly swear that I will fill my SAVE in within 48 hours."

The Lord Malfoidacil intoned, just as he had heard, the peculiar phrase.

"I solemnly swear that I will fill my SAVE in within 48 hours."

A blot of ink appeared in the centre of the sheet, spreading out, sticking and congealing. A title formed at the top-

Messrs Minocher, Framroze, Eduljee and Dinshaw present THE MORDORERS' MAP

"A powerful artefact," Abraxas pronounced solemnly. "It shows a complete map of Mordor, including insets of the Castle, Lundun, and Cair Paradocks-and, what's more, everyone within Mordor, and where they are."

"All I can see is a lot of weird smudges moving around the normal map," Dracomir opined.

"Well, there have been some problems with scale. A Great Eagle could read it with ease," Abraxas insisted. "Now try the cloak on."

Dracomir expected slightly better things of the Cloak. Could it be an Invisibility Cloak, like Potter's? He slipped it about himself.

"An Inaudibility Cloak," Abraxas explained. "Marvellous, isn't it?"

"What's the point in being Inaudible?" Dracomir protested.

"Sorry?" Abraxas asked. "Didn't quite catch that." Tom took off the Cloak with a sigh and folded it up for later. Maybe he'd need to get past a crack squad of specially recruited blind guards, or something.

"Ah!" Abraxas exclaimed. "And now the potion! The fabled Infelix Infelicis!"

"Let me guess, it makes me even more unlucky than usual," Dracomir suggested.

"Yup, that's about right."

Dracomir seized the vial, ran past the picture, and hurled the potion at Abraxas' head. It smashed, and apparently being highly flammable, set the picture on fire. The Lord Malfoidacil left the antechamber, Map and Cloak stowed away, with the satisfying sound in his ears of his grandfather being immolated. He could not resist a broad smile as he left. Maybe he deserved to be a Malfoy after all.

[littlemanpoet]

The zooming Mountain gave Anakron an idea as to subtlety. Certain anakronisms there were that were distasteful even in that horrible future. It was time to bring them to bear, regardless of the additional kaos such konveyances of anakronisms kreated. Anakron also decided that he would rather enjoy spelling all those words in his mind and in that infamous role playing game that had kreated the very place he happened to be existing in, with the Greek 'K'. Most exkwizit. He actually giggled. Briefly. Then he raised his staff.

"Konvay!" The kat bawled.

He knew that this partikular konveyance was going to take some time to inkarnate itself in its fulness, but the first stirrings were already beginning to okkur.

It just so happened that Lûgnût the androgynous ork had come to the same balkoney as had Anakron, to observe the moving of the Mountain. Now the ork was on his/her face, bowing down to the Mountain itself in what Anakron took to be worship; the ork was mumbling some strange imprekation in praise of the great Mountain and all its power, based on the Ring which was still at its heart, Dark Lord or no Dark Lord. A malicious grin spread slowly over Anakron's face.

[Celuien]

The mountain's sudden lurch into motion disturbed Panakeia's reverie. An earthquake. We must be having an earthquake, she thought in alarm. It surprised her, never having experienced seismic activity during all her stay in Mordor, but the room was shaking and she could find no other explanation. Noting a swaying chandelier over the billiards table, she ducked back beneath the imposing furniture. Only just in time - a flimsily built plywood wall toppled near her, and would have landed on top of her if not for the table's protection. Mordorian construction, she thought irritably.

The motion was very odd. If not for the room's location in the Mount Doom Palace and Casino, Panakeia would have thought she was in a swaying recreational vehicle, right down to the growing feeling of carsickness in her stomach. Fortunately for her, the room's trembling ceased just as the swirling sensation reached its peak. She emerged unsteadily from her hiding place, pushing aside a pile of debris and brushing dust from her gown.

Wondering how severe the damage had been, Panakeia made her way to a window and looked outside. She gasped. Instead of the Palace gates and signs for the Casino, she looked upon the tiny blue of the Pathetic Ocean. Several surfers and sunbathers were staring blankly at the mountain. Somehow, Mount Doom had arrived at the Mâl-in-Bû section of Lost Angles. Panakeia was flabbergasted. She could think of no possible way for the mountain to have moved. Unless...unless the Dweomer was at work. Anakron! What had happened?

She looked around from her window, and spotted the Grand Anakronist standing on a balcony above her. As she watched, he began to laugh. Just for a moment, but he laughed all the same. And then Lûgnût joined him and bowed to the mountain. Anakron began to laugh again, and though she couldn't see his face clearly from her vantage point, she thought she saw a hint of a cruel grin on his lips.

Her anger forgotten, Panakeia felt a scream rising in her throat. Something was horribly wrong with Anakron, and she, terrified by what she saw, knew that she had to help him if she could. With a nagging fear that she was somehow the cause of whatever evil had taken place, Panakeia made her way over the rubble of the billiards room and searched for a way to the balcony. When she passed the bullet-riddled body of an armored man near a wrecked car, she knew that she was coming close. Before long, she heard the familiar - and yet strange - laughter of her beloved Anakron on the other side of a door. She hurried to the doorway and stepped through to face him, fear, worry, and love all written on her brow.

"What's happening?" she cried.

[Anguirel]

The bizarre earthquake in the castle seemed to have completely ceased by now. Tom advanced to the entrance to the labryrinth whither Roggie and Skittles had repaired. Even after the Balrog-King had advanced far down it long ago, it exuded a certain amount of sulphurous heat. Besides, it was likely to be a contorted route, and Dracomir-though the smudges on the Mordorers' Map gave him a vague idea-couldn't be quite sure where Roggie had gone.

Besides, he wasn't exactly enamoured of the idea of being reunited with the King of Mordor without significant back-up.

He already had enough information to make a certain impression...if directed to the right ears. Roggie had shown absolute proof, of the must robust kind, of his reluctance to negotiate. He was on the contrary marching off with Skittles. Skittles, Lady of Flick-Knives. Hardly a sign of latent pacifism. Dracomir couldn't precisely know their purposes, but he assumed three of them were war, destruction, and barbecuing.

Just wait till those timorous Mordorian "ambasador" wage-slaves of Alli heard that. Yes, this news would have quite an effect.

Just then, the Lord Malfoidacil's reflections were interrupted by a decided feeling that someone without a trace of magical power was attempting to communicate with him. He shook his head. Irresponsible mudbloods, messing up the Legilimency Telecom Network with their untrained burblings. He had better things to worry about. He Apparated back to the Negotiation Hall.

Lola and Maika having apparently gone on ahead, only Igör remained; he seemed to be lagging due to the propensity of his eyes to go wandering off on missions of their own. Due to something more than accident, Tom increasingly suspected. The Shelleyesque aberration had previously shown his practicality, and was probably a loyal and accurate informer for his mistress Alli.

"I just thought you might like to know," the Lord Malfoidacil started coldly in Sindarin, "that King Roggie of Morgoth and Miss Nancy MacFayden are currently involved in planning hostile action against my lord King Mardil's domain."

"Or, in plain English, how are we supposed to get out of this one?"

Igör replied, very loudly, "If you'll excuse me, could you ask someone else? The two halves of my brain are at war with each other, you see..."

Maybe not so efficient then. Tom sighed, but Lola...ah, as irritatingly delectable as ever...and Maika had come back, apparently lost and rather in the Doldrums; or at least, Maika seemed to be. Lola was the model of insouciance.

"What did you say?" Maika gasped, though she had patently already heard, hence the shock.

"I said what I said," Dracomir replied simply. "Roggie and Skittles are building an army...worthy of Morrrrdorrrr. So it begins. There will be no dawn for Men. Or Women, I imagine."

[littlemanpoet]

Panakeia burst through the doors to the balcony.

"What is happening?" she cried.

She seemed frenetic and not at all herself. In fact, she was laughable, with big, expressive cow eyes and gobs of concern oozing from every pour. It was actually repulsive to Anakron; how at odds with the jealous hauteure of their recent confrontation.

Anakron grinned coldly, for she was ridiculous. "The Mountain is moving."

"I know that!" she answered in consternation. "What has happened to you?"

A cold knife of accusation slid its way into his heart, for he knew precisely what she meant. Were he to answer with the truth, he knew that he would unravel from his precarious perch of self-respect, and turn into puddy in her hands; he refused the humiliation and chose to avoid the question.

"I have konveyed the Dweomer, and this orc has as a result become the worshipper and prophet of his new god, Mount Doom, Womb of the Ring."

Lûgnût rose, looking at them fiercely. His androgyneity had disappeared. "Then you understand, Grand Anakronist!"

"I do. Go and spread the word!"

"I shall!" Lûgnût roared, his pathetic pig face turning fierce with the fanatcism of unbridled belief.

"What are you doing?" Panakeia half yelled, her voice hinged on the brink of seeming panik.

"What I was meant to do," Anakron answered with chilling calm.

[Diamond18]

When the Mountain lurched to a stop, Skittles ran to a window to see where they had landed. She looked out and saw the sparkling waves lapping the sandy beaches of Lost Angles, and this she did exclaim:

"Sick!"

Smilog, Tollin, and Roggie exchanged puzzled glances.

"Be back later, boss," Skittles said to the smouldering King of Mordor. "I've got a wave to catch!"

With a cheerful wave she bounded away. Smilog, Tollin, and Roggie exchanged puzzled glances, then Smilog said, "I have the strangest feeling of deja vu..."

Skittles bounded to her room and rifled through her trunk once more, flinging gingham, tweed, and argyle to the four corners of her room. She emerged minutes later in an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini which she wore for the first time that day. Under one arm she carried a matching yellow polka dot surfboard, which was neither itsy nor bitsy, teenie, or weenie.

It was truly a pity that the majority of the Gondorian contingent was back at Mount Doom's usual residing point, since this was a sight that surely would have boggled their minds right down to the ground... and the yellow polka dot flip-flops on Skittles' feet. Luckily for their collective sanity, they were not there to witness Skittles or the rest of the anakronistic wonderland that was Lost Angles.

She did, however, pass the Mordorian contingent in the halls. They stood rooted to the spot, eyebrows raised (except for Lola who uttered a delighted laugh). Igör noted the stylish new itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot iPond Mini which Skittles held in one hand, as the itsy bitsy teenie weenie earbuds delivered a rousing chorus of Jerk It Out to her ears. (And yes, she danced to it as she walked.) She blew a startled Dracomir a kiss and rounded a corner, disappearing from sight.

After she had passed, Maika remarked, "You're sure that's Roggie's warlordess, eh?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

So they were then left in the middle of the corridor leading from the main Casino area. Smilog scratched his head as Skittles dashed away wither unusual outfit and even more unusual wooden contraption. "It'll never catch on," muttered Smilog, "where are we anyway?"

"Its a horror worse than even the deepest pits of Mordor!" cried Roggie, as he leant out of the window and screamed, "worse even than staring into the depths of the great eye itself!"

"Speak sense, man!" cried Tollin, "where in Middle Earth are we?" the Minotaur looked out of the window for himself. He stepped back, "I don't see what’s so bad."

"Its..." shivered Roggie, "s-s-s"

"You sound like Tollin with his lisp," mocked Smilog, "speak with words not nonsense. This isn't the house of Tom Bombadill." The Balrogian figure burst into a torrent of fire and shadow, filling the corridor with flame. All about him the shadow gathered and then he drew himself up and the shadow about him seemed to stretch forth like two great wings.

"Mock me not!" bellowed Roggie, his voice becoming as deep as the abysses and as terrible as the wroth of Sauron himself, "Foul smelling bearded creature! I am Roggie! Master of the Casino!" then the fire seemed to dye and he returned to his abnormal self, still scowling at the Dwarf. "A beach!" he said plainly.

"What?" Smilog said with a start, "Never heard of it."

"Its terrible!" cried Roggie, "at least, if the stories are true."

"Oh, be quiet," said Tollin, "you know as well as I do that they are. But it doesn’t look so bad. See, there’s an ice cream stand!"

"What's ice cream?" queried Smilog,

"No idea," replied the Minotaur, "but it looks tasty. Lets go and explore."

"I've got a better idea!" shouted the Dwarf, "lets find out who is driving this mountain first! We need to get to the crack of Doom as quick as possible. Who knows if the Mountain might drive off again while we're all outside drinking..." he peered out and read the firs sign he saw, "Nike shoes? Besides, it shouldn't take long. I have the blue prints here (http://i75.photobucket.com/albums/i291/JoelCornah/ZoomDiagram.jpg)..."

[Celuien]

Anakron doing what he was meant to do? Horror and despair filled Panakeia's heart. He was wrong. Cruelty and evil could not be Anakron's fate. Of that she was certain. She thought of the words he had spoken to her when he told her how she fared in the Offending Party's tests.

"Panakeia, you would see past the Anakron to the Elempí...It is so long ago. Too long! I've worn these robes and this face of authority for so long that I had forgotten that there was anyone in here but the austere Anakronist. You have helped me remember who I am. Thank you."

Oh! If only she could help him remember now instead of blundering about provoking the worst in him by her foolishness! There had to be some way. Pity seemed an unlikely path. Had his heart been open to it, he would have responded to her frantic appearance. Anakron had not. Whatever darkness had taken him closed that part of his mind too. But if Panakeia could find some spark of the Anakron she knew, maybe she could bring him back. Or so she hoped.

Panakeia steeled herself. She would need every bit of her wits and cunning for her task. Irrationality would be no help. Her hysterical behavior earlier was responsible for Anakron's current state and letting it control her again could only make things worse.

"What do you mean, this is what you were meant to do? Anakron, listen to me! Please. You aren't yourself. The Anakron I know would never do anything like this." She faltered, nearly tearing up again, but quickly resumed her resolve. "I have a feeling that it's my fault. I behaved horribly earlier. And I'm sorry. More sorry than you can know. Please forgive me, and don't let my foolishness destroy you. Because this cruelty will destroy you. If you let it happen. I know it, and so do you." She stopped again, struggling to see if her words had any effect. But she couldn't read Anakron's expression. Then another idea occurred to her. A risky tactic, but Panakeia was desperate. She lowered her voice. "Anakron, you once said that I saw past the Anakron to the Elempí. That you had forgotten the Elempí. And you thanked me for helping you remember who you were. Won't you let me help you again?"

Anakron began to reply, but at this most inopportune moment, Lûgnût jerked toward the door. "I go to spread the word," he hissed.

In a sudden moment of unexpected courage, Panakeia stood between Lûgnût and his exit. "No," she said. In a quiet, deliberate voice she continued, "You will not. This must end here. Now."

Lûgnût hovered over Panakeia. She stared up at him defiantly, her heart pounding, waiting in a near panic for Anakron to say something. Anything.

Lûgnût stepped closer. His body cast a shadow over her slight frame. The players in the scene froze.

[littlemanpoet]

"Excuse me, Lûgnût," Anakron said.

"What?" Lûgnût appeared ready to consume Panakeia, head, arms, legs, feet and all, right to the marrow; or tear her limb from limb to get her out of his way.

"I say, Lûgnût, do nothing. I will take care of this minor distraction. Step aside."

Lûgnût stepped aside. Anakron approached Panakeia and laid his hands on her shoulders. He met her eyes, and glared at her. "You. Will. Move." She stared back at him and shook her head, her eyes tearing and her face contorting with fear - and something else he could not read. He laid hands on her upper arms, and pushed her bodily out of the doorway. He made sure not to harm her, but did not suffer her to stay his purpose.

"Do not think that you can stop me with such puny attempts, Panakeia of Harad. I am not so easily swayed; certainly not by the likes of you. Lûgnût! Get you gone!"

The orc darted through the door and down the hall. Anakron released her. Now there was outrage in her tear begrimed face. Anakron clicked his tongue and folded his arms.

"Little fool. Now, what were these persuasive arguments that you had so hoped to sway my soul with? Do humor me while you have the chance."

[Celuien]

Anakron was being cruel. Nothing more or less. But he had saved her from Lûgnût's clutches. That, at least, was hopeful. But he called her a fool, and pushed her aside as a 'minor distraction.' Panakeia's pride was hurt. She had thought to make some impact. But there was no progress...and Anakron was patronizing her. She started to remember her anger, but forced it back, remembering that Anakron was, indeed, not himself.

At any rate, Panakeia didn't appreciate being manhandled. Nor did she appreciate his tone of voice. Most uncalled for, she thought. She looked at him sullenly. "I told you my arguments. This isn't you. The Anakron I love - love enough to make a ridiculous spectacle of myself over - knows better. Don't you remember? You sacrificed yourself to save Mardil. You taught the Offending Party a lesson in kindness and brotherhood in Dol Gaurgauroth. You gave me back my conscience. Have you forgotten?"

Silence. Anakron was sneering at her. She rubbed her arm where he had pulled her out of Lûgnût's path. Panakeia wasn't hurt, but the indignity of being brushed aside for an idiot Orc grated at her. And against her better judgment, she snapped.

"What's the matter with you, anyway? Whatever I did wasn't bad enough to turn you into this raging monster. You're being a fool. A downright, deliberate fool. Walking right into trouble and turning your back on whatever good you stood for. You're throwing everything away for no good reason. And now you won't even listen to good advice. I don't know why I'm wasting my time on you."

Panakeia feared that she had gone too far. But she stood her ground, eyes flashing with fury. If kindness didn't work, maybe anger would. Or so she hoped. It was too late to retract her words.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron's mouth spread in a slow grin.

"You have no idea what I am," he said. "Your anger is refreshing. Almost it makes me want to make you my abbettor in ill doings. But no. Your pride is hurt, that is all. You are right-" At this, Panakeia looked up hopefully, for perhaps she had gotten through to him? "-right that you are wasting your time on me. Go to Ithilien while you still can. Leave Mordor before the gate is closed."

With that, he turned from her and followed the way the orc had run.

He cared not what she said to him. Not at all. She had become a gnat, a fly the buzz of which was a mere nuisance. Better to slap her out of existence. No. He did not fool himself. He wanted no harm to come to her, for she was not the cause of any of the evil in him or around him. She did not deserve-" he stopped his thoughts cold, for such thoughts threatened to soften his heart, and he could not afford that. Better to concentrate on what new false religion to engender, and how to make it violent.

[Lhunardawen]

"You're sure that's Roggie's warlordess, eh?" Maika remarked breathlessly. Then she swooned a bit and fell slowly, hoping someone - even Dracomir, who was still mesmerized by the Skittles's flying kiss - would catch her ere she hit the floor. No such luck. But touching the ground was a relief; the awful movement of the Mountain left her carsick. Had it been just minutes ago? It seemed hours to her. Moving on (and how), she glanced back at those events in distant memory...

"Wha-a-at i-i-is go-o-i-ing o-o-n?!" Lola had blurted out in fearful surprise. Maika could only grin in spite of her own rocking self.

"I-i-i ha-a-ave no-o-o i-i-ide-e-a-a. Ma-a-y-y-b-e-e," this is getting tiresome, and their voices did not really shake like that, anyway, "we should go back to the room. We'll be safer there, in case this is an earthquake."

Of course Lola should have known better than to believe her, but Maika had ingeniously taken advantage of her initial surprise to let the witch of a girl do what she wanted her to do. Quickly regaining her "I'm in charge" look, Lola turned around and walked briskly; Maika followed behind her. She felt a bit dizzy after a while and realized that they were against the direction of the mountain's movement. Before long the movement had stopped and they were back in the hallway towards the room, but how they got there Maika did not know because she was too busy trying to keep herself from throwing up. And that was when she heard Dracomir's voice and her own gasped reply and the rest became yellow polka dots...

"Uhh...now what?" Igör said.

[Diamond18]

"Surf's up!" Skittles cried, hitting the beach. Not literally, of course, as she held no particular animosity for the beach. She hit it at a run and skipped along the hot sand, kicking off her flip-flops and dropping her iPod as she went.

Being generally a nuisance wherever she went, Skittles rather predictably disturbed her fellow beach bums. She scattered sand onto beach blankets and startled topless sunbathers. She knocked over sandcastles and stole candy from babies. She kicked beach balls into the water and interfered in a volleyball game. Chaos was King and Skittles his Queen.

Eventually, all the ruckus awoke Psamothos Psamathides, who was napping nearby in the sand, and he rose from the sand (naturally) to see what all the ruckus was about (naturally). But by that time, Skittles had abandoned the beach with a cry of, "Cowabunga!" and ran into the water with her surfboard. Psamothos Psamathides looked around and saw the havoc she had wreaked, but could not ascertain to whom the wreakage could be attributed. This made him very grumpy. Very grumpy indeed.

Now, insert various surfer slang and jargon into this section and you will know pretty much how Skittles spent the next vaguely stated period of time.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Who put that there?" cried Psamothos Psamathides, "a mountain, on my beach? I'll soon sort this out. You up there!" He had spotted Smilog hanging out of a window by his head as Roggie threatened to drop him after his blueprints had got them lost, found, lost again, almost dropped into lava and now back where they had started.

"Help!" cried Smilog, "I can't fly!" He struggled as Roggie blurted out the most awful language Psamothos had ever heard in his life. That was the last straw! He got up out of the sand and started jumping around on his little rabbit feet, his pointy ears going red to the tip and his long nose blowing sand everywhere.

"Is that you, Roggie?" cried the sand sorcerer, "I'd recognise that anger anywhere. Pot and Jam him. Let that poor fellow go this instant, or I'll have your wings for breakfast!"

"But I don't have-" began Roggie, before he turned and fled with screams and shouts of "that sand man again! He's come for me!" while Smilog tumbled down the Mountain, but landed neatly in a large pile of sand that Psamothos had put there. But it didn't break his fall as much as he would have liked and he crawled out with his arm feeling like it had been hit with... well... a mountain. The Sand sorcerer picked Smilog up by his beard and stared at him for a moment.

"Is this your mountain?" he asked accusingly, "If it is..."

"No, not at all, mr... erm..." stuttered the Dwarf, trying not to rip his beard.

"Psamothos Psamathides!" he said, emphasising the 'P's very distinctly. "And you'd better not forget it! Who was that mad woman who went destroying my beach? A friend of yours?"

"Well, no, not really," squirmed Smilog as Psamothos put him down again, "she's this Roggie's affair, I believe."

"So, Roggies having an affair?" said Psamothos, not paying any real attention to the dwarf, "well, come on, we'd better go and find him. He'll be curled up in a corner if I know him." And with that, the old sand sorcerer leaped up the mountain quite quickly, with Smilog tucked under his arm and bounded in through the window, much to the surprise of Tollin who stood near by.

Roggie was hidden behind a corner and was panting heavily, old Psamothos Psamathides walked briskly up to him and took him by the ear. "You owe me, Balrog," he cried in a deep and threatening voice, "You owe me five hundred gold coins!" So this was why he was so afraid of sand.

[Celuien]

Panakeia watched Anakron's robes flutter down the hall. She was fuming. She had no idea what Anakron was? Panakeia thought she did. He was a pouting child, determined to wreak havoc and let slip the dogs of war on an unsuspecting world merely because...she didn't know why. If this wasn't a reaction to her earlier (admittedly bad) behavior, she didn't know what else it could be, unless Mount Doom really did retain some of its prior evil. That thought had not occurred to Panakeia. Womb of the Ring. Anakron was right, though Panakeia would have preferred the word tomb. The Ring was dead. Sauron was gone. And yet, she supposed it was possible that some of their evil lived still. Perhaps that, coupled with irritation with her, was why Anakron now behaved so badly.

Stop trying to figure him out. The reason behind Anakron's sudden change in character did not matter. What mattered was that a man in control of a powerful force was now behaving in a most out-of-control fashion. Panakeia had to stop him. It was her duty, not only because she cared about Anakron, but also because the planet was in danger of annihilation. Panakeia's thoughts hiccupped. Planet? What an odd word. She'd heard someone use it before. But who? She shrugged to herself.

Anakron's robes floated around a corner. He was leaving. No! He can't get away! The thought, urgent and frantic, screamed in her mind's ear. She had to stop him. She had to bring him to his senses, or at least pose a roadblock to his more malevolent behaviors. Yes. That was what she would do. Anakron had given her back her conscience. He now seemed to have lost his own. Panakeia couldn't convey the Dweomer and give it back to him, but she could serve in its stead until he found it himself. She chuckled grimly. Anakron would know what she had gone through when her own conscience took form and spoke to her. Only this time, Anakron's replacement nagging conscience would have both physical and mental form. Panakeia.

She was off in a flash. Racing down the hall, she caught up to Anakron and tapped him on the shoulder, a stubborn glint in her eye.

"Excuse me. You seem to have lost something."

Anakron looked her over, contempt in his expression. "Lost something?" he mocked. "You could not possibly refer to yourself, could you? I have the distinct impression I decided to be rid of you quite intentionally. No accident or mistake was involved."

Panakeia gritted her teeth. Anakron was going out of his way to hurt her. But she had a mission. Personal feelings were irrelevant.

"Not me. Yourself. Your conscience. You said I could leave. Well, I might. I'll admit the thought had occurred to me. But not yet. You see, Anakron, you gave me back my conscience. Now that you appear to have lost your own, I thought I'd repay the favor by being your conscience for you. At least until you come to your senses. After that...after that, we'll see. And you said it was only my pride speaking when I tried to help you. I won't reply to that. But whether I'm acting out of pride or love doesn't matter. It's your well-being that's at stake."

She stopped, more determined about this than anything in her life, past, present, or future. Yes, this was her mission. Of that she was certain.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron closed his eyes in sudden weariness. She was doing the best he could have imagined from her. In any other circumstance, he would be basking in her glow, but she did not understand. He opened his tired eyes - for his thought had taken but a moment - and looked into her determined ones. He sighed.

"You don't understand, Panakeia. In all the malevolence I employ, I still have the will not to hurt you save with words ... for now; while I still have enough control. Don't you see? I am evil!" He began to pace and gesticulate.

"Anakron is evil, intended for evil! The Blue Istari intended the entire set-up for evil! So far I have been able to partly thwart their purpose because there was enough of Elempi still within." He thumped his chest. "But he's dying! He can't withstand the Dweomer! I'm getting more evil every day, and I can't-" he closed his eyes with the anguish "-I can't fight it anymore! Do you understand?"

Her eyes were wide and her lips still. She was getting it. He hoped that she believed him.

"That is why you must leave. I don't know how long it will be before I can no longer hold myself back from harming you. And if you pursue your present course of harassment, I fear it will be the sooner. Leave me! For your own sake! Can you not see that I am doomed!"

[Celuien]

Panakeia's eyes went wide with pity. Poor Anakron. He truly had lost himself. He wasn't evil - not really. She had to help him. It was her duty. Her mission.

"Evil? No, don't say it! Don't think it! You aren't intended for evil. No one is supposed to be evil. And you don't need to turn to darkness. You won't, if you won't let it. I won't let it!" A light like a fiercely burning wildfire came into Panakeia's face. Nothing could stop her efforts. This was her destiny. To save Anakron from himself. For her? She could have been saving him for her own sake, but there was more to it than that. More to it even than saving him for his sake. This was bigger than both of them. Her mission came from - could it be? - her Captain.

Yes! That had to be it. Panakeia would have come to Anakron's aid in any case. She cared about him. But now she held the certainty that she had to push on, not only for their own reasons, but because the Captain wanted her to do so. And the Captain's word was law. And so Panakeia approached her task with all the passion of both a woman in love and of fanatic belief.

"You say that you fear you'll harm me. That's good! Don't you see? It means that you aren't evil. If you were, you wouldn't care. And since I seem to be the only thing you do care about, I can't leave you! I'm the only thing standing between you and your dark side. I won't abandon you to it. No matter what the cost to me. Because it's worth it. Not just for us, but because this, Anakron, is what I'm supposed to do. What I'm destined to do. I know it!"

The light flashed over her features again. For an instant, she thought Anakron raised a single eyebrow. Maybe he did. Maybe he was scowling with both brows and she mistakenly thought one had a greater displacement. Maybe his face was blank and Panakeia, swept up in her visions of glory, only imagined it. But whatever, the case, she thought she saw one eyebrow move. It was a sign. Anakron understood. Or if he didn't he soon would. The brow of Spockú had twitched.

[Diamond18]

"Odds my bodkins, you two do go on."

Panakeia and Anakron both came up short and turned towards the sound of the voice which interrupted their dramatic interlude. Skittles stood behind them in the hallway, damp and sandy, with her surfboard under one arm.

Anakron sneered. "You have something to say, half-wit?"

"I just said it. You've been blocking the hallway for half an hour standing there whinging on about how evil you are. You've got Sylvester the Cat on your staff, for Looney Tunes' sake."

Anakron advanced upon her slowly. "You do not fear me, madwoman?"

"Pah. I fear poodles more than you." Skittles turned and addressed an imaginary camera; "Seriously, those things are terrifying."

"Skittles," said Panakeia impatiently, "We're busy."

"I'm not. I've been waiting around for you to clock the lout, and I'm getting kind of bored. So much for hell hathing no fury," she rolled her eyes. "Why don't you just slap him or give him a good kick in the gonads?"

"We are discussing matters you could not comprehend," said Anakron imperiously. "Begone, mindless child!"

Skittles began to dance an Irish jig. This gave her audience some pause, but Anakron was not amused. He raised his staff, a fey look in his eyes (well, feyer), and said, "Konvey!"

"Konvey what?" Skittles chirped. Then she waved her hand up and down in front of his face, making an odd, Curliesque noise, before poking him in the eyes with two fingers.

"Aaarggh!" Anakron fell back, clutching at his eyes in pain.

Skittles laughed merrily. "Who's the big evil Anakronist Konveyor now?"

"Oh no! Oh no! Oh no, no, no!" cried Panakeia. "Now you've done it!"

Anakron straightened with a cry of rage. Well, it was really more of a yodel of rage, strangely enough. He turned a pair of bloodshot eyes upon Skittles and something inside him snapped. Again. Apparently, there were a number of somethings inside him hanging together on wispy threads, waiting to snap. "Fool!" He lifted his staff and brought it down full force upon Skittles' head.

She fell to the floor in an explosion of sparks. "Hello, I am Elmer J. Fudd, I own a mansion and a yacht," she said, lying facedown on the floor. "Hello, I am Elmer J. Fudd, I own a mansion and yacht," she repeated. And again. With each repetition, her voice got lower and her speech slowed, slurring, till finally she dribbled off, "Iiiiiii ammmmm Elmeeerrrrrrrrrr...."

Anakron laughed in maniacal fashion.

Panakeia gasped, covering her mouth. "You've killed her!" she said, shocked.

Anakron continued to laugh in a maniacal fashion.

Panakeia bent over the inert, bikini-clad form of Skittles and reached out hesitantly to feel for a pulse. She could find none, and Skittles hand flopped down lifelessly when she released her wrist. She choked back a sob, horrified at what Anakron had done, and tried to turn the body over. "Oh, foolish girl... foolish... uh...." She stopped, blinking in confusion. Where Skittles forehead should have been was a large hole with mangled wires, switches, and diodes. Panakeia gasped (she does that rather a lot) and recoiled. "Why, she's a robot!"

Anakron continued to continue laughing in a continuous fashion, rather maniacally.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Not content with being mean, evil and a walking inferno, thought Smilog, it turns out that Roggie is also a stingy moneygrubber.

Psamothos was grilling the Balrog verbally and Roggie merely sat on the floor moping and mumbling. All the while Tollin and Smilog walked off to see if they could find the way up to the Crack of Doom and try and get the Mountain Back to Mordor. "What shall we do about Roggie?" asked Tollin.

"Him?" Smilog cried with a laugh, "bother him! Or, rather, don't bother him! Lets leave him to his... erm... sandy fate. Its more than he deserves." The dwarf produced an apple from his pack and began eating it with loud deliberate noises. "I've worked for him for so long," continued the Dwarf, "and all he remembers was the one time I passed him the salt."

There was the sound of a large explosion from down the corridor behind them, and Tollin dashed back to see what it was. Smilog groaned and followed on, throwing his apple out of the window. Unfortunately, the apple sailed down and hit a beach bather on the head. The man got up and began to shake with fury, turning purest red in the face and his arms bulging like a squeezed tube of toothpaste with the lid still on. "I will destroy whoever did this!" he cried, shaking his fist and throwing the apple into the sea. The apple then hit a shark on the head and bounced off a surfboard before being thrown by a great wave back into the mountain.

Roggie lay on the floor holding his left knee and saying "Aaaagghh!" over and over again. Psamothos was in front of him, holding a bag of gold and looking rather disturbed. Smilog and Tollin walked over and saw that there was a great hole in the corridor and much of the carpet had been burned.

"Did you see that?" asked Psamothos, with a worried face, "it looked like... Well... you know... Him!"

"Who?" asked Smilog, before the apple hit him on the back of the head; he threw it out of the window again.

"Well, like Gandalf," Psamothos said, "only... fatter. And clothed in robes as red as blood. He ploughed through the wall, laughing like a maniac, threw a bag of gold at me and then went off though the other side of the wall." Roggie was trying to crawl away, but Psamothos put his foot on the Balrog's left leg. "Very odd indeed. Well Roggie, you'd better pay up."

At that moment, the whole ground began to shake once more, not as violently as the first time, but still quite horridly. Smilog dashed to the window only to see a few fires breaking out all over the beach, (incidentally, a long series of events caused by Smilog throwing out the apple; one clown was hit on the head by it and ended up throwing a cigarette at a donkey who threw off his rider into a pile of manure, the rider then threw the manure at the donkey, missed and hit a fire extinguisher. The fire extinguisher had then fallen down and rolled to a barbeque and knocked it into a man who ran screaming into a tent).

The Mountain began to shudder some more, and the now sand covered wheels slowly rotated, letting the sand fall off. Tollin watched as Psamothos stole Roggie's money and then leaped out of the Mountain with a "Wooop!" and was lost in the hurricane of sand that was blowing around. Smilog turned this way and that before finally seeing a concealed doorway being forced open by the shaking. It hid some stairs and so he quickly grabbed Tollin and indicated that they should go that way.

[littlemanpoet]

"She should die," Anakron said. "It's a shame it was just a robot."

"Anakron! What a terrible thing to say!" Panakeia cried.

"You'd say the same thing if ridiculous words were put in your mouth and you were treated-" Anakron became articulate for a moment, gnashing his teeth, wiping at his eyes, looking for blood and not finding any.

Panakeia was the only thing keeping him from lashing out. He dearly wanted to lash out.

"I'm going to find her! And kill her." He hurried off in the general direction of deeper into the Mountain.

Panakeia allowed herself a moan and a roll of her eyes and followed.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli stood for merely a moment before spotting Anakron's disinclination to address her question. She looked down the side of the mountain and gasped, seeing what looked distressingly like the Gondorian Ambassadors under her protection and supposedly under house arrest. She left Anakron at a run.

She found the chambers of the Gondorians disconcertingly empty with a single guard wandering vaguely around muttering about "them." Cursing Roggie's guards and resolving to trust nobody but her own recruits from now on, Alli made her way to a secret chamber at ground level, pulling keys from her pocket as she went.

No, no, no! Somebody is going to get hurt...

Alli jammed a key into the ignition of a quad, mounting it's leatheresque seat with practiced ease, and flicked it on, squeezing the gas. With no hesitation, she barreled in a most dangerous fashion through the dizzily turn-filled bowels of the mountain until she found an exit. She braked quickly, spotting the ground zooming away from the hoisted mountain. Steeling herself, Alli put the four-wheeler in reverse just long enough to give herself a running start. She took a deep breath and revved the engine, speeding from zero to thirty-seven in a few short seconds and shooting, air-borne, from an exit of the mountain in a way James Bond would find impressive.

Ignoring the mountain steadily making its way away from her, Alli headed in concern toward the Gondorians. Her ambassadors... the Mordorians... they knew their way around. They would remember their mission: to calm Roggie into renewing negotiations. They would remember, eventually, that they had a purpose: to calm their king in a diplomatic fashion. They would find Roggie and they would convince him to sit down and talk. And they would work together as a group in such a way befitting politicians, which meant to say that yes, they would find him, sit him down, and they would all, as a group, talk. And talk, and talk, and talk, and maybe, hidden within all of the talk, they would possibly hit upon something important. But no matter what, Alli had faith that her Mordorian ambassadors, crazy though they were, would get something done.

She had faith that Smilog would develop some sort of allegiance to his king and would work for him rather than against him. She shook her head, uncertain that her faith was warranted, but hoped that he would remember that he was an official, chosen for an official job, and that job meant that he needed to be able to work with Roggie.

Alli had faith as she rode that Maika would keep being Maika, that Igör would continue to be her loyal spy and would help to smooth tensions, that Skittles would... well... Alli had little faith in Skittles. A quiet bleating voice in her ear whispered to Alli that Skittles had just been made chief war advisor. Alli very seriously and very suddenly had a strong urge to turn her quad around, but Mount Zoom Palace, Casino, and Motorvehicle was growing farther away by the second.

Anakron... Alli considered Anakron as she drew closer to the Gondorians. He had never ignored her before. Spoken harshly to her... told her to stop crying and get a move on... glared austerely as she drunkenly danced with Aime upon table tops to celebrate the slaying of Mario... but he had never ignored her or looked so gleeful to witness chaos as he had just then. Alli hoped that Panakeia could exude some sort of positive influence.

Lola... Alli gasped as she considered Lola, feeling gravel pull her quad in directions purely unintentional. She leaned all of her weight to the left, trying to keep from eating dirt after a badly balanced landing from a bit of an accidental jump.

Alli had total faith in Lola's abilities. She knew that if the bombshell couldn't accomplish something, she would know when to enlist the aid of Ms. Martinet. Ms. Martinet could inflict order while Alli was gone.

The Gondorians though... They were stranded in Mordor. They were technically political prisoners until Roggie changed his mind. Escaped prisoners... the only time that Mordorians would help their king was if it meant making others miserable. Alli had to get the Gondorians back to Mount Zoom before Roggie found his prisoners missing. And she had to keep them from becoming Mordorians during the process. She groaned as she pulled up beside them, all looking utterly dumbstruck as the black-haired speed-demon kicked up dust as she braked.

"Gondorians, it seems your current home has left without you. Why you were not in it upon its departure I do not care to learn. I'll find out soon enough without your help. However, we must get back to it. First, though, I suspect that your hunger may be nudging your stomachs and the bodies that carry them in the direction of the eateries whose scents have filled the air? I can't guarantee your protection from any other anakronisms, but I can ascertain that eating food here will not harm you. Where would you like to go for midday meal?"

[Diamond18]

In a dank and dark corner of a dungeon, deep in the nethermost regions of Mount Doom, nothing much of interest was happening.

However, in one the residential suites (Anakron's, to be exact) Skittles MacFarlewyn, still leather-clad and still insane, was crouched over the erstwhile Elempi's trunk. She held a canister of itching powder in one hand and giggled with wicked glee as she shook the contents over Anakron's clothing. He owned several different kinds of identical black robes with matching black Spongbob Squarepants underpants, and all were now guaranteed to give him a rash.

"Let's see how evil you are with itching powder in your underwear," she snickered aloud to no one in particular.

Suddenly, a small device disguised as a wristwatch began to give off horrific noises. "Blast!" Skittles cried, dropping the itching powder and flipping the device open to read the display. "Head trauma and skin breakage and snapped wires, oh no!" she said aloud, to no one in particular, through gritted teeth.

She leapt to her feet and kicked the trunk closed, then spoke into her device. "Hot Stuff, this is Taste The Rainbow. Come in, Hot Stuff. I repeat, Hot Stuff, this is Taste The Rainbow. Come in, please." She thwacked the device a couple times and then cursed. "Why does he not answer?!" Dauntlessly, she continued to speak into the pseudo-wristwatch as she hastened stealthily from the suit. "Hot Stuff, if you can hear me, there has been a complication in Operation Drive Anakron To Madness. Automated Skittles has suffered a blunt object to the skull in sector 17 and is now a liability. I am going to retrieve the robot. Do you read me, Hot Stuff? Oh, bother."

She came up short, confronted by an androgynous, yet fierce-looking-in-a-stupid-sort-of-way Orc in the hallway. "What are you doing in his Staffnesses' room?" hissed the Orc.

Skittles kicked him in the gonads, poked him in the eyes, and issued a jugular crushing karate chop to his neck before slitting him from belly to clavicle with a switchblade. Perhaps a bit excessive, but she had a general dislike for Orcs, if you hadn't already noticed.

(Fear not, gentle readers, for this hapless Orc was not the beloved Lugnut, but Lugnut's evil twin, Nuglut.)

She left the scene at a run, hoping to get to the damaged Automaton before it caused too much damage.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The shaking was becoming a little more violent as the three travellers in this little escapade climbed the secret stairs. They were metal and suspended over a deep chasm that lead far down into the magma chamber, yet all they could see of it was a red glow down below. The stairs were odd; going this way and that, zigzagging from one side of the chasm to the other, and even spiralling up in places. Roggie lagged behind, desperately looking for his bag of gold and finding nothing but a pocket full of sand and a note from Psamothos saying, "Good riddance."

"This is trebly unsafe," Tollin observed as the stairs began to move from side to side a little too much for his liking. "Are you sure this is the best way to go?"

"No," replied Smilog, scratching his head, "but it’s the only way we've not tried, so lets get to it." They ran up the stairs for a little longer, but soon could hear a rumbling that was louder than ever. It was coming from the wall of the chasm that was nearest to them, Smilog tried to ignore it, but in the end Tollin stopped him from going too far ahead.

With an almighty crash, a hole was blown in the side of the chasm and some of the stair was taken with it. Now they could not get back. Out of the hole came a large, fat, bearded man with a great red cloak, pointed red hat and an obscenely large white staff. The man seemed to glide through the air as he leaped onto the stairs and shook the fragile metal. Roggie and Smilog hid behind the large figure of Tollin as the man puffed and panted and seemed to be having some trouble breathing. "Just a moment," he said with a wheeze, "I'll be all right, just need to get my breath back... there we go." yet he was still breathing heavily.

"Erm... Tollin," said Smilog, "there is something on the back of your head." and indeed there was. It was a small, gnarled creature with large flapping feet, a great big head and large luminous green eyes. It was naked except for a loincloth and a wig on its head. It pulled out its tong and blew a loud raspberry at Smilog and Roggie. Tollin quickly grabbed it by the head and dangled it in front of him.

"Is this yours?" he asked, as the small creature began to dance in mid air and sing a song that contained the word 'Moshom' far more times than anyone was comfortable with. It slipped from his grasp, leaving the wig in Tollin's hand, and slunk away to the fat man's side and began to giggle. Slowly, the Minotaur leant forward and gave the wig back to the creature.

"Thank you," it said with tears in his eyes, "I love you!" it turned around three times before sitting on the floor and chewing on the wig. Roggie rose up and slowly began to walk up the stairs away from this madness, but the fat man bellowed in a loud and commanding voice.

"Silence!" he cried, shaking the halls.

"I didn't say anything," said Roggie, looking back.

"You just did!" came the reply; Roggie couldn't be bothered arguing and continued up the stairs. "You will return here or face the wrath and impending Doom I have awaiting you, Roggie of Morgoth."

"Who on Middle Earth are you?" asked Smilog, scratchign his head, "you look like Gandalf, but if you are, then I have to say you've let yourself go a little."

"Yes, I suppose I have been eating too many biscuits," said the man, "but I am not Gandalf."

"You going to make biscuits?" asked the little creature at his side, "You gonna make biscuits?"

"No, Sollom, I am not," the man rose himself up and placed the creature (apparently called 'Sollom') on his shoulder, "Now, you three, I have some business with you! Especially you, Roggie!"

"You haven’t answered my question," pressed Smilog, gripping his axe.

"I am..." the man took a deep breath, his fat belly shaking more than the Rohirrim seeing a glue factory, "I... AM... SANTAR!"

"What?" laughed Roggie, "That’s the most hilariously bad pun I've ever heard!"

"Silence!" cried Santar, "I have a doom put aside you thee, Roggie of Morgoth!"

[JennyHallu]

"Alright, boys and girls."

Lola glided from the midst of the group, left in a daze after Skittles' sudden route outside the mountain, and they turned to her leadership gratefully.

"Obviously," she crooned, "things have not exactly been going to plan, and it's about time all this random silliness got under control." Dracomir looked like he was about to say something, and Lola quelled it quickly with a swish of her skirt and a swift glimpse of black garters.

"We still have to find Roggie, and I'd bet he's in his secret rooms. I don't know what's going on with Anakron or the Mountain, and frankly, I'm happy to remain ignorant: both seem dangerous." At the word dangerous, her eyes gleamed happily beneath their thick lashes.

Quickly she mentally ran through the events of the past few minutes: Skittles was out on the beach, Igor was...confused..., Maika and Dracomir were right here. The increased dangers of the anakronisms surrounding them told her Anakron might have finally snapped, but Panakeia had gone after him, and no one else had a chance of calming him. Lola would probably be turned into a cat on sight. Smilog was off who knows where, but this worried Lola very little. He was easy to write off: without real effort, all Lola could remember of him was that he had once passed the salt to Roggie at a dinner party.

That was all right. Maika and Dracomir were the two Lola looked upon as most useful.

"Come on, let's go!" She turned abruptly around, vamping her way down the hall in the opposite direction from where she had been leading Maika, her sensual gait showing no reaction to the carnage they found on the way. Inwardly, though, her heart sank, her worst fears realized. Anakron had finally lost it.

Two rights, a left, the second tapestry from the first right hand door, counting only those with green handles. She swept it aside, revealing an ornate door, with a message etched firmly into the lintel.

"What does it say," someone behind her asked breathlessly.

"It's in pig latin," Lola answered over her shoulder. "It says: 'Eakspay, iendfray, nday ntereay'"

"So all we have to do is say "friend", and it should open?"

Lola rolled her eyes and stepped back, standing tall and straight before the door. "Of course not. It's been broken for ages." With a fluid motion she took a flying leap towards the door, firmly toned legs and high-heeled shoes kicking firmly at the wood, which splintered in terror just before she struck. Lola landed and rolled to her feet, picking a splinter out of her hair and shaking it out with a wink at Dracomir, once again agog at where her dress had ridden up to.

"Come on, then, let's go," she urged, and the three disappeared into the bowels of the mountain.

~<*>~

A small voice from the splintered door murmured "Thank you" quietly before sputtering out of existence.

[Anguirel]

Much against his more haughty nature, Dracomir found himself, once again, in raptures over the very sound of Lola's voice, and so entirely forgot the ingeniously cunning strategem he had been about to present.

"Obviously," she trilled delightfully, "things have not exactly been going to plan, and it's about time all this random silliness got under control."

How witty! How conspiratorial! How intimate! Ooo! A black garter!

Obviously. Random silliness. Charming as she might be, nobody messed with this woman, it was clear. Such decision of tones! Might she not be encouraged to adorn the Malfoidacil line? She was, perhaps, a little old, but that had not stopped his father Luciamir, Dracomir reflected, who had married the highly unsuitable older woman Narcissowen Black after the 98th Annual Conference of Death Eater/De Sade enthusiasts.

Maybe slightly too much information from them, Tom reflected, particularly as they had insisted in detailing the romantic story of their first encounter from the earliest years of his meta-childhood. But after all, bondage seemed to be the norm here in Middle-earth. After all, nobody seemed to have objected to Thingol and Melian. Dracomir would have paused to dwell upon his astonishment that Elves, who did the cleaning at home, had once ruled Beleriand. But Lola's hair, so artful that it seemed quite artless, tumbled over one of her shoulders, so he did not.

Then she started using karate on the door. Usually Dracomir would have showe off at this point with a quick Alohamora, but he was somewhat otherwise engaged at this point.

Then he recalled vaguely where they were. He checked the Mordorers' Map. Yep, they were about to have an audience with King Roggie of Morgoth. Again. Oh dear. But at this point the Malfoidacil logic kicked back into action.

"Maika," he remarked, "I don't know if that stuff you got from Alli is helping, but if you want to double-check, I happen to have here a stylish, haute monde silver Unblemishability Cloak. Belonged to my grand...mother, y'know. Want to try it on? It's never failed before."

[littlemanpoet]

"Destined to do?" Anakron spat. "Hound me? Why?"

Panakeia was half walking, half skipping to keep up with him. "Not hound you! It's what I'm here for!"

"Who says?" Panakeia was about to answer when Anakron threw up a hand. Panakeia almost walked into it. "Shh!" They listened. Light steps, unique to stilletos on cement, could be heard coming their way, at a run. "Skittles! Doom and Dweomer! She's more cracked that the legendary Crack of Doom. I don't want to be seen by her. I'd like to keep my eyes in my head. This way!"

Anakron led Panakeia quietly down a dark corridor. They watched Skittles race by, apparently headed for the bleating robot.

Panakeia snickered.

"What?"

"You're actually afraid of her."

"Afraid? Don't tempt me or I may knock your head in too."

She glowered and stuck her chin out. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Skittles would, and worse, without a moments thought, because she doesn't. That's something worth keeping at a respectful distance. Especially with my konveyances working no better than a faulty flash light."

They had resumed Anakron's fast pace down the corridor, and presently came to his rooms, where they found in the doorway the remains of Nuglut, the former, apparently, cousin of Lûgnût. Anakron had always wondered how Nuglut had been able to stay away from those umlauts that seemed to hang around Lûgnût everywhere he went, but the lack of them was not, apparently, any help at protecting oneself from the onset of a bad case of Skittles.

"Skittles was in my room," Anakron deduced. "Very, very suspicious. Any idea what she might have been planning for me, assuming that she has the capacity?"

"Um, she did suggest to me cutting of your head-"

"I wouldn't put it past her."

"-or filling your shorts with itching powder."

"Nor that."

Anakron filed carefully through his clothing.

"Well," he concluded, "I'm glad she left her signature, tragic as it was for the victim. I'll not be wearing any of these ever again. I'll have them burned. At any rate, having triumphed over the insanity planned for me by Skittles, I sense that the Dweomer evil is somewhat at rest. Now, what's this about you and destiny?"

[Celuien]

Panakeia half smiled, relieved to hear Anakron behaving reasonably again. "Destiny? Need I explain? I thought you understood."

Anakron assured her that he did not understand. Panakeia sighed. He must have missed the sign from Spockú. She would explain. She understood.

"Don't you see? It was fate that brought us together. The ATM could have chosen anyone to join the Offending Party. But it didn't. It chose me. I could have left Mordor. But I didn't. I stayed – for you. And now, at your point of crisis, I'm here, and I've been chosen for a mission! My mission is to save you from yourself."

Anakron looked questioning, concerned. "What do you mean by chosen?"

That eyebrow was up again. It was a sign to speak fully. Panakeia was seized by a torrent of words, not all of which she completely understood in her wild fervor, though she relished them in their utterance. "I was chosen! I have orders from the Captain. It is my duty to the Federation to fulfill the mission, though, given the choice, I would have taken it of my own accord. I love you. What else could I do but help, even without the concern of duty? And the Dweomer. The Dweomer, Anakron! Its existence violates the high law of the Temporal Prime Directive. It changes time. You cannot continue its evil. We can cast it away. I can show you the way. For you, for us, for the Captain!" The light, like the bright glow of a warp drive running at factor nine, was in her face again. Panakeia was ecstatic as her mind traveled far from the dark chambers of Mount Doom – for she had a vision of a brightly lit room, filled with flashing lights and chirping buzzers. The Captain sat in a squared chair. Spockú leaned over a blue-glowing box, the light reflecting off his glorious Shadowbrow and mingling with the blue of his uniform. It was a beautiful sight. Panakeia at last understood Kirk's despair when he was told that the ship did not exist. But that was a lie. Of course the ship existed. Panakeia saw it, clear as day. She had to go there, to stand upon the bridge, and Anakron had to come with her. She would bring him to the Captain, and any evil she failed to repair would surely vanish in the Captain's wisdom.

The vision faded, and Panakeia saw Anakron again, a puzzled frown working its way over his face. Why should he frown? Their path was now laid before their feet, and they had but to follow it to its logical (Panakeia savored the word – Spockú used it often) conclusion at the Captain's chair. Then all would be made right by Kirk's wisdom, and if necessary, his uncanny ability to beat anyone in a fight. There was no reason for Anakron to be concerned. Or afraid, if that was what his expression meant.

"Anakron! Come with me. We will seek the Captain. Come with me. It is what we must do."

Anakron's frown deepened. Now he understood. His latest anakronism was taking hold of Panakeia's mind.

[Diamond18]

Skittles slipped unnoticed through the darkness like a dark, unnoticeable slippy thing, till at last she reached the hall in sector 17 where her electronic doppelganger lay in a rather destroyed state. The hallways was otherwise unoccupied, which was fortunate for those who might have been occupying it, seeing as how seeing the damaged doppelganger did not put Skittles in a very charitable mood.

She hefted the life-sized Skittlesque machine over one shoulder and looked both ways before crossing the hall. Presently, she came across a confused and deserted Igör, who had inexplicably been left to his own devices whilst Maika, Dracomir, and Lola disappeared into the bowels of the mountain. Skittles first instinct was to eliminate the witness, but then she got a better idea, and grabbed Igör by the scruff of his neck with her free hand. "I need your help!" she declared, dragging the oddly complacent man-thing along with her.

They came to a door marked Top Secret and Skittles entered a secret code into the keypad beside said door. Then she had to undergo a retina scan and a fingerprint test, before the door finally hissed open in a hydraulic fashion. Tediously, they had to pass through three other such gateways before reaching the Top Secret Automaton Laboratory where Skittles was, oddly enough, chief robotics engineer.

Igör gaped at this information, and Skittles said, "What? I can't have hidden depths?"

She lay the robot out on a cold steel table and assembled various surgical tools and supplies. Then she washed and sterilized her hands, which Igör found somewhat odd, but did not comment on. "What did you need my help with?" he asked, helpfully.

"We must repair the creature's brain," Skittles said solemnly. "Or make it a new one. You will be my assistant. You may call me 'master'."

"Is that last part optional?"

"I suppose so," Skittles relented. "Forceps."

"Pardon me?"

"The forceps. Hand me the forceps."

"Oh." Igör studied the array of tools. "Which is the forceps?"

Skittles pointed at a power drill. "That."

"That looks like a power drill."

"Excuse me, but who's the chief robotics engineer here and who is the hunchbacked assistant?"

"Okay, fine." Igör handed her the drill.

"Be a doll and plug it in, would you?"

Igör did as bidden, and the two of them spent another hour or so drilling, cutting, and generally doing vague things to the head of the automaton.

Finally: "It's not use!" cried Skittles overdramatically. "The brain is ruined! We must find a newer, better brain!"

Igör considered pointing out that the brain had been in better shape before all the drilling and cutting, but forebear, and simply said, "Yes, master. I mean, Skittles."

"But where will we find a newer, better brain?" Skittles mused, tapping her chin.

"Perhaps in there?" Igör pointed to a door marked 'Newer, Better Brains.'

"Brilliant! Go fetch me one!"

Igör sighed, but went off obligingly. He opened the door and peered into the darkened room. It smelt vaguely of formaldehyde and elderberries. He groped around finally happened upon a light switch, but not after seizing hold of two mice (one dead), a spider, and several cans of processed cheese.

Dim light suffused the storage room, and revealed several rows of Mason jars lined up on dusty shelves. Igör read the labels curiously. There were Elven brains, Hobbit brains, Dwarf brains, Orc brains (shockingly tiny, those) and Human brains. There were geniuses, pretty-smart-chaps, average thinkers, and complete-dodos. There were right-sided thinking brains and left-sided thinking brains. There were male brains and female brains, fat brains, skinny brains, brains who climb on rocks, tough brains, sissy brains, even brains with chicken pox.

"Abby Normal," he read one label. "Sounds fitting." He carefully picked up the jar (coughing a bit from the dust cloud) and carried it back out to Skittles, who had grown bored and was contemplating amputating the robot's legs. Luckily, she had only gotten as far as drawing lines on the thighs with a pencil.

"Excellent," she said, opening the jar. "Perfect! Superfluous!" She dumped the brain into the gaping cavity that was RoboSkitt's skull. Then she patched up the forehead and reapplied the skin (which was two shades darker than the rest of the robot's skin, since they seemed to be out of 'deathly pale') and declared it done.

"Step back," she instructed, whipping out a pair of defibrillator paddles and rubbing them together gleefully. Then she administered a jolt to the robot's chest. It began to violently twitch, and Skittles cried, "It's Alive!!!!!!!"

"Yes, mas... er, Skittles."

The robot got up from the table and said, "Konvey! Konvey! Konvey!"

Skittles gave it a kick, and it settled down. "Hello! I am RoboSkitt 2000™, how may I serve you?" it chirped.

"I don't know," Skittles admitted. "I have no idea where this plot-twist is going."

"But... what's it for?" Igör asked, scratching his head.

"Chaos, confusion, distraction."

"Isn't that what you're for?"

"Yes, but RoboSkitt provides double the chaos and double the fun!"

"I'm the statement in the great mint of Robomint Gum," offered the robot.

"Precisely. And pretty soon every chief war advisor will have one." Skittles turned the robot toward the door and said, "Go, little one, go create madness until I think up a good use for you!"

[Lhunardawen]

It completely surprised, and utterly disgusted, Maika to find herself almost wanting to hug Lola. It seemed she was wrong about her after all. Maybe Lola did not really know her way around as much as it looked she did, and she did not want Maika to panic by telling her outright that they were lost. So much was she grateful to Lola for getting them back on track that she had begun to embrace such delusions.

The authoritative tapping of her stiletto heels could hardly keep up with her pacing heartbeat as she, Lola, and Dracomir silently (not counting the sound of their footsteps, of course) made their way down the hall. This is it, she thought, for the nth time, pursing her lips and breathing in deeply. After all the crazy delays that can only occur in Mordor, they were finally about to speak to Roggie--

Her usual dramatics were cut short by a glimpse of a flying kick and a loud crash. For a moment Dracomir's eyes were so wide that Maika had to hold her hands together to keep from poking them. A "Come on, then, let's go," from Lola was more effective. They stepped in.

"Maika," Dracomir's voice came suddenly, "I don't know if that stuff you got from Alli is helping, but if you want to double-check, I happen to have here a stylish, haute monde silver Unblemishability Cloak. Belonged to my grand...mother, y'know. Want to try it on? It's never failed before."

In her excitement over the more recent events (actually, she just did not want to admit that they had left her a bit disoriented), Maika had actually forgotten about the face cream. She thought it had been too long since she first applied it, and it probably worked no longer - if it even did. She squinted at Dracomir's face. He was smirking. But he has always been smirking! One could count with the fingers the number of times his (nick)name appeared with "smirked," or some other lip movement to that effect, in the books and even including the toes would not suffice. Maika decided that the urgency of the situation did not leave her much choice.

"I don't know why you even bother, Dracomir," Maika finally replied, "but I could not be so rude as to refuse. What harm could it do, anyway?"

Maika saw a faint glint in his eyes, and she stood wondering what it was for and so did not see how, suddenly, there was something on Dracomir's hands. A long and silvery something. He handed it to her, and she gazed at it, taking in its exquisite feel with sheer wonder. It felt like water woven into a cloak. But in the midst of her awe, she hesitated.

"What?" Dracomir exclaimed, a little irritably.

"It's silver. Haven't you read my Character Description Form? 'I wear nothing but black and white.' "

Dracomir smirked again. "So? Will you let yourself be hindered by something you did not create for yourself? Come on, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. And it's for your own good."

Sighing audibly, Maika gently unfolded the silvery something. It fell gracefully to the floor. She quickly threw it around her shoulders as she saw Lola look back at them, apparently wondering why they had stopped walking. She raised her eyebrow, giving Maika a quick look from top to bottom, as if she had been wearing a red-and-white striped shirt and a yellow polka dot bikini bottom. Maika ignored her as she snorted and turned away.

"How does it look?" she said softly to Dracomir as she stepped ahead of him and turned back towards him. He nodded approvingly. The smirk was no longer there; in its place was a smirkier smirk.

That better not mean something, Maika thought as she hurried towards Lola with Dracomir on her tail, or...or...whatever Maika would do, he certainly would not be smirking for a long time.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The anything but jolly Santar stepped forwards, shaking the stairs as he went, but not really caring, it would seem. Smilog held desperately onto the railings and began to wail, "Hay, you'll knock us all off!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You cannot pass," he said.

[littlemanpoet]

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

Anakron laughed out loud.

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

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

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

Anakron tried to stifle his humor and waved off her resentment good naturedly. "No, no, it's okay. You can have your religion, no real harm in it, far as I can see, all about peace throughout the federation and all that. Believe what you will. But I think we can have a little fun with this. I think I'll give Skittles a little religion too, and I ought to see how Lûgnût is coming along. And you can save me from myself while you're at it," he grinned. "Come along!"

[Roggie of Morgoth]

Roggie drew himself to his incredibly substantial full height and glared down at Santar, for though Santar was tall, he was no match for a fully grown balrog feeling mean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you hear what I say, Santar?"

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

"I hear what you say, King Roggie."

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

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

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

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

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Certainly, neither Smilog nor Tollin had expected that. They stood bemused for a few seconds while Roggie stood looking smug and very pleased with himself. Eventually, Tollin pointed to the Door ladled Doom, "I say we see what is in there." he said.

"Smilog!" cried the dwarf, "My name is Smilog!"

"Door of Doom, eh?" said Roggie, ignoring the dwarf who then went on a mumbling rant that lasted a good few minuets. Slowly, they climbed the stairs towards the mysterious door, seeing as they had little other option; Santar had destroyed most of the stairs with his walking. "I wonder if this is the 'crack of Doom,’" mused Roggie, examining the plaque.

"Only one way to find out," said Tollin, pushing the door open and entering. They all followed and found that it was a large perfectly circular room. The door closed behind them with a click. Smilog gripped his axe and looked nervously around the odd room, wondering what to do and where to find an escape rout. There was no sound in the room and the floor felt strangely wet for something inside a volcano.

The floor was smooth and varnished, decorated with many images of Roggie dressed as a kingly figure. Yet, the floor was covered in a thin layer of water that seemed to have no right to be there at all. Suddenly, they heard a sound from above, an odd sort of sound, "What's that?" asked Smilog,

"What's what?" replied Roggie, examining the picture of himself on the floor.

"That 'waaaaaaarrrreeeeggg' sort of noise," the dwarf tried to listen carefully as the noise got louder. They all looked around to see where the sound was coming from, but Tollin guessed correctly, as he looked upwards and saw the plain ceiling open up and a torrent of water gushed out along with a strange man covered in meat. They were all swooped to the sides of the chamber by the flowing water and tried to hang on to anything they could.

Smilog coughed and spluttered as the waters settled, it seemed that there was another person in the centre of the room. "You!" cried the dwarf, "I thought you were dead!" for there in the room, stood, or rather lay, Andvarri, keeper (or seeker) of the legendary Gold.

"Roggie," said the man, "I need to use your mountain for a while." Andvarri struggled to his feet and wobbled a bit. "The gold is hidden under Mount Zoom itself, but we need to get back to Mordor. There we can use Roggie's peg leg to open the gates!"

"Look," said Tollin, "we're not interested in gold at the moment. We do, however, need to get back to Mordor." Roggie regarded the man with disgust as he tried to rid himself of the stench of pork. Smilog seemed strangely interested in the ground.

The Dwarf scratched the surface and began flapping his arms towards the others, indicating that he wanted them to be quiet. They were for a moment and could then hear a strange rumbling that was coming from below. All of a sudden, the Floor opened like a trap door and they all fell down with a "Waaaaaaaarrrreeegggg!"

Skittles had just sent the robot on its way and she was now rubbing her hands with glee, and grinning an almost evil grin. Igör was trying to slink away, but they all stopped as they could hear a strange noise coming from above. "What’s that?" asked Igör.

"What's what?"

"That sort of, 'Waaaaaaarrrrrreeeegggg!' noise?"

[Celuien]

Anakron was off at his usual brisk, elegantly robe-flapping stride. Panakeia gave herself a split-second to wonder (for what must have been the thousandth time) how Anakron always managed to maintain the regality of his billowing fabric before springing after him most unelegantly. She was tangled in her long gown, her heels were making her feet ache, and she found it difficult to keep up with Anakron's swift pace.

Despite being out of breath from running, hopping, and otherwise hurrying through Mount Doom, Panakeia continued to lecture Anakron. "What do you mean by false religion?" she demanded huffily. "It isn't false. I have seen the Captain with the great Spockú and McBones. How would the battle with A Slan have ended if not for their intervention?" The memory that Illamatar, not the Captain, had been responsible for the battle's end briefly came to her, but she pushed it aside, willing to adopt the Captain's delusional belief that his presence was enough to solve any and all problems. The Dweomer's hold on her was deepening.

"Much as it did, I suppose." Anakron's eyes were laughing, though he suppressed the audible manifestations of his mirth.

Panakeia scowled.

They reached a door marked Top Secret. Various security devices - a keypad, a retina scanner and a fingerprint reader - guarded the door. Anakron reached past them for the doorknob. The door opened.

The technologically advanced, if faulty, security system fascinated Panakeia. It wasn't completely dissimilar to the devices she knew from her visions of the ship. Did Anakron know the way to Kirk?

Her voice quivered in excitement. "Where are we going?" she asked while Anakron opened the next door by knocking on it.

"To find Skittles." Panakeia would have preferred Kirk. But though disappointed, she didn't object. Finding Kirk was her job, after all.

They reached the third door.

All must know the truth of the Federation. Panakeia stopped Anakron as he started to open the door.

"Yes, you said my religion was false. But I say to you, Anakron, that you cannot believe this. You said you were going to give Skittles religion. We are going to give Skittles religion. She will learn the way of the Captain. We will show her. We will show them all. Because if they don't join, they will be doomed as enemies of the Federation. And our enemies..." Panakeia's face was almost wild "...must be destroyed. For the sake of peace in the Federation." Her face was wild.

A still amused Anakron merely stared before giving the door a shove with his pinky. It swung on creaking hinges to reveal a laboratory. Skittles and Igör stood inside, watching robot-Skittles attempt to pull open a door marked push.

[Anguirel]

Dracomir was certainly having some difficulty resisting his baser smirking urges. Now, if and when they found Roggie, and during the interim, Maika would be silenced, correspondingly increasing his own influence over the embassy. But what made the affair still more satisfying was that he had found a use for one of the apparently preposterous Malfoy Relics. Maybe he would yet be able to decipher the Mordorers' Map...in the meantime, exultation was the name of the game.

Now Tom only needed to triumph over Lola...which, he imagined, was a rather trickier proposition. He considered her in his mind's eye. Alright, fine, his eye, as his mind was rather disarmed in close proximity to this particular problem. Perhaps, he decided, it was time for a completely egregious insult. Judging by his experiences at Hogwarts, women just lapped that up.

"Aren't you a bit domineering for a chorus-girl?" he objected. "It doesn't suit you, m'dear. What you need is some old-fashioned patriarchal treatment-someone should, oh, I don't know, carry you off on horseback and imprison you on some desolate farm, guarded by a wise-cracking cynic and a gentle giant. That ought to drill some winsome submission into you..."

[Formendacil]

The Gondorians stared, dumbstruck, as the supposed-to-be immovable mountain raced off over the horizon.

"I don't believe it..." Angawen started to say.

"Best that we don't," said Hyarmenwë, doing his best to keep a brave face on things. "Believing in... that... could get us Assignment."

"Old man," said Angawen, "just about everything here could get us Assigned."

"They're gone..." Bearugard wasn't listening too much, it seemed. "They've abandoned us."

"Well, seeing as we weren't supposed to have left the mountain in the first place, we can hardly get upset about THAT," said Angawen irritably. "Let's get on with what we planned to do in the first place: gather some information. The presence or absence of Mt. Doom doesn't make a whit of difference to whether or not we can accomplish that task."

"But the negotiations..." Bearugard persisted. "They just rolled away!"

"The negotiations were practically terminated anyway," Hyarmenwë pointed out. "The Lady Angawen is right: we should make practical use of this time. Surely it won't be long before they realise we're missing?"

They all stood silently, watching as the last glimpse of Mt. Doom disappeared from sight.

"Right," said Angawen. "Enough of this standing around. Let's get to work."

"And how do you propose we do that?" asked Hyarmenwë. "Just walk up to a Mordorian and ask for inside details of King Roggie's court?"

"Why not?" asked Angawen. "Have you got a better idea?"

"I haven't got any idea," replied Hyarmenwë. "But considering that most Mordorians were banished to this forsaken land by the laws of Gondor, I don't see the locals being too friendly. And we stand out in this land like trolls in the Shire. And more than a few of those things or people banished are dangerous. What have we for weapons? A few blades and some personal prowess."

"All we have to be is careful," said Angawen. "It's no different to be careful in Mordor than it is in Gondor. Keep our wits about us and we shall be fine- right, Bearugard?"

Angawen turned to the third Gondorian for support, to see him staring into the distance. An anakronism of some sort was racing towards them. As it drew nearer, they saw that the spymaster, Alli Umfuil, was riding it.

"Gondorians," she addressed them once her ride had halted, "it seems your current home has left without you. Why you were not in it upon its departure I do not care to learn. I'll find out soon enough without your help. However, we must get back to it. First, though, I suspect that your hunger may be nudging your stomachs and the bodies that carry them in the direction of the eateries whose scents have filled the air? I can't guarantee your protection from any other anakronisms, but I can ascertain that eating food here will not harm you. Where would you like to go for midday meal?"

"Anywhere with food and as low a number of anakronisms as possible would be fine," Angawen told Alli immediately.

"I'd rather forgo food altogether, and get back to Mt. Doom," said Hyarmenwë. "Food can wait until things are back to as they should be."

"This is Mordor," said Alli. "Nothing is as it should be."

"I'm hungry," said Bearugard. "I think we should eat."

"Two to one," Angawen flashed Hyarmenwë a self-conceited victorious smile. "We win." She turned to Alli. "Lead the way. We don't have a clue where we're going."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli smiled, holding back a smirk. I don't have to like her, but I have to be nice.

"Of course you don't. I should have remembered just how very uneducated you are."

Well... at least not openly hostile...

"I apologize, Hyarmenwë, that things do not seem to be going well." She smiled a sincerely apologetic half-smile at the aging dignitary. While Alli liked all of the Gondorians in their own way, she was especially fond of this old man. She remembered him from before her Assignation... one of the few politicians she had respect for. His interest was not in personal gain, but in the welfare of the country he loved. "I hope you are aware, all of you, that this mess is not of your doing and I sincerely apologize for being unable to speak to you before the proceedings. I know that you were sent here with little idea of what to expect..."

She paused for a moment, glaring at a reporter goblin falling from the eaves of a nearby building. She rolled her eyes as he lay on the ground whimpering. The media... always whining when a story is less than easy to get hold of.

"Come..." she resumed. "We cannot hope to catch up to the palace until I can ascertain it's location, and that's assuming that it has stopped somewhere. There is a small inn a few streets over that was Assigned only because it served vegetarian meals and the King was unhappy with the term for meatless items. The food is delicious, and not all meatless, the old man that runs the place is kind, and you will find the place to be much like a small tavern at home. As we eat, you may ask me any questions you desire pertaining to your business here. After that I will try to get in touch with a few of my people and we'll make a plan as to how to get to Mount Doom."

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron considered. So Skittles had gotten Skittlebot working again. Apparently the thing was more insane than its maker, or stupider, as it was trying to pull a push-door. Very well. Anakron lifted his staff, facing Skittles, thinking of one of the anakronistic religions from the deplorable future.

"Konvey."

It didn't take.

"Konvey!"

Panakeia pushed passed him. It still didn't take.

"Kon-bliddy-vey!!!"

"I greet you in the name of the Federation, Skittles!" Panakeia announced. "I represent Captain Kirk and the Star Ship Enterprise, bringer of peace and justice throughout the four quadrants of the Galaxy."

Skittles sucked in breath. Anakron held his. It looked as if it was taking! But this was Skittles, and who knew what weird way it would realize itself? And if Panakeia would like it or be dumbfounded or scandalized or worse. Anakron snickered.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The tension was rising as Panakeia awaited Skittles' answer. All the while, the 'Waaaaaaarrrrrreeeegggg' noise was getting louder and Igör looked from side to side, wondering what to do.

All of a sudden, a trapdoor opened in the ceiling and out fell Smilog who fell on top of Skittles. Then came Tollin, who landed on top of Smilog, and finally Roggie, who landed on a near by table covered in bottles of gin. After them came a torrent of water which swiped through the laboratory, knocking over almost everything. When everything had settled, Roggie rose, and dusted himself off, Tollin and Smilog did the same while Skittles lay slightly unconscious in the water.

"Don't slouch, Skittles," commanded Roggie, "where are we, Dwarf?" Smilog helped Skittles up, but she simply punched him in the face before dashing behind a bench. Tollin picked up a bottle of gin and hid it in Smilog's pack, for later. Andvarri then dropped out of the trap door and landed face down in the water, eventually he got up.

"I think we're in some sort of laboratory," said Smilog, pointing out the obvious, "a now rather wet laboratory." Andvarri walked towards Roggie, but he stepped on some slippery stuff Skittles had been making and he flew across the room and smashed into a glass cupboard. He danced around, screaming before tripping over backwards and landing in a bucket of acid. He leaped up and ran to the other side of the room, then he fell onto a work surface, covered in a substance that, reacting with the acid, caused a small explosion that sent Andvarri out of the nearest wall and far into the LA beach.

"That was weird," remarked Skittles, rather puzzled. Roggie made his way to the exit, calling Skittles. She merely laughed at him. Smilog and Tollin looked around at the chaos they had indirectly caused and slowly began to follow Roggie to the exit.

"He's got the right idea," said Smilog, quietly, "let’s hope these good people don't notice us."

[Diamond18]

It took a lot to confuse and unsettle Skittles MacFarlewyn. But it can be said that Anakron and Panakeia somehow figuring out where she was and somehow getting past all the security devices and Anakron somehow waving his staff and yelling "Konvey!" until she felt an odd twitching in her skull, followed by Roggie, Smilog, a man and a minotaur crashing through the ceiling in one of the strangest and illogical forms of drainage ever created, was rather a lot. The coup de etat of the man causing an explosion, blowing a hole in the wall, and rocketing out onto the beach, was nothing short of a very lot.

Punching out the dwarf and laughing at a wet and bedraggled Roggie only made her feel slightly better. She turned to Anakron and Panakeia in a wrath: "Do the words 'Top Secret' mean nothing to you people?"

"Apparently not," said Anakron imperiously.

"Who cares about such things, when they are in service of the Captain!" cried Panakeia with a feverish gleam in her eyes.

"Yeah, uh, whatever," Skittles said, distracted by RoboSkitt blowing a couple fuses at she sat in a puddle. Skittles rushed to rescue her robo double from further damage and propped her up against a wall. Suddenly, an odd feeling came over her, like the twitching from before only more violent. Sort of like a sneezing in her skull. And lo! She looked upon RoboSkitt and saw her with different eyes. Well, technically, the same eyes as always, but when the information was sent to her brain it told her different things.

She fell to her knees and looked up at the robot in adoration. "Goddess!" she cried. "It is not right that these lowly cretins," she waved a hand in the general direction of Smilog and Tollin, then towards Anakron and Panakeia, "should look upon you!"

RoboSkitt was now blind in one eye, due to the water damage, but she peered at Skittles from her good eye and said, "Hello, I am RoboSkitt 2000™, how may I serve you?"

"Ask not how you may serve your human counterpart, but ask how your human counterpart can serve you," Skittles said with something akin to fervor. "Tell me how to serve you!"

"I am a fully automated human simulation and can go up to 24 hours between recharging. I am manufactured by ACME Inc. and come with a lifetime warranty, I--"

"Listen, you stupid robot," Skittles snarled, whipping out a switchblade and holding it up to RoboSkitt's one good eye, "I'm trying to worship you here, so say something worshipful before I pop your vision port out. Capice?"

RoboSkitt blinked rapidly and gulped. "Oh-ohkay. Um... I... we must slay all non-believers."

"I'm outta here," said Smilog, and Tollin nodded. They quickly slipped by Anakron and Panakeia, who were too busy gaping at Skittles to bother noticing the giant morning-star wielding minotaur. Igör thought this to be excellent thinking and shuffled out after them.

"What's going on?" Panakeia asked. "Why does she not join me in expressing love and devotion to the Captain?"

"I don't know, the sudden onslaught of water must have interfered with the Konveyance," said Anakron. Then he laughed. "It would appear she now worships her robot double. Hmmm, what would one call that? Roboticism? Narcissism?."

Skittles turned to them. "I worship the supreme divinity of RoboSkitt 2000™ and it is my sworn duty to slay all non-believers." Her eyes narrowed. "Do you believe?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Dwarf and his large companion shuffled out of the room and down the corridor, although Igör was following them. Smilog looked over his shoulder nervously at him and said, "Who is that?" Igör stopped and tried to whistle innocently. Tollin shrugged and walked on, the Dwarf hopped after him (he had heart his leg in the fall).

"Where did Roggie go?" asked Tollin, scratching his chin.

"Ah, who cares?" moaned Smilog, "He never helped us one bit. Apart from the Santar thing... and giving me a job... and a house... shut up!" He moped and wandered along, taking every opportunity to look out of a window and see if the Mountain was moving again. It wasn't.

Soon they realised that they had been wandering in circles as they passed the laboratory for the third time and could still see Skittles and the others inside talking of one thing and another. Frustrated, Smilog punched the wall and nearly fell though it, "Good grief," he said, "Roggie did cut corners in making this thing didn't he?" They peered out though the hole he had just created in the mountainside. down below they could see Sauron's road and Smilog was struck with an idea, "why don't we line it with dynamite and blow up the mountain?"

"Because," explained Tollin, "that would be stupid. It would make more sense to follow the road. If my reading of the red book were correct, it should lead to the crack of doom!"

"That was my next idea," grumbled the Dwarf, "let us investigate."

[Celuien]

"Do I believe?" Anakron echoed. "Certainly. Of course."

There was a hint of stifled laughter in his voice, much to Panakeia's relief. He didn't really believe, but he wasn't above having a bit of fun with Skittles. Besides, there was the switchblade to consider. Arguing with a crazed Skittles was probably never a good idea. Arguing with her while a switchblade shone in her hand was foolishly risky.

But, in her devotion to her new religion, Panakeia didn't mind taking stupid risks. The Captain never passed on a chance to put himself in unnecessary danger. And this risk was for the glory of the Federation.

"Anakron can say what he likes. But I don't believe. I'll never believe. Hmmph. RoboSkitt 2000™. How absurd. She doesn't even work properly. Look at her." Panakeia's contempt for the robot, which was now repeatedly bending to touch its toes while chanting a sing-song about abs of steel, poured over her face.

Skittles stepped forward. "You take that back."

"I will not."

Anakron was still chuckling to himself. "This is all most fascinating, but I have business to attend with Lûgnût. I'll see you later. Good-bye!" He strode to the door.

Panakeia didn't like that. "Wait! You can't leave," she cried.

But the door had already closed behind him. Panakeia was torn. Should she follow Anakron or stay with Skittles?

She chose the latter. Panakeia could find Anakron later. He didn't seem to be in any immediate danger of terribly bad behavior. He could manage alone for a little while. At least until she showed this foolish Skittles the error of her ways.

"Skittles, listen to me. You have a choice. You can either join the Federation with me, or perish. Our enemies will not be tolerated."

"Same to you." Skittles stuck out her tongue.

Now Panakeia was angry. She racked her brain for insults to hurl at the robot. She did her worst.

"You found RoboSkitt at a half-off sale."

Skittles retorted, "The Captain is a sissy and uses a stunt-double."

Insults to the Captain's dignity were not to be tolerated. Panakeia flew at Skittles, attempting to wrest the switchblade from her grasp. Skittles slipped aside like the slippy thing that she was, and Panakeia hit the ground. She tried to tumble along the laboratory floor, but that acrobatic skill belonged to the Captain alone. Panakeia's gown became tangled around the leg of the operating table. She was trapped.

Skittles laughed. "Who's going to perish now?" The switchblade flickered.

RoboSkitt chirped, "Kill, kill, kill."

Panakeia tugged at her gown. It didn't budge. She screamed.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The hole in the wall was defiantly not big enough for Smilog, and certainly not big enough for Tollin. Anakron walked out of the lab, casually ignoring the existence of Smilog but giving a nod to the large figure of Tollin, whose shadow was cast over the whole area. Or was it. There was far too much shadow around to be natural. There was only one explanation.

"How long have you been standing there, Roggie?" said Tollin, looking at the Balrog as he sat on the floor reading a newspaper entitled 'The Daily Death', it carried a large picture of Mount doom and Roggie out side it. The headline was 'Greatest Balrog ever?'. It was clear that Roggie (or someone who liked him) controlled the Mordor media.

"Oh, a few minuets," he said, "I've seen you walk by here at least three times. That dwarf's sense of direction is about as reliable as an Orc's food not to be poisonous." Tollin rolled his eyes and then explained the situation, Roggie pondered it for a moment, then decided he had nothing better to do and so decided to see how it would play out.

"Now," said Smilog, "Tollin can use his mighty horns to make this hole larger, then we can investigate the path."

"What happens if the Mountain starts to move while we're on the side?" asked Roggie, "Won't we be knocked off?" they pondered this for a moment, and then Smilog produced three small axes from his pack.

"If it does," said the dwarf, "we can hold on with these, I would hope." Roggie punched Smilog across the face for no apparent reason that he could think of.

"Good idea," he said, "lets get to it!" Tollin scrapped away with his horns until there was a nice big hole. The Minotaur went first, followed by Roggie, who knocked Smilog to the ground, almost not knowing why he did it. Just as Smilog was about to climb down, he heard the screams of Panakeia. Typical Mordor, he thought and rolled his eyes.

[Diamond18]

Skittle grinned maliciously and advanced upon the trapped Panakeia. She deftly whipped three extra switchblades from her pockets and snapped them open in unison. Panakeia reached a particularly high note. Skittles paused to juggle the switchblades and asked, "Are you sure you don't believe?"

Panakeia paused screaming long enough to gulp, "I will not forsake the Captain!"

"Okay then." Skittles sent the switchblades slinging towards the helpless older woman. Swoosh thump (repeat 4x) went each blade as they miraculously landed in such a way as to pin the corners of Panakeia's dress to the floor (which was, oddly enough, made of corkboard.)

"You wish to torture me before you kill me, then?" cried Panakeia.

"I'm like a cat that way." Skittles knelt beside her. "But I'm giving you one more chance to believe before I do you in like I did in ol' Nuglut."

"Don't delay, slay right away!" said RoboSkitt, as she did jumping jacks.

"N-no, wait, I'm t-thinking," Panakeia held up one hand. She thought hard. How could she stay alive without betraying the Captain? She thought back to what Anakron had done -- claimed to believe without really believing. But could she do the same? Should she? Would the Captain understand? Surely He, in His infinite greatness, would not hold a little self preservation against her... would He?

"Alright, I believe," she lied, crossing her fingers behind her back.

Skittles raised an eyebrow. "Mmmmm, are you sure you're not just saying that so I won't slit you from bellybutton to clavicle?"

"Oh no indeed. Um, I'm, er, just so in awe of.... that." Panakeia jerked her head towards the robot (who was now attempting to lick the soles of its feet) and smiled stiffly.

"Spectacular," said Skittles, and pulled the switchblades out, flicking them shut. "We can serve RoboSkitt 2000™ together!"

"Great...."

Skittles helped her untangle her dress and they stood, facing the contorted robot. "Shall we now go forward and slay all non-believers together?" Skittles asked.

"What? Oh, sure. But first get me some coffee, two sugars."

"You can't drink coffee, you're a robot," Skittles protested.

"I'm a Goddess, I can do anything. Get me some coffee or I will slay you for being a disobedient minion."

Skittles snorted. "Yeah, right, like that's gonna happen. What are you gonna do, strangle me with your bikini top?"

Panakeia looked between both Skittles shrewdly, her mind working in such a logical way that whatisname would be proud. She saw that Skittles' newfound devotion to her robot Goddess was at war with her natural independence. Perhaps while the two Skitts argued she could slip out unnoticed....

"Do not mock me, mere human!" said RoboSkitt, stepping in front of the doorway. "You are flesh and bones whilst I am, like, totally indestructible," she thumped her chest. "Hear me roar!"

"Yes, Goddess, I am sorry I questioned you," said Skittles, dropping to one knee and bowing her head. "I must do your bidding."

"Ya got that right. Now, I'm making a new proclamation! All flesh-bags must die and robots must rule Middle-earth. You must slay all carbon based lifeforms in my name!"

"That's illogical!" Panakeia protested in horror. "Skittles, you yourself are carbon based and you must not listen to this mad machine!"

"In order to truly serve RoboSkitt 2000™ I must commit hara-kiri with my own switchblade," Skittles said, looking thoughtfully at the knife in her hand. "Which seems rather annoying."

"I will not let this mockery of a humanoid form destroy all mankind," said Panakeia. "I will go get her coffee so that when she drinks it she will explode." She turned to the robot. "Step aside so I can go fetch you some nice coffee, yes?"

RoboSkitt shook her head and leveled a malicious gaze at Panakeia with her one good eye. "I no longer desire coffee, I only desire death and destruction."

Panakeia quickly deserted that plan and turned back to Skittles. "I have an idea." She smiled, convinced this idea was spoken to her mind by the voice of the Captain himself. "You and RoboSkitt must engage in a one-on-one battle to determine who is more worthy, man or machine."

Skittles gave it some thought, but before she could answer, RoboSkitt said, "I have grown tired of this tedious discourse, and when RoboSkitt is tired, RoboSkitt is angry!" Then, right before their eyes, she lifted her hands and lo! they converted to giant, gleaming steel scissors.

"Oh no," said Skittles. "She has been upgraded to RoboSkitt Scissorhands 2000™! I wonder when that happened!"

"Die, humans, die!" RSS 2000™ cried, advancing upon them with superhuman speed, waving her scissors and cackling madly.

Skittles and Panakeia fled from the room, screaming. They passed Igör in the hall, and when RSS 2000™ sped after, Igör began to regret choosing the Abby Normal brain.

[Celuien]

"Ahhhhhhhh! Ahhhhh!" The sound of Panakeia's shrieking echoed down the hall. Absorbed in her screaming, she failed to notice Igör. Her heels met his toes with a crunch. Without stopping to apologize, she kept running. She had to. RoboSkitt was angry.

"This is your fault," she gasped to Skittles. "Why couldn't you have let Anakron's handiwork stand?"

"Are you doubting the might and magnificance of RoboSkitt?"

With her fingers firmly crossed, Panakeia replied, "No."

"Die, humans, die!" The refrain from RoboSkitt was insistent.

But this was ridiculous. Panakeia, follower of Kirk, she who had once held the Captain's toupee in her hands, was being pursued by a malfunctioning robot. It was not to be borne.

She stopped and deliberately faced the raging machine.

"Listen to this, RoboSkitt.

Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Life is but a dream."

RoboSkitt stopped. "That is illogical. Life is not a dream." The gears in her head spun audibly.

"Yes, that's right. Good RoboSkitt. I'm lying. Life is not a dream. I never tell the truth. Believe me when I tell you that I always lie."

"Illogical, illogical." Smoke began to pour out of the robot's ears.

Panakeia grinned. "To be logical is to be illogical. Logic is a little tweeting bird chirping in a meadow. Logic is a wreath of pretty flowers which smell bad."

RoboSkitt's stared blankly into space. "Processing, processing. Bzzt." She froze, pondering the infinite illogic and contradictory nature of Panakeia's statements, and her scissorhands dropped.

Panakeia's smile now stretched from ear to ear. Spockú would be proud of her. "You may fix RoboSkitt if you like. Just a logic circuit or two blown, I'd imagine. But I wouldn't recommend it. Seek the Captain! Join the Federation! Remember what I've said. Bye now."

Leaving Skittles to tend to her robot double and goddess, Panakeia triumphantly glid down the hall. Spotting a guard, she inquired if the Grand Anakronist had been seen. Anakron, she was told, had stepped outside. The guard pointed her to an exit.

She followed in Anakron's footsteps and stepped onto the hot sand of Mâl-in-Bû. Anakron couldn't be too far away. He didn't have that much of a head start.

Left or right?

Panakeia heard the noise of a fight to her left. With a sigh, she decided Anakron must have gone that way. She headed towards the disturbance, hoping to find him before he could cause anymore problems.

[Diamond18]

"Wow," said Skittles, inspecting the deactivated robot. "The total incongruity of my robot double giving one twat about logic bears a certain irony that is not lost on me!"

"Huh?" quoth Igör eloquently, shuffling up beside her. He had found that when he scuffed his feet along the floor, he could zap things with his finger, and thought a moment about giving Skittles a shock, then thought better of it.

"Simply put -- that brain we put in the robot really was whack, because prior to the brain transplant RoboSkitt 2000™ would have been completely unfazed by all things illogical. Like me. Ergo, the Abby Normal brain must have had a susceptibility to logicitis. Yet, I still feel compelled to worship her. Perhaps it was whack in a divine sort of way. Or, perhaps, divinity itself is whack?"

"Huh. Do you want to repair it again?"

Skittles shook her head. "Nah. I find her easier to worship when inert, actually. I think I'll just put little wheels on her feet and roll her around with me."

"How are you going to worship her?" Igör asked, his curiosity getting the better of him despite a niggling suspicion that he didn't really want to know.

"Well, first, I'll declare today RoboSkitt Day, and make it a government holiday, so that in the future all government agencies can close for the day and retailers can make a profit off of it by selling various themed items. I like that idea better than slaying all organic life forms."

"That's a relief."

"Then, I'll find an attractive place to set up a monument to RoboSkitt. Or maybe I could just drill rivets through her feet and set her up as a monument.... At any rate, I will then build a shrine around the monument and people can come to pray and leave money in a holy hat or sacred open guitar case in order to worship, and I will collect said funds as Chief High Priestess of RoboSkitt, of course."

"You've been giving this a lot of thought."

"No, actually, I'm just saying it as it comes into my head."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is this your mountain?" it asked.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes?" came the unsure voice of Jim, "And if we don't we will open fire, just for the heck of it!" Smilog didn't like the sound of this and waved to the other two that they should continue on their journey. "Hey!" cried Jim, "don't walk away! I've not finished with you yet!" but they continued on their way, walking towards Sauron's road.

[the guy who be short]

Alli dismounted her vehicle, leaving it parked inconveniently in the middle of nowhere, and led the trio away. They walked in silence, Alli slightly ahead and the others trailing behind, for perhaps five minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"-want to order?" Alli finished.

[JennyHallu]

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

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

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

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

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

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"There it is!" cried Smilog, as the helicopter got closer, sending dust and ash flying all around, "Lets get there quick!" they all dashed over the rocks and boulders towards the Road Sauron had made to the Crack of DOOM! Smilog slipped down a small pseudo cliff and scrapped his knee, but Tollin and Roggie leaped over him and almost didn't notice him. Eventually, Tollin picked up the Dwarf and ran towards the road.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë eased his old bones onto a bench, soaking in the Gondorian feel of the building... The owners may have been Assigned to Mordor, but their establishment felt thoroughly Gondorian. It could easily have passed for an inn in Minas Tirith, or Emyn Arnen, or somewhere in rural Anórien. Even the clientele seemed mostly Gondorian in nature. It seemed that the eatery was a bit of a haven for those Mordorians who attempted to retain their pre-Assignment identities.

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

So thoroughly Gondorian in nature!

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

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

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

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

Angawen looked up from her just-received drink, a look of calculating curiosity on her face. Bearugard seemed not to have noticed.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli basked in being surrounded by people much like those she had known in her former days. Though she'd been hidden away by her parents for most of her life, she'd made friends easily with those few she met. It was a wonder that she was not more antisocial than she was, given her warped childhood. She ordered hot spiced cider and was well pleased with the sweet zing of it as she pondered Hyarmenwë's question.

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

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

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

[Hookbill the Goomba]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly, they began to climb down once again, trying to get to the fabled crack of DOOM and so put an end to this moving mountain. Yet, none of them saw the skeletal figure that rose out of one of the paros shoots and began following them in a Gollum-like manner. If dramatic music could be included, such a time as now would be appropriate.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron was stalking the streets looking for a likely fanatic when out of an alley came two diminutive blue-robed men. Anakron stopped in his tracks.

"Good day, Anakron," intoned the shorter of the two.

"Good day," Anakron responded brusquely. "How may I serve you?" Anakron's tone was not that of one who wished to serve, but to tear limb from limb.

"Come into this alley where we can talk in private."

Anakron exhaled. He followed them, his shoulders suddenly stooped. Just before they reached the end of the alley, the two men parted ways and stood to either side of the alley, their backs to the walls.

"After you," the taller one gestured toward a blank brick wall.

Anakron wordlessly passed between them and turned, his back to the wall. He waited, glowering. The two men closed in side by side and faced him, their faces impassive.

"You have been conveying religions from the future." It was stated as fact rather than query.

"Yes," Anakron said on a wearisome breath. Just then he saw Panakeia in the road; she had stopped short at the end of the alley and seen him. He looked away from her and back at the Blue Istari before they could notice - - he hoped.

"These will conveyances have nothing to do with our purpose for Mordor and the Gondorian Empire. They must stop."

"And if they don't?"

"Then it will go ill with you. We have undone your damage. That is the end of it, or else. Understood?"

Anakron opened his mouth in a grimace. "And if the evil of your dweomer overcomes me? What then?"

"See that it does not."

They turned away from him and saw Panakeia before she could hide.

"This girl," said the taller one, "she is cured. Make use of her to maintain control of your conveyances."

The two men walked by her, the smaller one stopping a moment to say before he passed, "He is upon a knife edge. Do not fail."

Then they turned into the street.

Anakron felt red hot rage within him. It would be easy to konvey something blisteringly damaging to those two, but they would merely flick it away as an afterthought. Anakron took a deep, unsmiling breath, and willed himself to stay standing where he was, to not lash out, to stand and wait before doing anything at all; for if he did anything, there was no telling what uncontrolled impulse might burst from him. He waited, watching Panakeia to see what she would do, hoping that she would flee from him in a sudden unlikely moment of better judgement, knowing that she would come to him and do all that she could, the little that was in her power, to try to talk him into some semblance, some modicum of self-control. If only words could do anything other than chafe against his nerves.

[Celuien]

Panakeia continued to follow the din of the street fight, her heart sinking with every step. She had only just been separated from Anakron, and already (she assumed), he was responsible for more mischief. She should never have left him alone.

But what could she have done? Her duty to the Captain was clear. She needed to teach Skittles a thing or two about that robot of hers. A slow grin reappeared. Panakeia was rather pleased with herself for her solution to RoboSkitt. It was illogical for an illogical being to care about logic. Therefore, for the illogical robot to remain illogical, she would need to be logical. Perfect, brilliant, nonsense. But highly...logical.

Suddenly, Panakeia found herself dizzy. As the world spun and grew dim, she stumbled, clutching a silk palm tree rooted in Astroturf. She thought she heard muffled, fell voices mumbling in a strange tongue. The feeling passed, and Panakeia recovered. What had happened?

She straightened herself and listened for the fight. That too seemed to have ceased. Puzzled, she headed to the spot where she formerly heard the fight, and saw a group of equally puzzled people, seemingly unable to remember why they were ready to tear each other to shreds a moment before. For a fraction of a moment, Panakeia wondered if the Captain's intervention was responsible. Almost in the same moment, she chided herself for the stupidity of thinking that an actor in a TeeVee show could possibly have such an impact.

Then it dawned on her. The obsession with the Captainfor which Panakeia had been willing to risk life and limb less than an hour before was gone. A confused jumble of emotions ran through her.

It must have been the Dweomer.

Of course it was. What else would make you -- and everyone else -- so silly?

Anakron owes me an apology. He owes everyone an apology. Doesn't he realize the trouble he could have - that he did create?

Think of it this way. You're back to normal. He must have un-conveyed the anakronism. He must be sorry. Even if he doesn't say so. Is that apology enough?

Panakeia continued to mull it over. No. The mere undoing wasn't enough. He needed to apologize, if only to prove that he knew he was wrong. The reversal of his conveyance was a good start, but she needed to hear him acknowledge his error.

Panakeia continued her search. At last she spotted Anakron in an alley, flanked by the Blue Istari. Her heart skipped. What were they doing here? Up to no good, she was certain. Panakeia tried to duck into a doorway where she could eavesdrop without being seen, but to no avail.

"This girl, she is cured. Make use of her to maintain control of your conveyances."

Panakeia groaned. They had seen her. No use hiding. And what did they mean? Were the Wizards on her side? That was rather puzzling.

Anakron did not reply, and the Wizards headed back to the main street. As they passed Panakeia at the entrance to the alley, one spoke to her.

"He is upon a knife edge. Do not fail."

And with that, the Istari melted into the crowd.

What did it mean? Had Anakron withdrawn the anakronistic religions of his own accord, or had the Wizards forced him to do so? She had to know. Panakeia was still willing to help him if he had not come to his senses yet, despite irritation with him for involving her in the fruits of his foolish temper tantrum.

"Hello, Anakron. What was that about? The Wizards, I mean." Her voice was somewhat terse.

[Anguirel]

Tom briefly thought that perhaps being a cutie or a baby sounded rather up his street, but the Malfoy nature soon asserted itself. He marched ahead of Lola without a single backward glance, then, quite suddenly, whipped around, drawing his wand.

"Impedimenta," he intoned swiftly. Both Lola and the unfortunate Maika would feel the air congeal and pulsate in front of them, becoming a stodgy, heavy mess and bringing their progress to a stop. With a mental effort they could advance slowly, but it was an exhausting process. Yet there was no apparent barrier, and the two Mordorians could still see the obnoxious blond boy ahead giving them a cheerful wave.

"See you later," the Gondorian ambassador remarked. "I've had enough of this. I'm going on alone. I suppose you'll have to find a way to catch up, Mudbloods..." This gloatery accomplished, Dracomir mounted the Nimbus Two Thousand And One Racing Broom he carried on his person, zipping down the corridor, occasionally running down hapless Guard-Orcs and knocking them over when he was feeling vindictive. The last his two former companions glimpsed was a splodge of rapidly receding green and silver.

"Now that," he thought maturely, swirling around, up to the ceiling and down again purely in order to show off, "will teach that chorus-girl to call me a cutie."

He paused and took brief stock of his surroundings. He had not the faintest clue where, in his exuberant flight, he had managed to bring himself to. Best, he supposed, to consult the Mordorers' Map.

"I solemnly swear to fill in my SAVE within 48 hours," he reeled off boredly.

Words spiralled rapidly across the parchment.

Now, now, that's not good enough. Put some feeling into it, some passion, come on!

Tom grit his teeth. "I solemnly swear to fill in my SAVE within 48 hours."

Actually, is this scene necessary, vamos, venga, chico, es necessario? Perhaps we cut and replace with arty vision of shrunken heads, no?

"Noooo!" Tom exclaimed. The Map had evidently been possessed recently by none other than Alfonso Cuaron, the Director-Fiend of Mexico! What was he to do now...?

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!" Came a voice from just above Smilog's head. He stopped and looked around, yet all he saw was the volcanic rock of the now infamous Mount Zoom palace and casino (and, more recently, racing vehicle). Tollin was also looking for the origin of this sound. "Blasted rigamortis!" said the same voice, "I'll give it what for!"

Roggie rolled his eyes and leaped up on the rock behind Smilog and lifted out from behind it, the Barrow Wight who had been following them. One of its legs was dangling off and he wore a rather ghastly (and, unfortunately, permanent) grin on his face. "What are you doing here?" asked the Balrog, setting the Wight down.

"Well, you see," he coughed, "my dear old thing, I'm sorry about the other chaps. They get a bit carried away some times and when I said Project zoom needed to be destroyed 'at all costs' they took it a little too seriously." Smilog climbed up and drew his axe, but Roggie signal that he should put it away. "Listen," continued the Wight, "perhaps I can help you fellows out? I may be just rotten flesh and bones, but I can be quite the tuff customer. I once kept a line held up in the post office for ten minuets!"

Smilog sniggered, "Yes, terrifying."

"I thought so," the Wight clicked his leg back into place and looked, blurry eyed at his surroundings. "Is the crack of DOOM far?" he asked. Roggie pointed with his peg leg down towards it. No more than fifty yards away, but the going looked rugged and difficult all the same. They slowly resumed climbing down, carefully stepping on each foothold as it came, with Tollin leading the way, Roggie next, Smilog and the Wight last.

At some points the mountain would rumble and the engine would start up and then die down again. They all grew quite nervous with anticipation, this had been a hard day's work and it looked as if it was about to get harder. When Tollin, Roggie and Smilog had got to the bottom and to the small ledge before the Crack of DOOM, they looked up to see the Wight falling down. He hit the ground with a crack and his head rolled off. "Ah," he said, "you couldn't give me a hand, chaps?"

Reluctantly, they scanned the surroundings and picked up the random bones and ligaments lying around the area and put the Wight back together. Roggie put the head on and, just for fun, put it on backwards. They all laughed, except the Wight who stumbled around before tripping up and losing his head (literally) he picked it up and put it on himself. "Oh, childish games," he said angrily, "playground stuff!"

They looked at the crack of DOOM, standing ominous and strange, with the path winding back behind them. In front of the Crack was placed a large metal door, terrible to look upon, wrote of black metal with horrid faces depicted on it. Orc writing could be read saying, 'Go home Roggie' which was strange, seeing as Mordor was Roggie's home. "I don't like this place," said Smilog gripping his axe as he examined the door. The horror of it was somewhat lessened by the small 'Do not disturb' sign placed on the doorknob.

Slowly and silently, the Dwarf opened the door and stepped through, the light of the magma could be seen, dim and faint in the distance. The stenches of the volcanic gasses oozed forth and set all the hair on Tollin’s face and back straight. Even Roggie seemed a little nervous, not knowing what dark forces may await them inside the crack of DOOM.

"LEAVE THIS PLACE!" came a voice from within.

"Right you are!" said the Wight, pulling everyone out and slamming the door shut. He puffed and panted far too much for someone without lungs. Smilog sat with his back to the door and began to think to himself. Roggie paced up and down, his peg leg kicking rocks here and there. Tollin sat on a rock and looked towards the sun as it slowly began to sink. "Maybe we should jolly well get some sleep?" said The Barrow Wight.

[littlemanpoet]

Panakeia sauntered up to Anakron, with some bit of fight in her she had apparently saved up for him. "Hello, Anakron. What was that about? The Wizards, I mean."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why did Anakron seem so enraged?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He resumed his pacing, afraid to leave the alley, allowing Panakeia to serve as his jailer of sorts.

[Celuien]

Panakeia stood glaring at Anakron, red-faced, furious, humiliated. For the second time today, he had treated her roughly. He had no right to do so, Grand Anakronist, Servant of the Blue Istari, or whatever else he chose to call himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good-bye, Anakron."

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

[Hookbill the Goomba]

“It reminds me,” said The Barrow Wight, “of the time I met the fell worm beast of the sea!” Smilog turned around to look at him, with a slight confused look upon his face. Every time he settled down to sleep, the Wight started telling one of these ridiculous anecdotes about his time on the Downs. “It was on a winter’s night,” he continued, “I was out fishing when a large creature covered in what can only be described as CDs rose out of the sea and asked the way to Numenor. I told the fellow that it hadn’t been around for a jolly long time and he up and left in a flash, by Jove you should have seen that thing swim!”

Once more, Smilog settled down in his sleeping blankets, hidden amongst the rocks to the side of the entrance to the Crack of DOOM. The Wight eventually fell asleep too and Roggie had the first watch. Tollin snored rather loudly, but they were all so worn out that they hardly noticed and sunk soon into a weary, troubled sleep.

It was dark when Roggie awoke them all with a poke from his peg leg, saying, “Now’s our chance!”

“What are you talking about?” whispered Smilog looking around with an odd look in his eyes. “Where are the others?”

“Over they’re,” said Roggie, pointing, “look, something came out of the door only a minuet ago. It was a shadowy figure and I didn’t get a good look at it, it said something about not having enough snacks. Now is our best chance to investigate the Crack of DOOM!”

“We need someone to go in first to make sure its safe,” advised Tollin, “someone dispensable, who we wouldn’t miss if he got killed or mutilated in some strange way.” There was silence for a moment, and then everyone looked at Smilog who sighed and walked to the Door.

“You do realise,” said Smilog, “that you will all rue the day you sent me to Doom!”

“Yes, of course,” said The Barrow Wight, “Now, off with you!” they all pushed the Dwarf though the door and it closed behind him with a click. He tried to open it, but it seemed to be locked with some unseen lock. He picked up a torch from the wall beside him and walked forward, covering his mouth and nose to block the stench. He walked along for a while before he came into the great cavern of DOOM, the place where the Ring of Power had been destroyed. There was a long extended platform stretching over the lava vent, and built in a semicircle at the edge were a series of controls for driving the dreaded thing.

There was a large leather seat in front of a steering wheel; to the side of it was what looked like a gear changer and a hand break. Smilog went up to it and examined the controls closely, stroking his beard, forgetting the stench. There was a large blue button in the centre that had a picture of an eye on it, wondering what it did, Smilog pressed it and was hit on the chin by a rising pseudo television made with palantir technology. It showed the view out of the front of Mount Zoom; the LA beach to the left, and the City to the left.

“I should go back,” said Smilog, “Roggie will know what to do.” He turned away, but stopped and looked back at the controls. The steering wheel looked so inviting, the leather chair looked so comfortable. “NO!” he cried, shaking his head, “Must go back to Roggie and the others, they’ll know what to do.” He tried to leave once again, but only went three steps before looking back and stopping. “Well, maybe I could try a few more buttons, to see what they do.” He sat down in the chair and felt how comfortable it was, he sighed and looked at the controls. There was a big red button. You can probably see where this is going.

He reached out his hand towards the button, sweating and smiling inanely, his breath bated and full of strangeness. He pressed it. The whole mountain shook as the engine started up again. Smilog laughed a long maniacal laugh, “I am Smilog!” he cried, “Master of Zoom! Now, Middle Earth, prepare to meet your horrible DOOM!” He took the gear changer stick and began moving it randomly, causing the gearbox to groan and make unearthly noises.

Halfway down the mountain, the strange shadowy figure stopped and turned to look back up at the crack of DOOM. “My vehicle!” it cried, “My beautiful vehicle! Someone is stealing it! Curse you snacks! CURSE YOU!”

“Now,” said the maniacal Smilog, “to release zooming Mountain of DOOM!” he pulled on the gear stick some more and the engine groaned. He pressed another button on the control panel, which cause a volcanic bomb to shoot out of the volcano and head into the City. He laughed and tried to get the Mountain moving again, but nothing seemed to work, he did not understand the controls and randomly pressed things. “Obey me!” he cried, his eye becoming a great green fire, “I am your master now, Zoom! Hearken to me!” The last button he pressed opened the door to the crack of DOOM and Tollin ran in.

“What is going on?” cried the Minotaur, “Smilog, what are you doing?”

“My victory begins now!” he cried, laughing, “I will drive the mountain to the destruction of Middle Earth!” he laughed some more and then pressed a button that fired a rock at Tollin. He fell back and lay on the floor. “I told you, you would rue the day you sent me to DOOM,” laughed Smilog, “now, begin your rueing! I will sit here… and watch!” Roggie and The Barrow Wight entered looking rather worried.

“Get away from there!” shouted Roggie, “You’ll kill us all! Are you insane?”

“Insane?” said Smilog, “As insane as a moose!”

“I’d call that pretty insane,” said Tollin.

“Silence!” cried Smilog, “I must now wreak terror on the people of Middle Earth!” Tollin rolled his eyes and grabbed the Dwarf by the scruff of the neck and dragged him kicking and screaming from the chamber. “Release me!” demanded Smilog, “Release me or suffer the Wrath of Smilog!” They came out of the crack of DOOM and Smilog was cast upon the floor.

The Dwarf sat up and shook his head, “What happened?” he said, “All I remember was being in the control room and the… something weird.” As they sat there, a shadowy figure passed by and went into the Crack of DOOM, closing the door.

“Bad form, old chap,” said the Barrow Wight, “you went positively mad on us back there. Trying to take over the world. Maybe that’s what Project Zoom does to people. Sends them barking.” He lit a pipe that he seemed to have got from nowhere. “Now, lets deal with this like gentlemen.” He walked up to the door and knocked on it, “Excuse me,” he said, “would you mind awfully, letting us in?”

“Do you have any snacks?” came the reply.

[Lhunardawen]

"Dracomir, wait up!!!" Maika screamed with multiple exclamation marks in spite of herself; she had to express her anger somehow.

"M-m-maika...?"

"What?" Maika blurted with a hint of irritation, swinging to face Lola. "This is all your fault. You shouldn't have done that, no matter how tempting or amusing it was. Now look, we're back to square one. We have to find Dracomir, and together we'll all have to find Roggie. We will convince him to recommence the negotiations. You hear?"

But all Lola could hear was the swishing of the silver robe as Maika gesticulated frantically. This time there was horror marked all over her pretty face.

"I-I can't hear you..." she said, slowly shaking her head.

"What?!"

"What?"

"I said 'what?!' "

"What did you say?"

Maika threw her hands up exasperatedly and turned back to the direction in which Dracomir had disappeared. She wanted to run after him, but somehow she could not move. What had he done? More than anything she wanted Alli to learn of this, and let her do what she will. Surely she would be disappointed with the ambassadors...and Maika shivered at the thought. They would have to solve this on their own.

Quickly yet gently taking off the silver cloak wrapped around her, Maika decided that she would have to catch up with Dracomir in any way. With the cloak haphazardly folded in her hands she took a step forward, hesitated, and turned to Lola.

"If you want, you can stay here. I'll go after him."

Lola gasped, her hand over her mouth. "I can hear you now!"

It did not take any of the brains in Skittles's secret laboratory to work things out: the silver cloak had rendered her inaudible. Maika slowly nodded in enlightenment, and quickly turned her mind to the task at hand, tucking the offense done against her in a deep pocket of her mind. Not waiting for a more relevant response from Lola, she started pacing down the hall. Each step took more breath, she noticed, and soon she could not go any further. She stopped, caught her breath, and looked back.

Lola was not even a step away from her, laughing deliciously. "My poor dear, if only you could have seen yourself. You looked...utterly ridiculous!"

"You are too kind," said Maika, curtsying gracefully. "Now, perhaps there's anything you can say to help me?"

"He brandished a wand. He mounted a flying broomstick. It's hopeless."

"Thanks a lot," said Maika, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Wait...a wand? Hmm..." She grabbed one of the chopsticks perched on her hair and swiftly pulled it out, in a manner worthy of a shampoo commercial. Lola could only chuckle.

"Lola, we're a bit desperate. It might work," Maika said as she waved the wannabe wand awound and abwuptly stopped. At the same time, unknown to her, the Impediment Curse began to wear off. Maika stepped forward tentatively to test, then took another step, then another. She grinned inwardly at her success.

"Come on," she called to Lola behind her while expertly reinserting the chopstick. "Bother Dracomir--let's go straight to Roggie. Audience chamber."

[Anguirel]

Cut, yes, cut that Malfoy character, the Map scribbled in a demented, increasingly Hispanised script, he's only marginal anyway, si, si...

Dracomir scrunched the parchment into a ball and stuck it in the inside pocket of his robe, yet still felt it writhing and pulsating against its heart as it continued to maniacally scribble plot alterations. He slumped against a wall, as characters written by this author tend to do at some stage or another. He felt a great urge to burst into tears, but did not dare in case he was interrupted by some guard. No one could witness a Malfoidacil crying!

Yet his plight was dire, and all, he realised, caused by his own pettiness. He had been in the company of two Mordorian ambassadors...well, that is, one ambassador and one Diva...headed, solidly, for an audience with King Roggie, and had managed to fool at least one of them into falling in with his plans. Some guilt now returned to Tom as he recalled Maika's quivering mouth, undoubtedly screaming as hard as she could at him, but completely Inaudible...now he was lost in the midst of the Castle, the former Mount Doom Palace and Casino, with no idea of his further direction.

He picked himself up and stumbled a little further on. And then he saw something which raised his spirits somewhat. It was a window.

It was glassless, like any decent castle window, and beyond it lay the smog and ashen sky of the Black Land. Yet any air was better than none. With a barely-suppressed whoop Tom leapt astride his Nimbus once again and took off, leaving the Mountain behind him in only a few miutes. However briefly, he was free.

He soon found that the thick smoke was actually hiding an almost oppressively blue sky at the beach paradise of Lost Angles. The intense positive glare of the cloudless weather made his head ache, but he soared off. He saw the decadent city lying obnoxiously below him, and the vast array of azure swimming-pools in its plentiful de luxe hotels. He saw whole deserts of imported sand, occasionally punctuated with mounds of cigarette-ends, broken beer bottles, and used needles. He saw three enormous female Stone-Trolls sunning themselves.

Stone-Trolls sunning themselves? Apparently so. For the rays of Arien, it was revealed, did not slay Stone-Trolls, but merely sent them into an inane but rather pleasant torpor, as their skin changed from pink to a greyish-brown tan. It seemed, Tom realised, that this tan was a sought after asset for Troll-women.

"Ooo, yer've caught it luvverly, Doris," one commented. Somewhat surfeited with Trollological insight, and feeling the heat of the sun himself, Tom wheeled his racing broom about and started elegantly swooping towards Mount Doom's summit...to the very Cracks of Doom themselves.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron made his way back to the mountain, oblivious to anything or anyone else around him. He was disgusted with himself. He had not harmed Panakeia, but he had hurt her yet again. He was no good for her. She should go to Ithilien and escape from the evils or Mordor, past, present and future.

When she had reached her hand toward his, he had wanted with a grievous desire to take her hand, then hold her close and say that all the evil was no more. A fool's pitiful dream. He had tried to take her hand in his, but he knew he mustn't. Or had he known that? Had it been his own choice to draw back his hand? Or had the dweomer overwhelmed his desire and his will, and forced his hand back? He did not know. He had not felt an exterior force, but that did not matter: the dweomer was deep in his bones. Admit it, Anakron, you enjoy the power..

He strode down the mountain corridors, his cloak billowing, caring not a mite for anything that was going on around him, including the insufferably delayed negotiations. Let them deal with it themselves. If they need me, they know where to find me. He both hoped and feared that he would not be needed for the negotiations.

Anakron opened the door to his chambers. The orc corpse had been removed. In its place stood Lûgnût, dressed in pink and lime green, wearing eye shadow and three sets of earrings in each ear. He looked sullen.

"I see you have been freed," murmured Anakron, "from a particularly nasty strain of the dweomer, Lûgnût."

"So it would appear, oh Grand one," the orc sneered. "I would have been most gratified if that particular strain had not been removed, if you must know."

"You liked it?" Anakron moved past the orc to a rich divan covered in sumptuous pillows, and sat down.

Lûgnût rolled his pig's head eyes and raised a his hand in a feminine gesture of dismissal. "Oh, if you must know, I have never, and I mean ne-ever, felt so, so-" he positively wriggled with delight "-manly!" Lûgnût grinned.

"You mean orcish, do you not?"

"Same difference," Lûgnût sighed.

"Make me some tea, will you?"

Panakeia had slapped his cat silly, Anakron considered with a smirk, and thrown it on the ground. If only it were that easy to be rid of. Come to think of it, he had never tried. Maybe he should just leave it somewhere inconspicuous and just stop being the Grand Anakronist. As if it could be that easy. Then again, he had never tried such a thing. Maybe tomorrow.

Lûgnût brought him tea.

"Thank you. Would you like to be orcish again, Lûgnût?"

"We-elllll-" he responded with a swing of his hips, "I did rather like it."

"I'll see what I can do. No promises! Now leave me in peace."

The orc sauntered out of his rooms and closed the door behind him.

Anakron had never considered the possibility of setting himself up in place of the Blue Istari. There was reason. It was impossible. All his power came from them, and it was all he had with which to replace them. They had merely to strip him of his power with a word, and any such attempt would be rendered null. So Panakeia was wrong about that. No, the real danger was to become a mere tool in their hands, doing all the evil they wished, not limiting it one iota. Anakron didn't think that Panakeia understood that part of it. Nor that the dweomer had more and more of his very will in its control. His will was not free; or at least, not as free as it had been, and the longer he remained Grand Anakronist, the less he would have, until he was no better than a ringwraith for them to do with as they would.

Nevertheless, for now his rage had been been deflated. Thanks to Panakeia. That questioning and sorrow in her eyes as she turned from him had doused his ire, and pushed him into remorse. He had half a mind to stay away from her so as not to cause her more harm; and he wondered about just handing in his staff, hat, and cloak and saying he was done. He sipped his tea, refilled his cup, and sipped some more, mulling his choices, aware of the irony that maybe he had no will to choose, regardless of what he desired.

[Roggie of Morgoth]

Roggie wasn't quite sure what was going on any more so he did what any self respecting pirate balrog actor king would do in the situation: decided to leave it and pretend it wasn't happening.

In a way much surprising for a creature of his bulk, he slipped unnoticed away from the others, disappearing through a door that was pretending to be a wall, and making his way down to Alli's office for a private talk.

"Alli," he'd say, sprawled on her floor, "I can't do it any more. I don't want to. I can't even keep track of my advisors, much less my people. I've received no advice in the past few weeks except from my lovely War Advisor MacFarleywen, and I'm not even sure if I can spell her name right. Much though I want to teach Mardil a lesson or two, how can I do it with an army that exists only to march around singing lame songs about not knowing anything but having above average listening skills. They have no battle experience, except to argue with me.

"Mardil's highly trained forces would overcome my pitiful multi-whatever-they-are troops in a matter of a few very sad seconds. Why am I even bothering with this job, Alli?"

And she would answer "Because, Roggie, you are a good king. No king can choose his people and you got stuck with a bum deal, but you're doing so well with it. Here, I found you a copy of Il Principe, translated into the ancient balrogic script that nobody else knows but you and apparently the translator. It ought to help you dictate properly."

And he would jump for joy and things wouldn't fall from the walls. But that was merely a dream.

He found his way to Alli's office and tried turning the doorknob on the overly large doors. No luck. He spotted a note pinned so far down that he had to double over to read it:

"Gone to lunch. Be back in a few days at the latest."

He roared his frustration and a few eyeliner-smearing tears of stress leaked out. Without hesitation, he found a private corner and had himself a good cry before making his ever-serious reappearance to the world.

He sat in his audience chamber, awaiting what would come next.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The door swung heavily on it's hinges as it opened slowly, almost in the same way that the mouth of a blue whale opens, and almost with the same stench of fish. The Barrow Wight lent on the wall for a moment, smoking his pipe triumphantly. Smilog looked at him in utter puzzlement, "How are you doing that?" he asked as more smoke poured out of the Wight's ribcage.

"You don't want to know," replied the Wight, the glow from one eye fading a little, indicating that he was winking. They all entered the Crack of DOOM and looked around, holding their noses, for the stench was unbearable. "Where has that Roggie fellow got himself off to?" asked The Barrow Wight.

"Ah, who cares?" snorted Smilog, "Good riddance to him. He's probably lying dead on a pile of cheese."

"Why cheese?" asked Tollin, examining something on the wall.

"Silence!" shouted Smilog, and everyone punched him in the face. "Well, no matter. He's a stupid little fuuuuuuuuuu...." All of a sudden, a trap door had opened up in the ground below them and they all fell down. Down and Down into deep dark. Such a dark as had never been seen before by any of them, and Tollin had lived in Mordor for a long while. It just seemed to keep going and going until they all stopped screaming and just continued falling normally.

"How long do you think this blighter is?" asked The Barrow Wight, "Can't say I look foward to the end of it, what, what?"

"No idea," replied Tollin, "Butss I can hazard a guesss. We're getttting near thhe Labyrinth. My lisp is coming back."

"Oh, great," grumbled the Dwarf, folding his arms. Eventually, the tunnel they were falling through became almost a slide, zipping downwards and spitting them out into the labyrinth. Tollin and Smilog arose and gathered the scattered parts of the Barrow Wight and assembled him again, although they did put his legs on wrong the first few times.

"Howsss do wess getss outss of heresss?" asked the now dumber Tollin, the Labyrinth seemed to have this adverse affect on him. Smilog laughed a little to himself and then took a deep intake of breath through his nose.

"Follow the stench of Balrog," he said. So they marched on, following the scent of burned fish that Roggie sometimes left when he got angry or annoyed. The labyrinth wound on and on, seemingly endlessly. It was somewhat damaged due to the movement of the Mountain, some walls had fallen down and they managed to make an almost straight road towards the centre of the mountain. They knew that as it began to get warmer. Eventually, they came to a brick wall and stopped.

"Looks like the end of the line, chaps," remarked the Barrow Wight, "We'd better get our thinking caps on for this."

"Not necessarily," said Smilog, Tollin smacked him across the face. "Ow! Well, as I was saying; this must be the secret entrance to Roggie's audience chamber. See, my wine bottle is there on the floor."

"Your wine bottle?" said Tollin.

"Alright, Roggie's. But All the same. All we need do is push open the door. We can then try and get back to the Crack of DOOM from there." So they all pushed and the door slowly opened.

[the guy who be short]

Angawen looked around the room carefully - if talking to inhabitants of Mordor was to be permitted, she had to take this chance of talking to the most normal, most Gondorian of them. Hyarmenwë had been dangerously blunt in his question, but Lady Alli did not seem to notice - or perhaps she, like Angawen, had trained herself not to show her thoughts.

They were sat at a corner of the room. However, the room was of an odd, non-uniform shape - something vaguely like an L. If Angawen could get around the corner, she would be free to speak to citizens of Mordor completely unseen by Alli. A golden opportunity. She would be foolish to waste it.

And she would be equally foolish to be rash. If she were to leave now she would undoubtedly raise suspicions. "It is wonderful," she said to Alli, "that one can obtain food so traditionally Gondorian in nature in Mordor. This loaf is tough, yet homely."

"Not all of our Mordorian food is Mordorian in nature," she replied. "They do some mean smoothies here."

The trio carefully ignored her.

The meal continued uneventfully, as meals are accustomed to do, until about ten minutes later, Angawen stood up suddenly. "Do excuse me, Lady Alli, but I fear I must relieve myself. I hear you have public toilets in Mordor - King Mardil II tells me they are a wonderful, if poorly implemented. I desire to see these myself."

Alli gave her consent, Hyarmenwë carefully avoided looking at Angawen, and Bearugard stuffed some more bread in his mouth.

Angawen wandered off, alone, in what seemed to her quite possibly the safest place in Mordor.

[Celuien]

Time washed over Panakeia like the sands of Mâl-in-Bû washing over a beach bum's feet. Filled with angst over her troubled romance, she drifted along the beaches of the Pathetic Ocean, not knowing or caring where she headed. That is, until she tripped over a beach-bum's beach towel and careened head long into a fence. She was then forced to care (well, not really care – she didn't care about anything other than her troubles with Anakron just then) about her location by the angry sunbather whose towel she had disturbed and an Orc guarding the carefully fenced private beach she nearly stumbled onto without proper authorization.

She answered the complaints of neither. Ignoring them, Panakeia turned coolly to a small vacant patch of beach near the tide line and sat on the sand, too absorbed in her unhappiness over Anakron to care that sand was working its way into her gown and making a mess of her shoes. She traced letters into the wet beach with her finger. A-N-A-K-R-O-N. She stopped and looked at her handiwork, even as a wave came up from the ocean and washed it away.

Panakeia broke down. Anakron had been washed away from her, just like his name was washed off the beach. Several passers by stared at the formally dressed, crying woman on the beach, wondering what she was doing there (other than sitting around and sniffling), but she didn't care if they stared or not. If they did, it was a reflection of their ill-breeding, not any error on her part. Let them stare. I hope they enjoy the watching me fall apart. Panakeia felt bitter.

What was she going to do? Anakron was lost to her. The Dweomer - the Wizards, had claimed him at last, despite her best efforts to stop them. There was nothing she could do about it. Poor Anakron was dooming himself and she couldn't stop him. All of her words only served to accelerate his decline. And now he was on his way back to Mount Doom. Back to the evil of the Dweomer. She had asked him to come to her. But though she still hoped he would, she felt certain that he never would. Never.

The only thing she could do, Panakeia decided, was to forget him. Her heart revolted at the idea. Forget Anakron? She could never do that. His image – the hair, the flowing robes, the lines around his eyes and mouth – were burned indelibly into her memory. She would never forget him. But if he truly was lost to her, she had to move on. She couldn't live in self-pity forever. At the same time, she wanted to wait for him to come around – against her better judgment, which still pessimistically insisted that he wouldn't.

So she decided to strike for the middle ground and ignore her problem for the moment in the hope that everything would work itself out eventually. It wasn't in her hands anymore. Only Anakron could decide whether or not to heed her advice and abandon the Istari. Though she would always regret being without him, she couldn't let Anakron's resolve to destroy himself, if indeed, he chose to continue down that path, destroy her too. Panakeia slowly realized that she couldn't force him to save himself, however much she wanted to help.

But where to go? Where to go… Panakeia had friends in Lost Angles. Associates from her cosmetics business who found Lost Angles, as the center of Mordor's entertainment industry, the perfect place to sell their goods. They lived, she seemed to recall, in Beaverly Hills. She would stay with them for a bit. And drown her sorrow with a shopping spree or two along Rode-o Drive.

She walked off the beach, leaving a trail of footprints in the sand. Coming to a road that roared with traffic, Panakeia waved down a passing taxi, and, shaking as much sand from her dress as she could, seated herself behind the driver.

"Where to, lady?"

Ignoring the Orc's faulty grammar, Panakeia replied, "Beaverly Hills, 90210." The taxi whizzed off, passing Mount Doom, at which Panakeia gazed mournfully, and heading into the depths of the City of the Lost Angles.

[JennyHallu]

Lola followed Maika for a few steps before collapsing against a wall, breathless with giggles. "You're *gasp* waving that *gasp* little stick around..." another giggle... "just like *gasp* that silly *gasp* boy!" More giggling. Maika turned around and glared at her in exasperation.

Eventually Lola regained her self control and pointed at the wall at the end of this corridor. A sign posted there read clearly:

<--- Audience Chamber
Restrooms --->
Secret Labyrinth --->
<--- Somewhere Else --->

"Come on!" and she took Maika by the sleeve and started running down the lefthand corridor.

[Anguirel]

Poised in the very midst of the smog of Doom, high, high above the resort of Lost Angles, Tom suddenly felt slightly queasy. Were he to slacken on his broom seat for an instant he would be very dead indeed. It was time to get stone beneath his feet again. Even with the negotiations looming. Especially with the negotiations looming, he corrected himself tersely.

Looking towards the impressive line of the Castle's fortifications, Tom scanned them for a window of suitable size for an elegant Quidditch dive to gain entry to it. There seemed, on reflection, only one suitable option. It had a vast, wide ledge and was of great height. The room within seemed to be ill-lit, and he could only see the dim radiance of flames amid its shadows. Shadow and flame. In retrospect, he really should have been a tad more cautious.

Dracomir leant forward in intense preparation and swooped with leisurely elan into the tower room.

It was then that he became aware of two things. One, some vast, vulgarly golden letters proclaiming the words AUDIENCE CHAMBER. The other, a large throne on which a Balrog, looking simultaneously very weary and very angry, was positioned.

The Lord Malfoidacil's most prudent first action was obvious enough. He fell on his knees and bowed his head before the King of Mordor.

"Melifluous greetings to Your Most Admirable, Balrogic, Courageous, Dashing, Energetic, Famous, Gracious, Honourable, Intelligent, Jocular, Kingly, Liberal, Magnificent, Notable, Omniscient, Powerful, Questioning, Righteous, Serene, Terrific, Universal, Valiant, Wise, Xenial, Ying-Yang-balanced and Zygological Majesty," he said, all in one breath. He dearly hoped the Balrog would hesitate before atomising him, trying to figure out what all the epithets meant...

[Diamond18]

Skittles MacFarlewyn was not happy. She had realized two things simultaneously.

1) She was worshipping a robot.
2) Someone else had forced her to.

These two things were rather upsetting, since:

1) Skittles worships nothing and no one.
2) Not even if it looks like her.
3) Skittles obeys no one nor allows them to control her.
4) Unless they have candy.

In a rage, she fetched a steam roller from the steam roller closet and proceeded to run down the robot while cackling madly and screaming, "Who's the divine one now?"

After RoboSkitt 2000™ had been reduced to a plastic smear on the linolium Skittles turned to thoughts of Anakron Skywalker, the rather whiney Sith Lord in the making who was responsible for her bout of subservient thinking. Gor, he even had the whole billowing cloak and grabbing the neck of his significant other thing down pat! He must be stopped before his eyes glowed red and he slaughtered younglings!

She stomped down the hall in search of Roggie, all the while muttering things about "fixing his little red wagon."

She burst through the door just in time to see Dracomir do a faceplant and begin mumuring a litany of superlatives.

By tinkerbell! she thought in horror, Anakron has gotten ahold of whatisname's mind too, and has brainwashed him into worshipping Roggie!

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli sat up straight, but not unnervingly so. Her posture had improved with her new job: she spent several hours a day playing with weapons and another hour or so learning to dance appropriately in all settings. She was not crazy about the actual diplomatic aspect that her job sometimes entailed, but being able to sit and learn interesting things about human nature was worth a few formal events. And the dance lessons had quickly molded her body into well-toned muscle that didn't slouch in a way that not even her strict schedule of weapons practice and other exercise could.

She looked around consideringly. She would give Angawen five minutes before finding her again. She trusted neither the denizens of Mordor nor the lady's intentions and too long of a time spent away could allow for any number of things occuring.

Bearugard merely ate, ignoring the rest of the world.

Hyarmenwë seemed reluctant, now that he had received permission, to talk with locals. Alli cocked her head slightly and studied him. She waved to a young couple that looked to be newly married. They waved back and she beckoned them over.

"My apologies for bothering you, but my companion is rather new to these parts. He is curious about many things and I can only answer some of his questions. Could you help us?"

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë WAS reluctant to up and engage some of the local "Gondmordorians" in conversation. For one thing, he didn't want Alli to read too much into his desire to speak with them. However, when Alli went so far as to invite a young couple over, he was rather left with no choice.

"My apologies for bothering you, but my companion is rather new to these parts. He is curious about many things and I can only answer some of his questions. Could you help us?"

The young Gondmordorians were polite, and willing, and thoroughly as pleasant as any farmer of the Pelennor.

"My lord," said the lad, "it is has been far too long since we have been able to pay respects to a Lord of the Realm. I am Aleksandur, and this is my betrothed, Fíriel."

Hyarmenwë nodded. "It is a comfort to find those so far from home who remind one so much of it."

"Is it?" said Aleksandur. "That is comforting, Lord Hyarmenwë. For I have not set foot in Gondor. I was Assigned hither at the tender age of ten hours for my apparently anakronistic name. I believe it was then said "Alexander". Consequently, I know not if I am truly Gondorian in my mannerisms, or merely a parody thereof."

"I keep telling him that he's as Gondorian as old Bargon, who was only Assigned for having 'alzheimers'," said Fíriel, gesturing at an old man at the far end of the tavern, staring into space.

"May I ask why the desire to appear Gondorian is so intense?" asked Hyarmenwë. "Surely, since it was the Law of Gondor that saw you sentenced here, it is strange that you desire to be one of its people?"

"Mordor is a strange land, a dangerous land," said Aleksandur slowly. "It is not consistent or coherent. It is no place to raise a family- and such is our intent." He gazed fondly at Fíriel. "And comparing the exiled Gondorians who raised me, and who held as they could to Gondor's culture, to those Mordorians otherwise here, I can say with conviction which I prefer."

"These exiled Gondorians who raised you..." Hyarmenwë's eyes darted ever so slightly to look at Alli as he drew near this subject. "Do they take in many babes? One of the most cruel reasons for Assignment is surely the anakronistic naming of infants. Do many get Assigned?"

"More than you'd think," said Fíriel. "Aleksandur was only one of many 'Alexander's Assigned that we've met. And there are 'Mike's and 'Tom's and 'Dave's, and I haven't a thought how many others."

"You're a diplomat for the King, aren't you?" said Aleksandur. "The newspapers, and thus the rumours, are full of little else. You're here, then, to deal with the illegal emigrations. Tell me, is there a hope that it will someday be possible for people to return to Gondor? Can we purge the anakronistic elements of our being and someday go home? Already I have dropped the hateful name which I was given, and have started to assume a more Númenorean sobriquet. I'm not ready yet to be Gondorian, whatever Fíriel says, but someday, by help of the Valar, maybe I will be. Can I ever go home?"

Hyarmenwë lowered his head somewhat, looking rather torn. He was painfully aware that the tavern had gone silent. The patrons seemed to be hanging on his answer.

"I... don't know..." he said. "Lord Mardil, of all people, should be sympathetic, but in the realm of politics, perversity is oft King. I can only hope that it is a possibility."

The tavern seemed to slump back in its seat. Clearly, this was not the answer that the Gondor-leaning patrons had wanted to hear.

"I can only say that I am also sympathetic to your wishes," Hyarmenwë continued. "I once lost a child, much as you were lost, Aleksandur."

"Did you?" Aleksandur's eyes shone with a glimmer of unmistakeable hope that maybe.... "What name....?"

"I don't know," said Hyarmenwë. "I was on campaign. My wife never spoke of the matter again. I know only that somewhere in this land I have -or once did, for as you say, it is perilous- a daughter."

Alli raised an eyebrow, unseen as no one watched her, then rose.

"As much as I wish I could remain here in this oasis of tranquility, we have a mission to fulfill, and I think we're about done eating now. Bearugard, would you round up Angawen, that we might leave?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

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

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

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

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

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

"Melifluous greetings to Your Most Admirable, Balrogic, Courageous, Dashing, Energetic, Famous, Gracious, Honourable, Intelligent, Jocular, Kingly, Liberal, Magnificent, Notable, Omniscient, Powerful, Questioning, Righteous, Serene, Terrific, Universal, Valiant, Wise, Xenial, Ying-Yang-balanced and Zygological Majesty," said the mysterious person who had opened the door. Roggie stood a little bemused, then a little amused, and then bemused again.

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

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

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

[Kath]

Igör was by now completely confused. Parts of his body were still unattached and his body itself seemed to have developed the ability to be in three places at once, something he hadn't known it could do. Skittles, Maika and even that strange Lola lady had all seemed to be talking to him at the same time, although they were in completely different parts of the mountain. Fortunately it appeared that there was something called an edit, but unfortunately Igör had an eidetic brain, and couldn't forget the strange turns of time. Still, they seemed to be mostly ironed out now, and Igör had finally been left alone while everyone else ran off on some bizarre adventure.

Feeling tired of all the ways to get out of going to see Roggie, Igör limped back to the negotiation room and rummaged around in the coat he'd left there. Pulling his hand back out triumphantly he reached back to get the fingers he'd left behind, and then unfolded the map that came out with them. This place changed quite frequently, with new tunnels being built and, apparently, an engine room, but Roggie's chamber was still where it had always been.

Quickly ensuring that he wouldn't fall down any holes that might lead to more strange and mysterious lands than the one he was already in, Igör set off, purposefully ignoring any other negotiators and/or their new-found friends, and actually managed to make it to Roggie's audience room without anything distracting or potentially life-threatening befalling him, though that was probably because Skittles was still at the other end of the place. Or so he thought. Just as he went to push open the door a stomping blur appeared before him and marched right into Roggie's chambers. The knives, switchblades and other sharp objects hanging obtrusively from the blur identified it as Skittles.

As watched the door open and shut he heard a crash from within, followed by some very frantic babbling. Quietly opening the disappointing uncreaky door, Igör slipped inside, and saw Dracomir prostrate on the floor in front of the Balrog, flattering him for all he was worth, with Skittles watching from the doorway. Deciding to wait until he knew what mood Roggie was in before making his presence known Igör sank back into the shadows to watch.

Before Dracomir had had a chance to say anything however, Smilog appeared, along with another of those nasty cross-posts that gave Igör a headache. Still, he mused quietly, holding his head to stop the throbbing, at least there are three of us here now, and Skittles is never far from something interesting. As soon as Alli gets back with the Gondorians we should be good to go. Well, so long as Roggie hasn't roasted us all by then. Sighing he moved further back into the shadows to avoid the night-eyes of the Dwarf, and again settled down to observe the proceedings.

[Lhunardawen]

"Let go," snapped Maika, simultaneously snapping her sleeve off Lola's perfectly manicured fingers. It took her some effort not to continue with "you've got some cheek, after giggling at me like a maniac!" Instead she chose to run ahead; her smaller, lighter frame made it possible for her to pass Lola in a matter of milliseconds.

"Hey! Slow down! Is this your idea of a grand entrance?" Lola called behind her, slightly out of breath, but Maika ignored her and kept on running as if she was not wearing stilettos.

Roggie's audience chamber soon loomed in view, and Maika reduced her pace to a stride, straightening her clothes as she went. She heard Lola's footsteps slow down quite a long way behind her as well, doubtless mimicking her preparations. Maika sighed in relief as she reached up and felt her hair, which she thought was probably in an unfamiliar state of disarray after her antics with the chopstick, still smooth and in place.

Maika did not even have time for her usual pre-meeting with Roggie dramatics: the door leading to the audience chamber suddenly popped out to her right like a mischievous kid out to give her a heart attack. She stepped right in and found Dracomir kneeling, his head bowed, before the Balrog King. She felt like placing a well-deserved, well-aimed kick on his behind, but settled with clearing her throat as loudly as she could. Dracomir did not move, nor did he even seem to hear.

She walked slowly towards Roggie, looking contemptuously at Dracomir for just one more moment. As she came near enough to feel the heat emanating from the King's massive body, she gently tugged back a sleeve of her black cardigan. Her eyes momentarily widened at what she saw beneath it, but she shrugged it off and replaced the sleeve.

"Looking hot as ever, are you, your Highness?" she said flatly, looking back at Roggie, and took her place beside a conveniently placed window. She looked around for the first time. Everyone Alli had called to stay earlier that day was there, plus a few extras.

"Greetings, your Hotness!" chirped Lola's voice suddenly as she glided into the chamber, her glittering eyes fixed on Roggie. Maika rolled hers. That's your idea of a grand entrance?

[Roggie of Morgoth]

It was now, glaring improbably at every person in the chamber at once, that Roggie sat up straight, bared a frightening grimace of displeasure, and started laughing.

"Tom, get off of my floor." he chuckled, using the name with which he had, so long ago, been introduced to Malfoidacil. "And stop calling me all of those lovely names. I haven't forgotten our old friendship. You have need neither to gesticulate nor genuflect in my presence. A good old fashioned "Hey Roggie, how's it goin'?" would be fine with me."

Malfoidacil stood and bowed casually, basking in his special treatment. Smilog stepped forward slightly and said, tentatively, "Hello Roggie. How is it going?"

"Hush, midget. Your voice makes my eardrums feel as though I ought to kill you for speaking." Smilog hushed without pause. "Everybody line up so that I can glare without having to turn my head to accomodate for the fact that the lot of you are spread out. I want easy glaring!"

They shifted, hiding grins, to accomodate the king. He glared at them happily.

"Now," he began, looking imposing. It was a stature and tone that he had slaved long hours to master when he first entered the acting world. "Why do I have my Chief War Advisor, my dear Lola, my old friend Tom, a Shelley-esque creation that I vaguely remember Alli telling me she liked, Maika, my favorite minotaur, and some dwarf that claims that he once passed me the salt standing in front of me looking as though they want to talk to me about something as important as the fate of my country?"

[Celuien]

Somewhere in Lost Angles, a taxi pulled up to a large, elegant house on a tall hill. The passenger stepped out and was greeted cheerfully by a couple in oh-so-fashionable dress. Laughing, the three walked into the house.

Panakeia was not that visitor. Her cab pulled up to a Beaverly Hills address - the home of Panakeia's business associates. Or so she thought. She gaped.

"Driver, you must have made a mistake," she said. Where her friends' house once stood, Panakeia saw only a rubble strewn gouge.

The driver growled back, "No mistake. It's that mountain. It blew through here worse than an action movie about natural disasters destroying LA and knocked down the whole block."

Panakeia sighed. There just had to be something to make her day worse than it already was.

"Any idea where the people went?" she queried hopefully.

"What do I look like? A psychic?"

"Never mind, then. I'll get out here." Panakeia paid her fare. The cab sped away, and Panakeia pondered the senseless destruction of the neighborhood before walking in the direction of Rode-o Drive.

[JennyHallu]

Lola laughed easily at the king, sauntering cheerfully to his side. "Roggie, darling, please don't class me with this set. I love Mordor, you know. I think you're doing such a terribly good job. And as ever, my love, you just look fabulous. I don't know how you do it. With your stress level I could never keep such a figure." She stood on the step to his dais and looked up at him, actually batting her eyelashes at him, every bit the flirt, a long expanse of pale leg visible through the high cut slit in her skirt.

"And..." she continued, with a suggestive giggle, "I haven't had the chance to tell you how hot you are in simply the longest time."

It was almost disgusting, how obvious she was. But Roggie beamed at her. It was clear to the others that this was not a new topic of conversation for the unlikely duo.

[the guy who be short]

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tugwubs."

"How does one spell that?"

"Tee, jee, dubbleyoo, bee, ess. Tugwubs, my Lady."

[littlemanpoet]

He hated his name. Anakron. "Against time." What kind of name was that? In a language that didn't even exist yet! His old name was little better. Elempi. It meant nothing! He wanted a new name. No, that wasn't enough. He wanted a new life. But ehre was this gods forsaken staff. And fool hat. And mawkish cloak. He threw the hat across the room, frisbee style. It hit the wall and fell to the floor. How appropriate, he thought. He rose and unclasped the cloak and let it fall to the floor behind him. He grabbed the staff, leaning against the wall by the door, on his way out.

Some time later he stepped out on the Sammath Naur. He walked to the edge and saw the fire below. He held out the staff and let it fall. It was still in his grasp. He willed his fingers to loosen their grip on the staff. They did not obey. His arm shook with the effort to let go the staff. His hand would not open. Finally he drew the staff back and leaned on it in exhaustion. It could not be destroyed in this direct manner.

He walked back to his rooms, disgusted. Panakeia, how am I going to get free of this? Can you tell me? But she was not there. Of course. She and this life he led did not go together. He had to leave one or the other. He did not want to lose her. How, then? He did not know.

[Celuien]

Grimly determined to have a good time if it killed her, Panakeia sauntered onto Rode-o Drive. Her friends were gone, their block razed to the ground by an out-of-control mountain. Anakron was teetering on the brink of destruction. Love. Despair. Folly. Those words brought a melody from an anakronistic musical work to give her earworm. All, of course, in an equally anakronistic language that would not exist for many thousands of years, but Panakeia's mind translated automatically and easily into the Westron. Or English. Whichever seemed more convenient to her at the moment.

It's madness! It's empty delirium!
A poor, lonely woman
Abandoned in this teeming desert
They call Lost Angles!
What can I hope? What should I do?

Enjoy myself! Plurge into the vortex
Of pleasure and drown there!
Enjoy myself!

Free and aimless I must flutter
From pleasure to pleasure,
Skimming the surface
Of life's primrose path.
As each day dawns,
As each day dies,
Gaily I turn to the new delights
That make my spirit soar.

For indeed, Panakeia left her life empty without Anakron. And the only way around that emptiness, she decided, was to find as many superficial things as she could to force herself into cheerful forgetfulness. Panakeia knew that the endeavor would be as fruitless for her as for the heroine who originally sang the mellifluous (and capriciously difficult) melody in her head, but she went forward with the idea, nevertheless. She browsed the display in the window, and gasped at the image of a ghostly Anakron (or was it Elempi - the hat, cloak, and staff were gone) on the street outside. Oddly enough, he was singing the same melody that resounded in the concert hall of her mind.

Love is the pulse

Oh! (Panakeia joined him in a duet)

... of the whole world ...

Yes! Love!

Mysterious, unattainable,
The torment and delight of my heart.

And the image wispily curled off into nothingness.

Madness! Follie! Anakron was gone, and certainly not an anakronistic tenor. But she had seen him all the same. It must have been a delusion. All it meant was that Panakeia missed him terribly. If only he did care more for love than the Dweomer. It would have been so much better for the both of them.

"Can I help you?" Panakeia whirled to face a saleswoman. Before she could reply, the store-employee went on to say, "I don't think we can." She looked Panakeia up and down from head to toe. "We only sell designer items here. They're quite pricey." The saleswoman brushed at the sand clinging to Panakeia's gown. "I don't think we'd have anything in your way."

"What are you trying to say to me?" Panakeia thought the woman was quite obnoxious and ignoring the first rule of selling – never turn away a customer.

"What I'm trying to say is that we don't take beach-bums here."

"Do you have any idea who I am?" Pankeia yelled.

The saleswoman smiled a falsely sweet smile. "I don't believe I do. And that's just the point. Only people who are known are welcome here. Anyone else spoils our image. I'm sure you can find your way to the door. Good-day!"

Too tired, frustrated, and unhappy to argue, Panakeia left.

A bus ride or two later, Panakeia finally found a place where no one would bother her. She sat in the food court at the Fallen Arch Mall and drowned her sorrows in an orange smoothie as teenaged valley-girls strolled past. Violetta was not her style. But what had the vision meant? Taking another sip of orange slush, Panakeia tried to puzzle it out.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

That knock on the head had scrambled Smilog's brain a little and he staggered around the room as it slowly got more crowded. "Now," he stuttered, "listen here Reginald,"

"Roggie," said the King,

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

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

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

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

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

"Who?" said Roggie,

"Smilog, the Dwarf." The Wight blew another smoke ring, "but it seems to me, that the best thing to do would be to-" The Barrow Wight was stopped as Skittles knocked his head off. "Oh confounded children’s games! You won't be laughing much longer! Not when I bite you're jolly legs off!"

[Kath]

Originally amazed and annoyed that Roggie had noticed him hiding in the shadows, Igör couldn't help but smile at the description the Balrog used for him: 'a Shelley-esque creation that I vaguely remember Alli telling me she liked'. After watching the distate with which Roggie dealt with the Dwarf, he hoped that the positive recommendation from Alli would stand him in good stead as he attempted to talk to the Balrog.

Stepping forward, he put himself right in Roggie's line of sight and, he thought with a shiver of fear, in his line of fire. The Balrogs eyes swivelled from the scene going on between Smilog and Skittles to fix hs gaze on Igör.

"What?" He barked, perhaps annoyed at the distraction from the entertainment before him.

"My name ith Igör, thir -"

He stopped as the Balrog increased the strength of his glare and readjusted his mouth to stop the lisp before speaking again.

"Roggie, sir, we need to stop the war and re-start the negotiations. The mountains sudden ability to move shocked us all and so we haven't been doing our jobs very well, not least because the Gondorian diplomats aren't even here at the moment."

The Balrog snorted, causing Igör to duck to avoid the flame that erupted as he did.

"Why should I stop the war? Mardil is stealing my subjects, and my chief war advisor tells me this is the way to get them back."

Igör followed the finger Roggie was pointing, and found Skittles at the end of it. He had to admit putting her in charge of a war was good thinking, the enemy would never know what was coming! But then, neither would anyone else.

"Well Roggie, it isn't the only way, it might even make it worse. A war leads to refugees, which means that people will be getting out of Mordor any way they can, and all that is doing is helping Mardil. If, though, you allow us to try and negotiate, we might be able to sort things so that fewer people leave than they will if you continue with this war."

Stepping back again in case Roggie decided to take offence at this, Igör waited for either an answer, or someone else to try their hand at convincing Roggie.

[Celuien]

After her third frozen treat, Panakeia learned one thing, and only one thing. Orange smoothies were not the way to enlightenment. Make that two things. She also learned that excessive quantities of sweet drinks made her feel ill. Panakeia rose from her seat a bit unsteadily and moved on through the mall.

She found very little there of interest. The entire complex seemed filled with giggling valley girls. That was only to be expected, of course, since Panakeia had chosen to enter the heart of the valley itself when she went to the Fallen Arch mall in Fallen Foot. But she'd hoped to at least find some decent shopping. There was nothing.

Tanning Salon. That looked interesting. Panakeia went in and paid for a half-hour session. As she settled into her booth, a mask over her eyes, she fell asleep. And had a dream about (who else?) Anakron.

~*~

Anakron stood on the Sammath Naur dangling his staff over the fires below. He released his grip on the staff, but it put out tentacles and grew into his arm. He cried out in pain as the tendrils merged with his flesh. Sylvester, now a ghastly cartoon appendage to his hand, came to life and gave Anakron a raspberry. "Help me," he cried pitifully. "Show me the way to be free of the Dweomer."

~*~

Panakeia awoke with a tear-drenched mask and a terrific sunburn. If only Anakron truly did want her help. She wondered. Her dreams in Mordor had frequently been more than dreams. And where Anakron was concerned, they often held real meaning, though whether by some trick of the Dweomer or by some other connection between them, she did not know. Perhaps both. If her dreams did hold truth, she needed to return to help Anakron stand by his resolve.

Should she return to Mount Doom and search for him? Panakeia was uncertain. The memory of their last encounter was fresh in her mind. In the morning, after another evening of dreams (if the dreams returned to her), after some rest from her troubles, she would decide.

[Diamond18]

Skittles picked the Barrow-Wight's head up off the floor and re-affixed it onto his neck. "Er, sorry," she said, "I didn't realize it would come off like that. Freak."

"Oh confounded children’s games! You won't be laughing much longer! Not when I bite you're jolly legs off!" hissed the Barrow-Wight, disregarding her apology.

"Cranky a bit?" Skittles said, and turned away from him. She approached Roggie:

"I've been rethinking the whole war thing," she preambled. "I mean, it would be a fun time, knocking down the Gondorians like toy soldiers in a row, but we've got a bigger problem on our hands right now. Namely, Anakron Ist Konveyor. He needs a good slapping around to get the staff out of his hindquarters, if you know what I mean. I'd like to move that we get the thing with the Gondorians out of the way and then join forces to march against him and whoever's unhinging his door (and not in the fun, itching powder way, in the "I am so evil and the world is ending" sort of way). I mean, really, I don't want to wake up tomorrow and realize I've been worshipping toenail fungus compliements of Anakron and the Dweomer. What do you think?"

[littlemanpoet]

"Anakron! Anakron!" A sniveling voice called him from behind. It was Lûgnût, sporting a Bee Gees hairdo, complete with part down the middle, but his hair was too sparse and coarse for the look.

"Lûgnût, if I were to put an apple in your mouth and hold you face down on a banqueting table, you'd look the part."

The orc pouted. "Anakwon ith being mean. He in a vewy bad mood."

"What do you want, Lûgnût?" He wrinkled his nose. "And what is that smell?" He pulled a face. "Is that coming from you?" The orc's lime green pants-suit with "matching" lavender dress shirt complete with discoteque wide collar, seemed to indicate his favorite color, not to mention is hopes and dreams.

"It's cologne, you silly Jee Ay!" Lûgnût grinned, his haletosis momentarily overpowering the cologne, which explained the nose-wrinkling combination.

Anakron waited tight lipped, nostrils flaring (in virtual pain). "You called me to tell me about cologne? Or that you're John Travolta turned inside out?"

The orc pouted again. "Anakwon ith being vewy, vewy mean."

"Orc, if you do not tell me why you stopped me right now, I will konvey-"

"The ambassadors! They're all with Roggie! You told me to tell you!" Lûgnût finished in a wounded tone.

Anakron sagged. He wanted little if anything to do with the negotiations, but Roggie had permitted his observations, and expected him. "Thank you. Now find some mouthwash and use it. And get rid of that outfit before you start a new religion."

Anakron made his way to Roggie's Audience Chamber and let himself in quietly, just in time to hear Skittles saying, "-needs a good slapping around to get the staff out of his hindquarters, if you know what I mean. I'd like to move that we get the thing with the Gondorians out of the way and then join forces to march against him and whoever's unhinging his door (and not in the fun, itching powder way, in the "I am so evil and the world is ending" sort of way). I mean, really, I don't want to wake up tomorrow and realize I've been worshipping toenail fungus compliments of Anakron and the Dweomer. What do you think?"

Anakron walked forward. "I think, Skittles, that you can have this staff yourself and become the new Grand Anakronist for all I care. Want it?"

[Diamond18]

Most people would be embarressed to be caught talking about someone behind his back (though, actually, Anakron caught her talking behind her back rather than his back since her back was to the door when he came in, but that is neither here nor there). To repeat, most people would be embarressed in such a situation, but Skittles was shameless ergo felt no shame (to continue the habit of gross redundancy).

"Seriously?" she asked, skeptical.

"Of course," Anakron replied, and extended the staff with an odd twinkle in his eyes. Skittles did not notice the odd twinkle since she herself was perpetually odd and twinkly.

Still, she hesitated. If it were her holding out a staff to someone, she would no doubt be planning to smack them with said staff or beat them about the head till they lay unconscious upon the ground. And she certainly didn't trust Anakron. But, the idea of being able to herself weild the staff and Konvey whatever madness she pleased was a tempting proposition.

She reached for the staff.

As soon as her fingertips touched the wood, Sylvestor spluttered to life and reached out to slash at her wrist. He hissed and yoewled and spat, "Sufferin' Succotash!"

Skittles recoiled, the artery in her wrist spurting blood in a most nauseating fashion. Hard to believe, but she actually went a shade paler than her usual snowy white. "Stupid cat!" she cried, and slumped to the floor.

[Anguirel]

Dracomir had barely recovered from the Balrog King's courtesy (especially surprising after his last reception) when Anakron's entrance and offer to Skittles further contorted the situation, culminating in Skittle's collapse, apparently felled by Sylvester, the Feline of Anakronism.

"It is highly irregular," he ventured, "for the Grand Anakronist to attempt to pass on his duties, as far as I know. Shatters all diplomatic protocol. I say we take this as a sigh that the job is yours and yours alone, Lord Anakron, and move on to the original question, that is, the threatened breakdown in Gondor-Mordor relations."

Tom paused and looked curiously at Skittles. "Incidentally, I wonder if she's dead?" he asked with mild concern. "Corpses can be very unhygienic."

Determined upon a simple way to test, he took out his wand and pointed at Skittles' longest, shiniest, sharpest flick-knife. "Accio Flick-Knife," he remarked coldly. The weapon's hilt flew into his outstretched hand.

At once the Mordorian War Advisor's eyes opened with a jerk and she attempted to pull herself upwards. "Knife...missing...stolen...will...kill..."

"Well, apparently there's life in the Prevailing Spirit of Chaos yet," the Lord Malfoidacil concluded. "Can somebody ring Accident and Emergency?"

[Lhunardawen]

Maika felt grateful that her obsessive-compulsiveness had not flared up too powerfully; she was on the verge of correcting Skittles that it was Anakron Istkon Vayor, not Anakron Ist Konveyor. She gazed at the poor woman lying on the floor, with her blood spurting all over from her wrist, narrowly missing her own pale feet.

"If only Panakeia were here..." she began quietly. "She might know where Nichole is, and surely that lovely med student can do something about this."

They all swung towards her, looking at her as if she had just spoken Wookie. All, that is, except Anakron, who seemed lost in thought.

"Oh, ring Accident and Emergency," Maika said suddenly. "I'll do it."

She whipped out her cellphone from some unseen, convenient pocket in her black slacks and speed-dialed a number. After a moment of silence she broke out in a slow and clear chant:

Doctor, doctor, she is sick;
Call your mummy very quick.

"There you go," she said as she placed the phone back in her pocket. And before anyone can say anything else, Maika rounded on Roggie.

"This might mean suspending your talk with us, but you will not play hide-and-seek with us again! You will stay here, wait along with the rest of us for Skittles to get well, and welcome us again when we return! Then you will listen carefully to all we say and agree to restart the negotiations! Is that underst-- OW!"

She took three steps back towards the window she did not notice she had stepped away from, rubbing her now-reddened forearms.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"I say," whispered the Barrow Wight to Smilog, "what do you say to us popping out for a swift drink?" He opened his cloak to reveal that several bottles of Roggie's finest wine and champagne were in concealed pockets sown into the under of his cloak. Smilog grinned and tip towed out with The Barrow Wight, grabbing Tollin by the ear and dragging him out swiftly.

"Bloody people," grunted the Dwarf,

"Watch you're language, old bean," the Barrow Wight slapped him.

"I mean it literally," Smilog explained, "that Skittles is bleeding. Good riddance, I say. Roggie won't re-start those negotiations as far as I can see. Pass me a bottle, would you?" They all sat in the corridor drinking Roggie's champagne and singing quiet songs about sleeping in a river.

Two doctors ran past the audience chamber, one of them was covered in blood; the other was covered in mud. "It's still alive!" cried one, "what are we going to do?" Smilog stumbled to his feet and bowed, but he was sick on the floor as he did so. Tollin laughed and hiccupped as Smilog tried to clean it up with the Barrow Wight's cloak. One of the doctors had a call on his cell phone; they could all hear the words;

Doctor, doctor, she is sick;
Call your mummy very quick

Yet the Doctor shut the phone and drew a large spear from the wall where it was used as decoration. "We've got bigger fish to fry!" he said, "Or, to put it more precisely, bigger worms!" At that moment a huge brown writhing creature burst through the wall behind Smilog and spread disgusting purple slime everywhere. It rose itself up and let forth a great bellow that sounded like 'Blllarrrgeeerrraaaatt!'

"What the Angband is that?" cried Smilog, being frightened sober, "and what is a Blargeat?" The Doctors hurled spears at it, but the creature seemed to absorb them into its flesh and then it belched. The Doctors ran and Smilog turned to look at the creature as it slithered towards them with a menacing stench. Tollin rose and lifted his great morning star and swung it around his head, but the creature wouldn’t stop coming, belching and roaring.

Smilog and the others ran away down the corridor, turned a corner and then found the Doctors hiding in a small wicker basket. "What on Arda is going on?" asked Smilog, the worm passed them down the corridor, seeming not to notice them.

"We were performing an operation," explained the one, "a standard Euphoniumectuary, as specified by the legendary Dr Hookbill of Mordor, but we found this thing embedded in the Orc's stomach. It started eating and eating until it was... huge!" The Doctors shivered and stood up. "I'll answer this call to Roggie's audience chamber. He must have set fire to one of his subjects again. You three help my associate find the worm beast!"

"You want us to find that monstrosity?" asked Smilog, "Have you the brain worms?" but the doctor was gone, The Barrow Wight sat on the floor, draining another bottle of wine. It went right through him, literally. The Dwarf then picked up the Wight and walked back to Roggie's chamber, followed by Tollin.

"Wait!" cried the other Doctor, "What about the worm?"

"Not my problem," scowled Smilog, "I've got a Balrog to talk to about some negotiations. Although, I don't know why I'm bothering."

"Your head smells like a puppy!" cried the Barrow Wight as he drank more wine, "Lets make biscuits!"

[Kath]

Sighing resignedly Igor stepped toward Skittles, ducking under the jet of flame that had just been directed at Maika. The doctors in this place were about as much use as a bicycle is to a fish, and almost as slow-moving. Bending down next to the girl, avoiding the pool of blood as far as possible, he whipped out a needle and thread and proceeded to close the wound.

His job was hampered by Dracomir's little tricks, as Skittles became very agitated when he removed the knife she was holding and started to writhe around on the floor, almost causing Igor to re-slit her wrist. However, she was still losing blood fast, and soon fell unconscious, allowing him to finish up.

Stowing his repair kit away again Igor lifted Skittles off the ground and started towards the door.

"Where are you going!?" Came a roar from behind. Roggie was not pleased, and was making no secret of it.

Turning Igor hoped that the fact that he was holding Skittles in his arms would prevent Roggie flaming him, and spoke his mind.

"This whole day has been a complete shambles. First we meet the Gondorians who don't even want to be here, then the negotiations get called off and we go to war, then everyone runs off in different directions and when we finally get here we end up injured."

He paused, glad to see that at least some of his companions had the decency to look a little ashamed of themselves.

"So, I am going to take Skittles to her rooms and I am going to get some blood into her."

Again he paused, shifting Skittle slightly so he could pull out a bag of blood from a pocket and show it to everyone, ignoring the sound of someone thudding to the floor behind him.

"Once I've got this into her and she is awake and able to continue these 'negotiations' then maybe we can start this again and actually get a result."

Not waiting for the outburst he was sure would come from Roggie and the other diplomats, he put the bag away again and stalked out of the room, taking no notice of the medics that rushed in after him, or the giant worm that he met further down the corridor chasing a couple of technicians.

In fact, he didn't even pause until he reached Skittles' current home, where he laid the poor girl down on the bed and got to work. As he sat there waiting for life to return to her he vaguely wondered if he should get a psychiatrist in to sort out her brain at the same time, but dismissed the idea, remembering that they were more likely to cause delusions than to help with them.

Sitting quietly, he wondered how the others had fared after his parting shot.

[Roggie of Morgoth]

Roggie watched the scene before him with confused concern and not a little bit of calm anger. Medical professionals and Igor-with-an-accent and a bleeding Skittles... Absolutely not, it would not do.

"We are done here." he growled. "Nothing will resume, be they negotiations or anything else, until my Chief Warmistress is well."

"But--" some very brave person began.

"I said nothing!" Roggie boomed. "And that is final."

He glared at his subjects as though they were naughty children and they looked around, careful not to meet his eyes. Somehow, though Roggie was always a bit frightening looking, he seemed more in need of attention when he spoke calmly than when he breathed fire. Nobody argued again. He was swiftly told to shut up and tossed out a window and then not a single person in the world said another thing.

"I want reports on Ambassador Skittles's well-being every half hour or so. We will discuss this further two days hence. You are dismissed."

So it was that the guests in Roggie's court scattered, finding adventures to occupy them throughout the next two days. Smilog encountered an exceptionally large sea turtle in a hidden dungeon; Maika encountered a hair comb with particularly sharp teeth. Igor-with-an-accent carefully presided over Skittles, and the extra guests that had been present in the audience chamber enjoyed the beach, the wine cellars, and many other things that would assuredly be written in retrospectively by their respective writers. Dracomir Malfoidacil simply disappeared from the view of the public with no warning, and returned with even less. Nobody seemed to notice, and the king's official spymaster was still officially off premises.

[Boromir88]

Bearugard sat and mostly listened to Hyarmenwe's and the Gondmordorians conversation. Something wasn't sitting right with him, in his stomach that was. He felt as if someone had been punching him in the gut for 3 hours straight. He couldn't keep focus, the only thing on his mind was the aching of his stomach.

Bearugard, would you round up Angawen, that we might leave?" Bearugard did not answer. "Bearugard...Bearugard!"

"What was that?"

"Are you feeling ok?" Hyarmenwe asked, "You look a little strange." But the truth was Hyarmenwe thought Bearugard was being unusually...untalkative.

"Yeah I'm fine. You want me to get you a smoothie did you say?"

"No, I said go find Angaewen so we can get out of here."

"Oh, ok." Bearugard slowly got up and looked around, with a lost look on his face, the look you get when you forgot where you parked your vehicle in a packed Super Walmart parking lot. Everything seemed to start spinning; he felt weak and woozy. Then, it came, and it came up faster than the running rapids of Sarn Gebir. Bearugard's discorge had gotten itself all over Alekzander's corduroys.

"Isn't that just lovely." fumed Alekzander, as he and Firiel went running to the restrooms. Firiel shot an evil glare back at Hyarmenwe.

Hyarmenwe turned, red-faced, back to Bearugard, "Now why did you have to go do that?"

"Not like...I...could...hel-" before he could finish, he fell back onto his chair.

Angaewen had seen part of the event and came back to the Gondorians. "What happened here?"

"Bearugard just spewed all over one of the local Gondmordorians." Hyarmenwe said.

"Oh that's just great." said Angaewen. She turned and looked at him. "Well, he does look a little pale. No doubt that he's sick, he's probably got anakronitis."

"Anakronitis?" laughed Alli. "Don't be foolish Angaewen, there is no such thing as anakronitis. While you are not used to the things here in Mordor, anakronisms do not cause people to fall ill. Why your friend here has a case of food poisoning it looks like."

"I did notice he was shoving his face full of bread." replied Angaewen. "But why would anyone want to poison him?"

"No, no, no, his food wasn't poisoned." said Alli. "He has food poisoning, an illness caused by undercooked food. Afterall, I knew that hamburger, he chowed down, looked pink in the middle."

"What do we do?" asked Hyarmenwe, who now sounded a little concerned.

"Well, he's definitely going to need a lot of rest, so place in an order at the Pharmacy for some benadryl, which should knock him out. Then also you might want to get an antibiotic to help get rid of his symptoms. I would recommend the Pepto-Pink liquid medicine, it's got a yummy bubble-gum flavor. Anway within a few days to a week tops, he should be feeling all ship-shape."

Bearugard groaned and shook his head in disgust. Why did this happen to him? And why now, when he was going to be needed the most?

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli grimaced, telling herself calmly that she had seen the contents of a stomach multiple times, that she would again, and that she would, under no circumstances, be queasy just now. It didn't work. She turned white, though nobody noticed due to the lack of contrast between that and her usual pale cheeks.

"We'll be staying here until he's better."

Angawen and Hyarmenwë expressed concern over this. Though they had left the palace, they had not planned to be gone for as long as it would take for Bearugard to convalesce.

"Listen," Alli said briskly, "We shall be travelling back to the palace in highly unconventional ways. Do either of you wish, while moving at a high rate of speed, to be anywhere near Bearugard just now? Nor do I."

They blanched and Alli knew that they would not argue the matter further.

Alli spoke quietly to the deaf innkeeper and then repeated her words quite a lot louder when he made no signs of having heard.

"Old man," she finally yelled, waving her arms about. He looked at her, confused.

"Who are you? Nancy? Is that you?"

"No. My name is Alli Umfuil and I need two rooms."

"Two?" Angawen hissed from behind. Alli turned around and glared.

"When I was forced to leave the palace to find escaped political prisoners, I was also forced, due to time constraints, to leave my money purse behind. I have little money on me just now, and I know well that none you carry will work here. I would go into detail, but surely it would be slightly less than worth the effort given the unlikelihood of your subsequent understanding. As it is, I have only the money for two rooms and cannot charge it to a palace that has disappeared. You will share a room with me, and Hyarmenwë will, much though I regret it, quarter with your ill companion. Is that clear?"

Her voice was icy and Angawen, very much against character, did not respond. Her lips moved and Alli heard only a soft baa in one ear. She smiled and turned back to the innkeeper.

"Two rooms. Your payment, sir."

The next two days passed in a flurry of Gondorian cuisine followed by the occasional regurgitation of the same from their ill companion. Each member of the heavy hearted group politely pretended not to notice, though all patience was wearing thin by the time that Bearugard seemed well enough to travel.

It was with much relief that the four finally pulled up beside the mislocated palace, still miraculously parked in Lost Angles, after having stopped at every gas station (Hyarmenwë and Bearugard seemed dubious about this) along the way to ask for news and directions. Alli had hired a U-Haul and had driven carefully enough that Bearugard would not be sick again and just speedily enough that Angawen, without a seatbelt, was jostled unnecessarily. Hyarmenwë had expressed concern over this anakronism only to be assured by Alli that all would be as well as could be expected.

Still, as I already wrote, they were all relieved to get back. Alli sent the ambassadors to their rooms without consideration for the fact that they were all older than her by a rather large number of years. She slipped through hidden passageways that ran parallel to the main ones, coming into her office from a door built into the stonework of her fireplace.

"Ms. Martinet!!!" There was no answer. Alli sighed and went to her desk, finding six or seven towering stacks of paper. She wondered what her secretary had been doing since she left and glanced at each stack before conveniently losing her grip on every single pile just as she equally conveniently carried them past her roaring fire. Paperwork completed, she looked at the hand-written note that had been duct taped to her desk beneath each pile. She'd never been happier that she'd encouraged Ms. Martinet to let Lola do the occasional bit of information compilation. It was so much simpler this way...

Pile One:
Nothing of immediate importance.
Shelob and family on the move.
Igor spying. Permission granted?

Pile Two:
Vaguely interesting.
Ambassador Skittles nearly died. Igor fixed her.
Roggie seems in a better mood.
Malfoidacil disappears at night. Set higher watch?

Pile Three:
Critical.
You are out of tea.
And Sheridan's.
There appears to be a rat in your office. Did you put it there, dahling?

Alli jumped at reading that and pulled her feet up off of the floor before staring wistfully at her liquor cabinet. How could she be out of Sheridan's? That was depressing. She'd have to remedy that and then perhaps go speak with Roggie.

She glanced at the other messages, noting nothing but that she'd received no messages from Aime. Was he still interested? Had he forgotten the passion of the moment when he had saved her from the clutches of Mariowolf? Did he not like her kisses? She blushed. Why did he not write? Why did he not call?

She pushed the thoughts from her mind. Of course he was still interested in her. She refused to allow the word 'love' to flit through her mind and forced her attention onto more pressing matters. Tea. Where could she get good tea in Mordor? She'd had to smuggle the last in from Gondor, but that would be a bit tough right now...

She sighed, finally getting up with a grimace. She'd have loved a nap, but such was life.

"Roggie, let me in." She pounded on his door and heard him growl to enter. "The Gondorian ambassadors escaped, as I'm sure you know. I brought them back. Where is everybody else and what do you have planned?"

He sighed and turned around; he'd been staring into his barren fireplace.

"Warlady Skittles is healed by Igor. His only request for repayment is that negotiations should reopen."

"And?"

"And they will recommence tomorrow."

Alli jumped for joy inside of her perfectly still body and tried to remember just what the ambassadors had been discussing before everything turned confusing.

Had they even discussed anything? Icebreakers... that's what it was. She would fix matters.

And so, when the next day dawned, she met six of the eight delagates in the same room in which they had originally been. Bearugard was feeling a bit better, but not yet well enough to appear formally. Smilog was nowhere to be seen.

"You've all been introduced. You've gotten to know each other a bit better. If you feel the need, you may spend a bit more time on such matters. Your task for today is to discuss trade. Roggie would like to export. Mardil refuses to accept anakronistic trade items. I don't care how, but fix it so that both sides are vaguely content, or at least not war-happy. I'll be back later."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Is that catapult ready?" demanded Smilog as he stood on top of a great and high tower near the coast of LA. Tollin and The Barrow Wight were hastily putting the finishing touches to a massive catapult while a young doctor sat on the floor rocking back and forth. The building shook violently and Smilog looked through the binoculars he had picked up in the tower and peered towards Mount Zoom. "Here it comes!" he cried.

There was an almighty 'squelch' and the enormous worm creature squeezed out of the top of the mountain, panting and wheezing. The giant sea turtle was upside-down in the water, struggling to get back up and return to the fight. Tollin loaded a large boulder into the catapult and said, "It's ready to fire!" Smilog leaped towards it and set the correct angle and velocity.

"You had better be right about this!" cried the Dwarf, looking at The Barrow Wight, "if you're not, we'll all be in trouble!" The worm slid down the side of the mountain and began making its way towards the tower. "FIRE!" cried Smilog and Tollin cut the rope holding the end of the catapult with the boulder in. The rock flew through the air right towards the worm as it raised itself up, massive and horrible. The boulder flew right at it, but the worm whipped it with it's tail and the rock was knocked into the side of Mount Zoom.

The impact of the rock awoke the shadowy figure at the helm, it had been lying in a pile of empty snack rappers. It quickly, and with bury eyes, grabbed the steering wheel and pressed down on the accelerator. Yet, the driver seemed to have failed to realise that it was still set in reverse. The great mountain, thousands of mega tons of rock and ash, thundered backwards, squishing the worm and smashed into the building on which Smilog and the others were stood.

"AAAAAAAAGGGGHHH!" began Smilog as they were thrown off the top towards the crater of the Mountain. Tollin swiftly drew out a large blanket from his pack and used it as a parachute, grabbing Smilog and the Barrow Wight with one hand. The doctor, on the other hand, flew off into the horizon and was not heard of for a while. Slowly, the three weirdoes drifted to the side of Mount Zoom and landed safely on Sauron's road, near to the crack of DOOM.

"Well," said Tollin, "that would seem to be that." he sighed and sat on the floor, "it sure was in interesting adventure, the worm taking over the mountain, the turtle battling it, the intergalactic space battle in 3D that happened just before we got to that building..."

"I know what happened," said Smilog, rubbing his head, "I really wish that I didn't." he looked around and saw the crack of DOOM. "We had better get inside before the Mountain moves again."

[Anguirel]

The Lord Malfoidacil stood between his two active fellow ambassadors of the Court of the Fountain, Hyarmenwe and Angawen, on whom he had not clapped eyes for days now. Their meeting prior to the session had been courteous, but typically formal; perhaps even rather more than typically. It was the natural effect, Dracomir supposed, at their envy at he alone being taken into the negotiations with Roggie previously. If they had known what they were missing, he thought wryly, they would be neither so jealous nor so suspicious.

But in any case the hiatus in diplomacy caused by Skittles' critical state had been a welcome one, full of relaxation, Dark Arts and a hectic nightlife. Dracomir felt quite refreshed and quite filling to delve into a bit of minor commercial politicking.

"Let's be quite clear about this," he said, with a bow in the general direction of the Mordorian company, speaking in the Westron that both sides understood, "our King does not wish to discourage trade with Mordor. Oh, no. He's willing to accept all of your exports that comply with the laws of Gondor. To that end I have compiled a list," he paused, producing a tightly rolled up scroll which he unfurled.

"Export No. 1: Ash.
Export No. 2: Stone.
Export No. 3: Iron Ore.
Export No. 4: Lead."

He coughed. "Er, that's it. But believe me, it is possible to forge a vibrant, outgoing powerhouse of an economy on these commodities. Ash is in great demand in Gondor as a cosmetic among the noblewomen. Stone quarried in Mordor, while its use in building is limited, is used as catapult ammunition. Your metals strengthen our military capacity. So, you see, there is, ah, demand..."

Malfoidacil switched suddenly to English. "This is King Mardil's official position. Of course, certain concessions could be made...on the sly...you understand..."

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron had stayed in his rooms when the call had come from Alli for the ambassadors to meet again before Roggie. Trade? What difference to him? So the Mordorians wanted to trade anakronisms to Gondor, and Mardil did not want them. Personally, Anakron thought Mardil was right to keep them trapped in Mordor. He could imagine that the Blue Istari wanted them spread throughout the Empire, and perhaps throughout Arda. It mattered little to him though. Let them fight it out; the Blue Istari would get their way in the end in any case.

As for him, all Anakron wanted was to be free of the staff, hat, and cloak. Officially, only the staff held any anakronistic power at all; but the hat and cloak had come to symbolize the role every bit as much as had the staff; so, it all must go.

"Lûgnût!"

Dishes crashed to the floor in the kitchen.

"Oooooh! Jee Ay, must you do that! You scared meeee!"

Anakron rolled his eyes. He hated anakronized orcs; almost as much as he pitied them.

"Get in here, Lûgnût."

"You are soooooo mean!" The orc moved swiftly into the sitting room, tangling his clawed hands nervously in his watermelon apron.

"Take that apron off. You're coming with me. Now."

Lûgnût began fiddling with the bow in back, swinging his unprodigious hips back and forth in the effort. "Ow! Now look what you made me doooo! I chipped a nail!"

"You're wearing on my limited patience," Anakron warned, his head lowering so that he looked at the orc through raised and threateningly narrowed eyes beneath his suddenly stormy brow.

"Coming! Coming! Keep your knickers on! Sir!"

"Do what I say promptly and I'll forget you said that."

"Yes, oh Big Jee Ay!" Lûgnût led the way out the door.

~ : ~

Soon they were again standing at the edge of the Sammath Naur.

"Ooooh, I hate it here!" the orc cried.

"Do what I say and the sooner we'll be gone from here."

"What do you want me to do?" There was a mixture of fear and suspicion in his voice.

"Nothing that will harm you. Simply take the staff from my hands, along with this hat and cloak, and cast them into the fire."

The orc's eyes widened. "You can't be serious!"

"I am deadly serious."

"But that's the Anakronist Staff! Sylvester himself!"

"Take them from me."

"Why?"

"So that I can be free of the burden of the office. I don't want to be the Grand Anakronist anymore."

"Can I be?" A green light of pure lust suddenly appeared in the orc's eyes.

"If you could be, I'd give them to you, but if they aren't destroyed, they'll just return to me no matter what you do."

"Oh. Well, in that case, fine. I'll do it."

"One more thing. Ignore any pleas or cries from me to give them back or stop from destroying them."

"Got it."

With that, Lûgnût took the staff, hat, and cloak from Anakron's hands and strode toward the edge of the cliff.

"Nooooo! I didn't mean it!" cried Anakron. "Give them back! I neeeeed them!"

"Sorry, Anakron, too late."

"Good. Just testing."

The orc held the items over the fire for just a moment, during which Anakron felt his heart suddenly lurch and his tongue suddenly clove to the roof of his mouth in an impotent "n" to be followed by a hollow "o"; but the orc was too quick, and suddenly the staff, cloak, and hat were falling. Anakron ran to the edge to look, and saw them disappear into the flames and magma below.

"Well, that's a relief," he grinned to the orc.

[Celuien]

Two days passed uneventfully under the dazzling sunlight of Lost Angles. Panakeia drifted hither and thither, traversing the city from end to end, side to side, top to bottom, and any number of other ways meant to imply that she had seen it all. Too much, perhaps. One visit brought her to the Leaning Tower of Flapjacks (http://www.seeing-stars.com/ImagePages/CapitolRecordsPhoto3.shtml), vast headquarters to Cap It All Records and House of Pancakes. She was terribly disappointed in the pancakes, served up as rounded black discs furrowed deeply by grooves. They were crispy, it was true, but a bit too crispy. Crispy enough, in fact, to make Panakeia suspect that they were recycled old 45s, despite their sweet topping of butter and syrup. Not nice at all. She told the cook her thoughts in a note, and was ejected from the building midway through her tour as reward. That was merciful enough - as it turned out, the recording session she would have seen if she remained featured her old friend the Captain. Panakeia would have died of embarrassment had she seen him so soon after her recent Dweomer inspired delusions.

She found no clarity at night either. Panakeia had hoped for a return to her dreams of Anakron, thinking that they might give her some direction. But her dreams had been strangely, almost perversely, irrelevant. On the first evening, her nocturnal visions were of penguins racing on bicycles along the edge of a deep gorge over the Pathetic Ocean. The penguins missed a turn and fell over the side, only to have their two-wheeled contraptions borne aloft on a raincloud as the lead penguin sang a tune about raindrops falling on his head. Panakeia awoke from that dream in a cold sweat and made a mental note to avoid meals from the food court in the future. Her next dream was no better. Panakeia found herself running through a park, pursued by a giant pink chicken who squawked about a sale at Woolworth's. But there was no sign of Anakron.

In need of guidance, Panakeia had even consulted a professional dream interpreter. She wondered if her subconscious had channelled thoughts of Anakron into less anxiety provoking images. But she had her doubts about the analyst's veracity when he assured her that the birds appearing in both her dreams spoke to a hidden combination of phobia and admiration for feathered species. When he asked her if she had recently eaten any questionable poultry while recommending that she visit him twice weekly for psychotherapy, Panakeia slowly backed out the door, reminding herself that she hadn't had particularly good experiences with psychologists in the past. Once outside safely, she broke into a run and put as much distance between her and the analyst as she could.

In the long and short of it, Panakeia found herself exactly where she started. Well, not quite exactly where she started. She had a new sunburn. And not quite enough cash remaining to make the trip back to Mâl-in-Bû by taxi. She was left stranded halfway between the vast regions of the valley and the ocean. The rest of the trip would have to be on foot.

That was exhausting. Out of energy, Panakeia dropped over a fence and climbed into the shade of the flood control (http://peteofthestreet.net/gallery/LosAngelesRiver/P1010008) system. At least she was able to find a bit of respite from the relentlessly pounding rays of the sun there, along with a bit of cool water to rest her feet in. But a second look at the water dissuaded her from taking a dip. Her feet remained on shore. With a sigh of weariness, Panakeia rested against the concrete and closed her eyes. Sleep took her.

~*~

Anakron stood at the edge of the Sammath Naur with Lûgnût. Anakron shouted to the Orc. Lûgnût shouted back.

"Braidfnrtnasd."

"Zzzzzerueyr."

And so forth. Even in her dream, Panakeia couldn't understand a word of their conversation. But it didn't matter. For in a moment, a beautiful moment, Lûgnût cast the staff, hat, and cloak into the pit. A soft puff of smoke wafting from below announced their destruction. Anakron smiled and danced out of the scene, laughing all the way.

~*~

A shout of pure joy brought Panakeia back to consciousness. At last! The sign she had been waiting for. Anakron had to be free now. This dream, while parts of it were certainly unreal, had to have some truth. Elempi had sent it to her, even as he had done before with his message about the werewolves. It had to be so.

Mount Doom! She had to return. Anakron would still be there, or at least nearby. With the Dweomer abandoned, things would surely be made right between them, perhaps better than they had ever been. Lighthearted and hopeful, Panakeia clambered up the concrete embankment and fairly ran towards Mount Doom's silhouette where it loomed against the smoggy sky.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

All this time, the evil creature had been waiting the moment when he would begin his conquest of the Earth. All it needed was a host better than the slug he now infested, and there it was, a huge Minotaur wielding a mighty Morning star. Once possessed, he would rain down mighty DOOM upon all the peoples of Middle Earth, beginning with the-

Smilog felt his foot squish something, he looked to see the remains of a slug, and he groaned and wiped his boot on a rock. "Lets get on with it," he said, knocking on the door to the Crack of DOOM. "Excuse me," he called, "We have your snacks!" The door flew open dramatically, and there stood the strange and mysterious shadowy figure that had taken control of the Mountain. The fire of Orodruin made it seem like a silhouette on an orange background with the eyes glowing like a mad inferno.

"I demand snakes of a thousand kinds!" said the figure, looking down to see Smilog merely holding up a small piece of cram bread. The creature's hands clenched into a fist and it shook violently, his voice building in a great roar of anger. "Those are not snacks!" it cried, striking a dramatic pose and shaking its fist towards the skies, "Why would you lie to me? Now, prepare to meet your horrible DOOM!" The creature pulled a hidden leaver and a trapdoor opened beneath the three weirdoes and they plunged into the darkness.

"Not again!" cried the Dwarf as the plummeted down and down; yet this was not a long fall, for they were all cast out soon into a small and dark chamber. There was an unpleasant smell, and it wasn't the Barrow Wight's rotting, or Smilog's beard. They all got up off the floor, with the Wight picking up a selection of his bones and putting himself back together. The room was utterly black, save for the small amount of light coming from the tunnel they had just come out of.

"I see I have visitors," said a strange voice from the corner of the room, the Barrow Wight emitted some light from his eyes and they saw an old man wrapped in blankets, wearing a large pointed hat and bearing an immense grey beard. "Come closer," he said, "I've not had friends for a long, long time."

Smilog slowly moved towards the strange man, fearing the very worst, and then knelt down beside him. "Who are you?" he asked, "What are you doing here?" the old man coughed and spluttered, throwing mucous everywhere.

"My name," he said, "is Robert, Robert the Moose."

"Moose?" said Tollin, "you don't look like a moose."

"Neither do you," remarked Robert, "and anyway, my name is not important. Ye need to know what I have to say." Smilog stood up, for the stench was getting to him; it smelled like whiskey and a vast number of unpleasant things. Robert the Moose sat up and laughed, taking a swig from a small glass bottle he had been holding, "Ye've heard of the blue wizards, I bet."

"Who hasn't," groaned Smilog, remembering the negotiations he was supposed to be involved in, and wondering if he could get away from this odd fellow. "What about them?"

"They're up to no good!" cried Robert the Moose, "And no good means bad, bad things are in store for us all! Ye mark my words, it wont be long before... before they all send us to our doom!"

"Of course," said The Barrow Wight, "well, sorry to have to say this, old bean, but we must all be on our jolly way soon. We've a mountain to stop and a whole host of other things to get done."

"Ye wont get far," cried the Moose, "Not far! Not with those Wizards abroad! They're up to something big! Bigger than just Mordor!" Smilog slowly began to listen, "Bigger than Mordor and Gondor put together. I've been following them for years, they're deep in conspiracy! And I've got a theory! Yes, I know what they are up to! Ye see, it only happens once every thousand years, all the wizards and old fold gather together in one place for-" he paused for effect, "the great uncloaking!"

Smilog raised an eyebrow, then cleared his throat, smirked and then laughed, louder and louder. He fell on the floor and began rolling around, "The great uncloaking!" he said, “you’re one of those conspiracy nuts I should have known! Come, Tollin, lets get out of here."

"Ye unbelievers!" cried Robert the Moose, "But remember this! Look for the tower of Small Jim!"

"Oh that," sniggered Tollin, "isn't that the 'alien spaceship' that landed in Mordor?" they all laughed, except Robert the Moose who grew wrathful.

"So, ye know of Small Jim," he grumbled, "the aliens tried to take over last time the uncloaking came about! But they weren't useful! Ever since Sauron, there have been those who- Hay! Get back here!" the three weirdoes had opened a door to the left and gone out, closing it behind them and locking it hastily. Looking around, they saw that they were near to one of the Casino floors.

[littlemanpoet]

As Anakron shuffle-stepped out of the Crack of Doom, the entire Mountain began to rumble.

Oh no.

Anakron feared that his staff, hat, and cloak had caused the Mountain to come out of dormancy and start to build into a live volcano. Had it been because of the staff?

Anakron and Lûgnût hit the floor as the rumbling grew louder and louder, and suddenly the entire Mountain felt like it had lurched from stillness, and was moving again.

Oh. No. The Mountain was leaving Lost Angles! Just when Anakron was ready to dash out of the Mountain and go find Panakeia! Oh well, nothing for it. The former Grand Anakronist and the orc of debatable gender made their way to the upper decks where they could watch the miles go by.

[Lhunardawen]

Maika absently raised her right hand to her head, her fingers lightly brushing the jagged edges sticking out of the tight bun of hair. She frowned. It was the souvenir of a recent adventure with a particularly violent, sharp-teethed hair comb someone left on her bedside table. At least all the vicious comb did was bite the tips off her hair, and that was more of a favor done since she was starting to have split ends. No, the uneven edges, which were somehow concealed by her usual hairstyle anyway, was not what was bothering her.

Who could have done it?

She could not help feeling paranoid. Sure, her moderately abrasive personality had not earned her any fans, but no one hated her quite enough to actually try to harm her. She wondered if it was the expression of someone's dismay - what strong dismay! - that the peace talks between Mordor and Gondor had resumed. No, that didn't make sense...

Maika barely listened to Dracomir, and did not notice right away that the room had fallen silent. She looked around. None of them seemed to be able to respond in any way - not, in any case, any of the Mordorians. Igör's eyes were rolling all over their sockets. Skittles was playing with a flick-knife, obviously enjoying her newly restored, fully functional wrist. Maika waited for someone to speak up, but from the look on the others' faces it seemed that they all had that same plan in mind.

Suddenly, the room jerked sideways, throwing Angawen face-first onto the table with a scream. Some of the ambassadors were equally horrified, and Hyarmenwë had even begun to stand, apparently hoping to flee to safety.

"Sit down," Maika said sternly. The Gondorian turned to her, his face marked with incredulity.

"No one will be leaving this room, after everything we've gone through to make this happen. We will get this over with even till Mount Doom reaches Helcaraxë and freezes."

Hyarmenwë looked carefully at her, and slowly, a bit hesitantly, resumed his seat.

All eyes now on her, Maika took a deep breath of decision. She will not be beating around the bush. She will say what she had in mind, what she had been thinking of all those days of waiting for Skittles to be healed.

"If Mordor is to export anything, it should be the Gondorians whose fault it isn't that they are here in the first place."

Her voice was point-blank, matter-of-fact, but she could not help wondering if anyone could trace the bitterness she felt inside.

[Formendacil]

Still shaking rather more than was healthy for him, Hyarmenwë managed to absorb the young (to him, they were all young) lady's words.

"Export Gondorians- to Gondor?"

His shrewd mind started to think things through.

"I can see many obvious benefits to Gondor- on the face of it. We lose a great many honest subjects of the Crown yearly. And neither they, nor Gondor, is any better for it. And, assuming rehabilitation is possible, then Gondor would certainly be the better for an influx of true Gondorians. But where is the hidden catch? Of what benefit to Roggie and Mordor is the export of his citizens? These are productive and peaceful people. Surely Roggie desires to keep as many as he may. Until I know why Roggie, who has been so determined to STOP illegal immigration would want to promote it legally, then I am suspicious of any supposed boon to Gondor."

Maikalwen rose, about to speak, but Hyarmenwë raised his left hand quickly, if weakly, palm forwards.

"I am not finished."

Maika fumed, but allowed the aged Gondorian his say. Angawen muttered something under her breath to Hyarmenwë's right, but he ignored her.

"Furthermore, all those Assigned to Mordor were done so due to a connection, sometimes overwhelming, sometimes more minor, with an anakronism. Even if only those who are Gondorian in manner and culture as well as birth are to be returned thither, how are we to test that they are indeed purged of the anakronism? If the testors are to be of Gondor, then who has the skill, and who may we trust not to be corrupted should an anakronism attempt to subvert them and so escape Mordor? Or, if the testors be of Mordor, what surety does Gondor have that its rehabilitated subjects are, indeed, fit to return to life in Gondor? It does Gondor no good to have its subjects return only to see them reassigned.

"But I return to my first, and primary question: why would this be of benefit to Roggie? Unless you can demonstrate why HE would want that, I cannot but fear what hidden dangers lie in such a proposal."

"Okay, that's enough, old guy, my head hurts," Skittles broke in. "That's too many questions. Let Maika start answering them before she forgets them all, or let someone else voice an objection."

With a stiff, but acquiscient bow, Hyarmenwë lapsed silent.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Curse you!" cried Smilog as he lost once again at a card game he didn't fully understand, "mark my words, card slave, my vengeance shall be soon! You will rue the day you ever-" the mountain shook as it began moving once again. The Dwarf was cast across the room and smashed his face into a wall, Tollin and the Barrow Wight held onto a table that was bolted to the ground.

A large wooden table was thrown up into the air and glided towards Smilog who was now clinging on to a pillar of marble. He gave a shill cry as he swung around to the other side of the pillar and the table was smashed to splinters. Slowly, the shaking became smoother and more bearable. Apprehensively, the Barrow Wight got to his foot and looked for his other amongst the wreckage. Tollin helped Smilog up and then slapped him across the head; "I blame you for this." he scowled.

The three of them walked out of the casino room and made their way to the nearest window and peered out at the speeding scenery. "I think I'm going to be sick!" cried Smilog, "we'd better get somewhere different and not so high up." So they all moved towards the near by stairs and climbed downwards, even though they were filthy and covered in goo. Several things appeared to be moving in the slime, and Smilog was sure he could see a pair of eyes looking out of one step.

Suddenly, The Barrow Wight peered out of a small window and cried allowed, "It's Minas Mor-go!" they all looked and sure enough the flying city was on the tail of the moving mountain. Mount Zoom made a sharp turn as the flying thing whooshed right past, almost hitting it, then it turned around and almost went completely onto its back wheels. Minas Mor-go flew up and then straight down, but thanks to some fancy driving, the Mountain narrowly missed the oncoming attack of the city. A huge rock was catapulted out of the city and bounced along the side of Mount Zoom, taking a lot of ash with it.

The Mountain swayed and turned many times, throwing Tollin, Smilog and the Barrow Wight all the way down the stairs. The City flew past once again the faced right in front of the zooming mountain, firing a barrage of boulders. Mount Zoom drove as fast as ever towards the oncoming attack, yet the ground was such that a large upturned area of rock acted as a ramp sent the mountain high above the projectiles and almost over the offending City. The bottom of the Mountain smashed through the tower on top of Minas Mor-go, bringing it to a sudden halt. Mount Zoom itself dashed off into the distance while the crowd of Barrow Wights inside the city shook their fists at it and cried, "You won't get far!"

Surprisingly, no one was killed in this little chase, and very few were injured. This was due to the very large blob like creatures guarding the doorways to the casinos acting as shock absorbers as people fell into their stomachs.

Smilog rose up and picked up the Barrow Wight's ribcage and handed it to his hand, this rather made him feel sick. Once the well-spoken Wight had put himself back together again, they went on through the door and found that they were near Roggie's audience chamber. "Lets hope he's not there," said Smilog.

"Why?" asked Tollin, "mightn't he be useful or something?"

"No," replied Smilog, "plus, we've run out of his wine." he pushed open the door and peered in...

[Diamond18]

Skittles was beginning to enjoy the proceedings, especially the part where she got to boss Hyarmenwë around in Alli's absence. Igör's handiwork was such that she had a wicked cool jagged scar on her wrist but felt it not the least, and had not lost any mobility. There were fresh scones on the table and hot chocolate to drink. She wasn't paying all that much attention to the matter at hand, but kept an ear open in case anyone else needed a reprimand.

It seemed all her bossy dreams came true when Smilog & Co. slipped into the room, trying to seat themselves inconspicuously in the back of the room. Latecomers! Joy! Plus, Smilog's companions weren't even diplomats and therefore had no business being in this room during negotiations! She opened her mouth to say something remonstrative, but it died on her lips when she spied a fourth body entering the room.

A Siamese cat slunk into the chamber. Well, not perhaps "slunk" but rather "sashayed." She wore a necklace of pearls around her neck (naturally) and a golden watch fob dangled from one ear.

"Hissyfit!" Skittles declared, identifying the new character for all and sundry. She leapt up and joyously took the cat in her arms. "Oh how I have missed you! If you will remember, you were supposed to go everywhere with me! Where have you been?"

"Off creating confusion and mass hysteria on my own, as I am wont to do," yawned Hissyfit, squirming in her mistress' tight embrace. "But, I got bored. I killed all the cute little mice and the rats with colorful personalities and broke up with Bob, so I came to see what you were up to."

"Bob?" Skittles asked.

"You remember Bob, my bobcat boyfriend. I saw him with a cheetah and that was that."

"Oh, that Bob," said Skittles with a nod, not curious in the least where in Mount Doom all the bobcats and cheetahs were hanging out. "I'm sorry to hear it. I hope you scratched him?"

"On the nose."

"That's my girl."

"So what's up with the freaks and geeks you're with?" Hissyfit asked, giving the room a bored once over.

Skittles puffed up proudly. "These are ambassadors from Gondor and Mordor, here to suss out the problems between Roggie and Mardil. Roggie has made me his Warlordess."

"Really?" Hissyfit's ears perked up. "What war?"

"The war that will inevitably take place should the negotiations fail."

"So you're here to sabotage the negotiations?"

"Well, no, I'm one of the Mordorian ambassadors trying to suss out the problems."

"And you're the Warlordess." Hissyfit preened her whiskers, remarking, "Seems like a conflict of interests."

Skittles shrugged. "I'm not very interested in the negotiations, so not really."

Hissyfit yawned. "In that case, let's get out of here and go do something fun."

"Like what?"

The cat flicked her tail. "Well, you're the top army brass, right?"

"Righto."

"Right. So, we could go abuse your power. Intimidate lower ranking officials and make the soldiers do a hundred push ups. Go dancing. Eat chipmunks. There's lots more fun things to do around here than chewing the fat with these chumps."

"Okay," Skittles agreed. "I want to go steal things from the armory, I've got a key now!"

They left Roggie's chamber and sashayed together down the hall. An orc forgot to salute Skittles and she karate chopped him in the throat, while Hissyfit perched on her shoulder giggling delightedly.

[Kath]

Igor had been intruiged at Maika's suggestion. What with all the madness over the past few days and the Gondorians having been out of the mountain for most of them, he had no way of knowing whether the idea of exporting Gondorians back to Gondor was genuine or some kind of plot. It seemed that Hyarmenwe was more inclined to believe that it was the latter.

"But I return to my first, and primary question: why would this be of benefit to Roggie? Unless you can demonstrate why HE would want that, I cannot but fear what hidden dangers lie in such a proposal."

Igor privately thought that Roggie would be pleased to see the back of some of the Gondorian citizens, those who simply got on with life in Mordor rather than making things interesting, but he knew that the Balrog would never admit to it, not wanting Mardil to have anything to use against him.

He was about to speak up and ask what hidden dangers there were, when he became distracted by Skittles, who had just finished her conversation with a cat that was either real or a figment of the imagination that only the two of them could see, and had wandered out of the room. He had previously found her escapades to be most amusing, but since she had almost got herself killed he found himself worrying about her when she disappeared off on her own.

Deciding that the negotiations wouldn't be hindered by his lack of attendance, Igor hurried after Skittles, lightly hopping over the orc that fell dead in his path on the way.

"Thkittleth!" He called, then realised no one else was around to hear and tried again.

"Skittles!"

This time she turned around, eyeing him in a way that made him wonder if she was considering how best to kill him, inwardly conversing with some imaginary friend, or just trying to decide whether she wanted to talk to him at all. Hoping it was one of the latter he continued.

"Mind some company?"

[Celuien]

An hour passed on winged feet as Panakeia raced toward Mount Doom. The metaphor collapsed into blistered feet at the end of that hour. High heels were no substitute for running shoes she thought ruefully as she pulled off the uncomfortable footwear. Gazing at the horizon, Panakeia winced. Mount Doom still loomed in the distance, not visibly closer than it had been an hour ago. She looked from her feet to the mountain's shadow, to her feet, and back again. The mountain was so far away, at least for a pedestrian. So very far away.

But what else could she do? In her haste to leave, Panakeia's credit and debit cards had been left in her Lûndûn flat. And she'd spent the cash she had brought in the mall and on lodging. There was no other choice but to walk and run to the mountain and Anakron for as long as her legs could carry her. No task was too great for love. All you need is love.

With that inspirational thought, Panakeia took up her journey again. And somehow it seemed to her that the mountain grew larger against the clouds, that she at last drew close to her destination. It was odd that the distance was covered so much faster with the same effort as before. Perhaps, she thought, the song in her head gave her new strength.

Then, of a sudden, the answer to the mystery came in the form of trembling earth and a cloud of dust. Mount Doom zoomed past her with a rumble and a roar, and she fell in the mountain's wake. The mobile mountain vanished, and Panakeia stared after it.

This was a new complication. Now Panakeia was not only penniless and without transportation, but also without any clear idea of where she was headed. There had to be some way to follow. Several newsvans sped after the mountain, kamuras rolling, as she ran over the problem.

One of the vans screeched to a halt nearby. A bevy of reporters and kamura crews poured out and ran to Panakeia, shoving my crow phones in her face and shining bright lights in her eyes. She glared.

"And now, live from the scene of Mount Doom's destructive passage, we bring you an exclusive eyewitness report of the destruction. Tell us how it feels to come within an inch of disaster." The reporter pushed the my crow phone closer.

Panakeia glared again and answered mockingly.

"Oh, it's lovely. Simply lovely. You really ought to try it sometime. Quite entertaining on a dull day. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way to try to have another close call with Mount Doom."

The reporter and kamura crew put their heads together and whispered. "Wait. Are you following the mountain? What a scoop! If you'll give us the story, we'll help you follow. Looks like you could use a ride."

Panakeia hesitated. She didn't like the intruders. But at the same time, she did need their help. So long as they didn't find out who she was - if they did, there would never be an end to questions about Anakron, politics being a way to increase ratings - this could be a useful association.

"Deal."

The reporter beamed, visions of a promotion to the evening news dancing in his head. "Great! And your name is?"

Panakeia's mind went blank. She didn't want to reveal her identity, but she couldn't think of a suitable alias either. "Let's let that go by for now. It'll make for better viewing if I'm a mystery, won't it?"

"You're right. I see we're going to make a good team. Let's go!"

Panakeia joined the crew on the van, and they hurried after Mount Doom.

[Lhunardawen]

Even as Hyarmenwë launched into the first part of his tirade, Maika had to gape inwardly. What were you thinking! a know-it-all LGM in her mind scolded her, giving her a particularly sharp slap on the mental forehead. In her rashness she had forgotten about Roggie. He wanted his subjects kept in Mordor, and deporting the banished Gondorians was not a means to that end. What would he think of Maika and her loyalty if he ever got wind of what she suggested, considering there are other Mordorian ambassadors present to let him know?

No, she thought decisively, this would hurt him, but it must be done. Although not in this way.

"I've always liked that cat," she finally said, as Skittles, Hissyfit, and later Igör exited the room. Maika had taken no notice of Smilog, who entered just previously. His presence did not really matter, in her opinion; she could probably take on all four Gondorian ambassadors at once if the need arose.

"Anyways," she continued, "I thought that weird suggestion of mine would get some of you talking. I wondered if I had to propose an all-out war between our lands to break your silence..."

She saw Angawen and Hyarmenwë cringe at those words.

"What I was really thinking is, perhaps we could have some Mordorian goods reformed, repackaged, and exported to Gondor - anakronism-free. For example," she whipped out her cellphone and showed it to the others, who looked worried yet altogether curious at the sight of it, "this thing. We use it for communication. We could melt it and produce something else from it, like, say, a mini-palantír! With a lower range, of course," she added hastily as the Gondorians frowned. Maika placed her cellphone down on the table.

"We could probably do it with cars, terror profs, even mathematics; turn them into something you'll find more agreeable and equally useful. Of course the production would be done here, and the exiled Gondorians - of your choice, if you desire - could be hired to oversee it. Then the goods could be delivered to an agreed-upon place in the Mordor-Gondor border, to be picked up and distributed by your people. You can even have them checked by a quality control team if you're still worried."

Maika looked around; the Gondorians' faces revealed nothing.

"Or something," she ended lamely.

She stared at her hands, clasped together on her lap, vividly white against her black slacks. After a few moments of silence she risked a glance at Hyarmenwë. He was frowning. But then, to Maika's surprise, he suddenly turned to her. We'll talk about it some other time, his eyes seemed to say, but for all she knew he could have been saying You look like Daffy Duck.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The buffet table had been cast across the room several times during Mount Doom's various travels recently. Smilog sat on his chair only to find half an egg sandwich already occupying it, he scowled and looked around. Several of the other delegates were looking confused even before Skittles left. The whole situation was getting weirder all the time. Tollin scooped up a large slice of chicken that only had one footprint on; he sniffed it and then ate it with a sigh.

"What is supposed to be going on now?" asked Smilog, peering out of the door only to see Skittles far off down the corridor and turning down a side passage, "do we continue negotiations or do we-" he was cut short as someone threw a chair at him. He lay on the floor dazed and unconscious. The Barrow Wight blew some smoke from his pipe and sat down, looking at the dwarf.

"Bad luck old bean," he said, "we'd better find something to do. We can't sit around on our backsides all day accomplishing nothing. That’s what politicians do. I say-" he paused as some of the delegates eyed him with evil eyes. "Well, jolly good show. What, what?" he moved to the door and dragged Smilog to his chair and sat him down. "Well, get on with your meeting... I'll be... somewhere else." the Wight dashed to the door, only to forget to open it and knock half his bones off as he hit the floor.

[the guy who be short]

Angawen snapped back to reality at the word "war." Normally, she wouldn't let her mind wander during any such meeting; she had time to be retrospective afterwards. But the meeting with Tugwubs in the little inn had annoyed her. He had seemed so normal, yet it turned out that he himself was an anakronism. She had shuddered that one seeming so normal could be so, and cursed the land where this was possible.

She turned to Maikaelwen, or Maika as she liked to be called. Angawen could not see why. The schwa at the end of her name was repulsive to one learned in high Elven speech.

"We have no need of mini-Palantíri in Gondor. Think of the evil our citizens could contrive with such devices... And I do not believe that these small metallic items of yours could ever rival the great Palantíri of old. May I see one?"

Maika handed her phone over, to a squeal of excitement from Smilog and a warning from Hyarmenwë.

"Do not worry, Hyarmenwë. I wish only to inspect this." She fingered it before handing it back to Maika. "I doubt such a device could survive a fall from the heights of Orthanc. We may, however, accept these if they were to be melted down and sold in bars."

"Oh, you can't drink them!" Smilog interjected, jumping up from his chair. All eyes turned to him. "Trust me, metal doesn't make for good eating or drinking - a Dwarf should know. Stick to ale."

All eyes turned away from him. A faint "oh" of comprehension floated over from behind, which they duly ignored.

Maika shifted to her other leg, and something almost resembling a frown flitted across her face. "It would be pointless to melt them down, but I do not see why we should not export metal, as Hyarmenwë-" she stopped short as she turned to him, for he was staring away into the middle distance.

"Hyarmenwë!" Angawen snapped firmly, "pay attention!"

"Sorry... but the Dwarf speaks wisely, albeit by mischance! Ale! Surely Mordor produces ale? This would be an acceptable export, a more than welcome one, providing production procedures are orthodox," the old man ejaculated.

Angawen and Dracomir nodded their assent, and turned expectantly to Maika.

[Lhunardawen]

With a casual wipe of her cellphone with her cardigan, Maika succeeded in diverging the Gondorians' attention from her eyes and her silence--particularly Angawen's, who scowled as though she found the gesture insulting. Maika needed time to think; she knew nothing that could satisfy their expectant looks. For one, never before had she drunk any alcoholic beverage, or indeed ever found the desire to; she was way too obsessed with keeping herself under total control to engage in such a frivolity. And surely, this counted as reason number two, there was a law! Minors under the age of twenty-one were not to be sold alcohol, she seemed to remember seeing somewhere...in Lost Angles, perhaps? It did not matter this time, Maika thought impatiently, all that mattered was that she was in danger of being revealed for the mere child that she actually was!

As she gently rubbed the hem of the cardigan on the cellphone screen, she mentally cursed Skittles and Igör for running off and leaving her alone. But she held no power over them, she admitted, and she would not give the Gondorians the pleasure of witnessing an argument among them three--or rather, between her and the two of them. Maika was simply relieved that the Gondorians did not tell her off for letting Skittles and Igör go when she just previously told Hyarmenwë to sit down.

Flipping the cellphone over to its back, which she rubbed a bit more vigorously, she looked around the table, almost hoping that by glancing at the vacated seats Skittles and Igör would reappear to her rescue. The Gondorians, Maika was amused to see, were still staring at her cellphone curiously...then her eyes fell on the Dwarf.

Never before--or ever again, one could safely suspect--did she feel grateful for Smilog's presence.

"Ale..." Maika repeated softly, merely moments later as she put her cellphone back in her pocket. With the slightest hint of a smile playing on her lips, she turned back to Angawen.

"Smilog was making a subtle suggestion that none of us but Hyarmenwë was perceptive enough to pick up, and for that we apologise," she added, nodding to Smilog, whose eyes popped on the verge of falling off. "Now, Smilog dear, you were saying? What about ale?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Well," said Smilog suddenly feeling more important that he usually did, but this was cur short as a knife flew past his head and stuck into the side of his chair. One of the delegates had thrown it and was now looking at the Dwarf in a strange manner.

"Sorry," said the delegate, "his voice is making me sick."

"As I was saying," continued the dwarf, "... I" he paused and thought for a moment, "I can't remember what I was saying." there was a groan from the other delegates, "Oh, ale!" he cried, "something about ale. Well, its good for the stomach! But alas, there is no good ale in Mordor. Well, with the exception of Roggie's good store. That stuff knocks your socks off!" he licked his lips and remembered the taste.

The Barrow Wight had now pulled himself together and then produced the remaining bottle of Roggie's ale that he had not drunk yet. They passed it around and some had a taste. It defiantly was good stuff. No wonder Roggie locked himself in his chamber for days on end! "Jolly fine stuff I say, what - what?" the Wight announced as he stood on a chair, "problem is, there was only a small amount of the stuff in the old blighter's cabinet."

"Wait a moment," said Smilog, thinking aloud, "before the Mountain started moving, I... erm... investigated Roggie's ale cupboard and there were only three bottles there. Yet, later on when everyone was there, the cupboard was full... not for long, but it was. He must have a larger store somewhere."

The now empty bottle smashed on the wall just behind Smilog's head and an almost inebriated delegate stumbled up to him and said, "you'd better find it, or I'll do something horrible about that face and then play some cards with my buddies and then we'll all go to-" he fell asleep.

[littlemanpoet]

Mount Zoom was heading south down some highway called Eye Nighty Five. Anakron didn't get it. But that didn't matter. The orc behind the wheel of Mount Zoom (for all drivers in Mordor are orcs) seemed to know what he was doing, and had only had road rage three times in the last hour. Anakron felt sorry for the other orc drivers whose vehicles lay to each side of the highway, victims of the Mount Zoom orc's need to go fast. It didn't help that Mount Zoom took up all three lanes of the highway, as well as much of the land either side. Anakron felt sorrier for the road construction crews who would now have to repair all the bridges Mount Zoom had crashed through in its southern hurtlement.

"Oh no," Anakron murmured, looking down the road. "We're about to enter Nurnia. I hope he knows what's coming."

The orc didn't. North of Nurnia, which they were leaving, road laws apparently followed American patterns, while in the south, they followed British rules. The highway's two sides undulated like a pair of snakes, the southbound lanes bridging over the northbound; which was fortunate because there was no way Mount Zoom was going to fit under the resulting bridge. But that wasn't the worst of it.

Sure enough, Anakron heard a gurgling "Gyaaaahh!" from the Mount Zoom cockpit as the steering wheel anakronistically and most magically disappeared from the driver's grasp and switched to the right side of the cockpit; pedals and gear shifts following suit. Problem was, nobody was sitting there. In fact, there hadn't even been a passenger seat there, but that hadn't mattered. The Dweomer was the dweomer, and there suddenly was a passenger seat that had just as suddenly turned into a driver's seat on the right side.

Mount Zoom began to veer off the highway. Which meant big trouble for northbound traffic, already distracted by the oncoming need to switch from American to British road rules and that confounded steering wheel switch that most drivers had become aware of in the last year.

In their efforts to avoid the mountain, northbound Clios (all green) and Minivans (all yellow) careened out of the way of the approaching mountain, risking the questionable comforts of the rough grass and rubble off the road, and also risking the jarring of the extra tires that all cars carried to deal with the inevitable flat tires of Mordor.

Luckily, Mount Zoom righted itself before it competely dominated the northbound lanes, going in the wrong direction, and listed back across the median to the southbound lanes, resuming its normal road-hog status.

A few hours later Mount Zoom arrived on the outskirts of Lûndûn, casting a brand new shadow over Heave-ho Airport. Anakron disembarked from the mountain, caught a fare on the Bliddy Unnergrind ('minding the gap' of course), and was in short order back at Caer Pairadocks, where he ordered up a limo to be readied, and immediately started back up north to Lost Angles, to go find Panakeia. On the way he dreamed up a proper way to celebrate his new found freedom from the Anakronism staff. It occurrred to him once that the anakronisms were still hanging on even though the staff had been destroyed, and a momentary disquiet settled over him: shouldn't the destruction of the staff have resulted in the end of the anakronisms? But then the Blue Istari were the real power behind the dweomer, and they were still somewhere in Middle Earth; so he gave it no more thought, happy to be free of the staff himself.

Half way to Lost Angles, he saw a television crew-mobilecareening at a ridiculous speed southbound, and wondered what in Middle Earth could be the rush, and who was so important to warrant such speeding? He sneered derisively and thought no more of it.

[Diamond18]

Skittles and Hissyfit stood in the hallway (or rather, Skittles stood in the hallway and Hissyfit perched on her shoulder) and played Dueling Diabolical Laughter.

"Mwa ha ha ha ha!" said Skittles.

"Bwuah hua hua hua hua hua hua!" guffawed Hissyfit.

"Mwu ha, mwu ha, mwu ha ha ha!" chortled Skittles.

And so on.

"Thkittleth!" came a strangely strangulated voice. Skittles heard, but was right in the middle of a particularly good effusion of ebullience, and so she paid no heed.

"Skittles!" came the voice again, and as Hissyfit lit into a fit of tittering, Skittles turned. She saw Igör ambling down the hallway. "Mind some company?" he asked, one eye rolling to the side inexplicably.

"Heh heh heh heh heh," she snickered disquietingly in response. "Sure."

"So, where are you headed?" Igör asked, then gave Hissyfit a concerned look. "Does you cat have hairballs?"

"What? Oh, no, she's just trying to one up me with an evil snicker of doom," Skittles said.

"A hairball, indeed," Hissyfit sniffed. She sat back on her haunches and preened her whiskers. "Well, I never."

"You must admit, it wasn't a very good snicker," said Skittles. "Sounded a bit flaky."

"Well, I didn't mean that," Igör backpeddled, eyes swimming between cat and catwoman. "It was a very nice evil snicker. Of doom."

"Don't patronize me," sniffed Hissyfit with a flick of her tail.

"So, Skittles, where are you headed?" Igör said, changing the subject, and Hissyfit uttered an affronted huff at being thus ignored.

"I dunno," replied Skittles evasively, forgetting her plans to ransack the armory. "Whatcha wanna do?"

"I dunno. Whatchoo wanna do?"

"I dunno. Whatchoo wanna do?"

"I dun... look here," Igör shook his head as if to dislodge cobwebs, "I thought you rushed off to go do something interesting. You don't mean to tell me you have no plans?"

Skittles shrugged. "We were bored."

"The meeting was insipid," Hissyfit offered.

"So, you were going to go do something not-boring, then?"

"That's the plan."

"Good. So, where are we going?"

"I don't know. We just went out, that's all," Skittles said with a sniff (nasty hayfever going around, apparently). "Thought we'd have a bit of fun. Thought you wanted to have a bit of fun, too. I didn't expect some sort of Spanish Inquisition."

Suddenly, three men clad in vermilion robes burst around the corner. "Aha!" their leader cried. "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!!!"

"Beg pardon?" asked Igör.

A lengthy and somewhat tedious yet inexplicably amusing sequence of events ensued, involving a discourse on the chief weaponry of the Spanish Inquisition. At the end, Igör found himself tied to a rack and seated in a comfy chair with a pair of triangular soft pillows about him. Skittles decided this was all just a little too tedious to take, so proceeded to throw the trio of robe clad men out the window.

"This is slightly disturbing," said Igör as he observed the defenenstration from his comfy chair. "But not as disturbing as it could be. You obviously watch too much television."

"I like to sleep on the television set," commented Hissyfit, kneading one of the soft pillows in preparation for a nap. Sadly, this comment went unheard by Igör, who merely patted her on the head and wondered, "Is there any point to any of this?"

"No," declared Skittles. "That's the fun of it! Now, who wants ice cream?"

[Celuien]

"And now, we're back with our exclusive interview series 'Unmasking the Chaser of Doom.' As you know by now, Mount Doom has mysteriously become more mobile than a mobile phone, faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Umm...strike that last part from the tape, will you Smitty?"

The technician addressed by the reporter scowled and pulled his kamura open, crumpled the film in his hands and, ripping a portion free, threw it to the ground with a scowl.

The reporter cleared his throat and continued. "Ahem. As you know by know, Mount Doom has mysteriously torn free of the shackles of geology to become a free-wheeling vehicle of Doom on Mordorian highways. And, defying death and danger, the mountain is now pursued by an equally mysterious lady of adventure. What drives her? Why does she follow Mount Doom? And, above all, who is she? Smitty! Cut to the guest spot!"

"Wait." Panakeia was suddenly alarmed. "You're not actually going to show my face on kamura, are you, Mr. Blather?" Panakeia was suddenly afraid that a channel-surfing Anakron would spot her on the air and be put out by her new public image as a swashbuckler.

"Of course not. Look at the monitor." Panakeia looked, and was somewhat reassured to see a bright, sunshine colored, smiling face replacing her own visage on the screen. "We've even disguised your voice. Listen." Mr. Blather nodded, and Smitty wound the tape back to Panakeia's question. Her words echoed in the van, her voice somehow deepened and smokier than she knew it to be. Suddenly, uncomfortably, Panakeia was reminded of Lola. She shifted in her seat. The voice, the news story, the eternally cheerful grinning mask on the screen all felt wrong. But there had been no other way to follow Mount Doom but to join the news program.

The reporter was still speaking. Panakeia caught only the last phrase. "And please, call me Samê."

Panakeia managed a half-hearted smile. "Alright. Where were we? Can you play it again, Samê?"

"Certainly." The introduction played again on the monitor, and Panakeia watched intently, determined to compose herself, determined to invent the wildest work of fiction for the interview seen since the last edition of the evening news.

Then the van swerved, sending Panakeia flying out of her chair. She recovered just in time to see the reason for the jolt, a long black limousine speeding in the other direction on the highway, almost directly in the path of the news van, which had crossed into the northbound lanes.

Shaken and stirred by the close call, Panakeia called to the driver to mind the road and asked to be excused for a moment to recover her nerves. She was shown to a soundproofed booth in the van, and soon fell into a deep sleep.

~*~

"Smitty! Got her picture?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Send it to the main office. Our mystery woman looks familiar, though I can't place her. See if we can get an ID, then we'll splash it all over the 10 o'clock show."

"She won't like it."

"It's a scoop, and it's ours. All ours. Besides, it's my duty to the viewing public to break the story. She's hiding something, and the audience needs to know."

Samê Blather grinned, as eager as a cat with a mouse.

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë had had enough of negotiations for the moment. He stood up, teetering for a moment from the motion of the Mountain.

"Excuse me, all," he said, "but I think the negotiations for the day are done."

"And just where do you think you're going?" snapped Angawen- in Quenya, so as to keep their bickering from Maika and Smilog.

"Lady MacFarlewyn has left the room, with no explanation. Igör has left the room with no explanation. The Lady Alli has not deigned to observe the proceedings. Dracomir has fallen into a stupor"- Dracomir jerked at the mention of his name, narrowed his eyes at Hyarmenwë, but said nothing- "and the Dwarf is either drunk or ignorant." Hyarmenwë replied in the Common Speech, to make his dissatisfaction plain to all.

"If they may all ignore the proceedings, then I shall do so as well. I have more profitable ways to spend my day. Wandering aimlessly through Gorgoroth being one of them," he ended acidically.

"Well that's a fine way to demonstrate your fine Gondorian mettle!" snapped Angawen- in Sindarin. Sindarin being that much more common a tongue, it was a sign of how irritated she was that she did not use Quenya. "We ought to be taking advantage of the absence of the Mordorian diplomats to push through a Gondor-favourable settlement!"

"I have my very frank doubts that we can come to a settlement that will be acceptable to either party," said Hyarmenwë, "and I promise not to be a party to any compromise which shall weaken or endanger the realm of Gondor. In any event, I tire of this discussion."

Hyarmenwë turned from Angawen to Maika.

"Lady Maikaelwen, if I might have a private word with you."

Hyarmenwë and Maika departed the council chamber for the hallway beyond. Maika said nothing, and looked as cool as always, but a hint of curiosity about what Hyarmenwë wished to speak was faintly apparent.

When they had left, Bearugard turned to Angawen.

"Call me for a fool," he said, "but I rather think these negotiations are doomed."

"They are doomed," said Angawen, irritably. "But I'm willing to call you a fool anyway."

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron was back was back in Lost Angles. It was odd that Mount Doom no longer dominated the view to the east. In its place was a rising vapor and a red glow on the underside of the ubiquitous clouds above Gorgoroth, reflecting the giant pool of bubbling magma left behind by the sudden evacuation of the mountain.

Strange tales were noised about town about the magma pool. One story was that Roggie had turned into molten lava; that was a joke mostly, but there was always someone to be found who believed such nonsense. Another had it that the magma pool was a result of the Dweomer and that more and more magma would come from the doomed future and that the pool would eventually grow so large that it would swallow up Drollywood and Lost Angles and all of Mordor! Some said that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Anakron ignored the stories. He went to Drollywood and sought out Kaptain Kirkchoo(!) and Spockû to see if they had heard from Panakeia lately. Kaptain Kirkchoo(!) was staring heatedly at an apparent nemesis who happened to look like a much older version of himself and claimed to be the real William Shatner who happened to star in a real television show called something like "Lost town Beagle". Anakron couldn't quite make it out but wondered what on earth a Beagle and William Shatner had to do with each other.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Anakron gently interrupted.

They both glanced at him briefly before they returned to their heated argument, only to give him double take.

"Anakron!" shouted Kirkchoo(!), "What happened to your get up?"

"I tossed them. I'm done being the Grand Anakronist."

"Can you do that?"

Anakron raised both arms and shrugged in silent proof that apparently it was so. Then he asked them about Panakeia.

"No, we haven't seen her in person, but she's all over the news." Kirkchoo(!) pointed to a nearby television news cast, which featured the latest hot story about the mystery woman who was chasing the mountain, who was now revealed to be none other than Panakeia of Harad herself, the love interest of no less than the Grand Anakronist.

Shatner of Beagletown raised his eyebrows appreciatively, grinned, and said, "That's your girl? Not bad." He winked and leered in a most insulting yet flattering fashion.

"Confounded news media!" Anakron shouted and hurried back to his limo. It was obvious that she was trying to catch up to him while he had been trying to go back and find her, and that they had passed each other somewhere in between. He suddenly recalled the media van that had been careening down the road in the most orcish fashion, and couldn't help smiling, realizing that it must have been Panakeia.

In moments the limo was headed back south in hot pursuit of Panakeia of Harad and Mount Zoom, currently temporarily situated in Lûndûn. He couldn't wait to catch up to her there, because Lûndûn was a great place to go for a date, and they had not been back there since the Big Test a year ago. He was looking forward to treating Panakeia to a very, very special weekend. Or maybe an entire week. Why not a month? In fact, why not a whole year? Surely there was enough to do and see in that most fascinating of cities to take up a year. And to do it all with Panakeia was just the thing.

"Faster, Lûgnût!"

[Celuien]

In all of her 50 years, Panakeia of Harad had never imagined that the sight of Mount Doom would bring her relief and joy. But at the moment she espied the mountain belching black smoke over the Heave-ho Airport, her heart went pitter-patter. The van rolled onto the mountain's foot, and Panakeia, not even waiting for the driver to turn the ignition to off, bounded out, ignoring the kamura crew that followed hard upon her trail.

She burst through the palace gates, calling Anakron's name. No answer. Panakeia pushed on undaunted.

"Anakron. Oh, Anakron. It's me! I'm back. Where are you?"

"Not 'ere, miss."

Panakeia whirled, startled by the voice. It eminated from an Orc who stood lounging against a wall, blowing puffs of smoke from a cigarette. Choking on the fumes, Panakeia asked what was meant by that answer.

"Not 'ere. Gone clear off to Lost Angles lookin' for 'is lady-love." The Orc chuckled.

No! Not to Lost Angles! She must have passed Anakron on her frantic and unpleasant journey with the news crew. Like a flash, Panakeia thought of the limo - who else could it have been but Anakron?

He loves me. Panakeia's face positively glowed.

Back, back to Lost Angles! Panakeia, still known to the official bureaucracy of Mordor, soon succeeding in borrowing a lavender Jeep Cherokee and a driver. A Mordor moment later - meaning as quickly as the multitudinous and mushrooming paperwork required for the transaction could be completed and an official staff driver located - Panakeia was seated in the Jeep, northbound for Lost Angles.

Halfway back to the City of Smog, Panakeia spotted a black limousine headed for Lûndûn at full speed. Staring closely at the driver, she thought she recognized Lûgnût.

"Stop that limo!" she shouted. Her driver didn't comply and Panakeia, frantic over the idea of missing Anakron again, seized the wheel and swerved into the limousine’s path. Both cars veered off the road, and Panakeia screamed, both in fear of the impending crash and because she realized that she would now have her reunion with Anakron in Orcish form.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

A slight argument had broken out amongst the diplomats, Smilog had forgotten what it was about and had fallen asleep half way through. He awoke to see many of the Gondorians standing up; one raised up and shouted, "Well, you're so stupid that you can't even see how stupid you are!"

"Wait a moment," said Tollin, leaping to his feet, "it's stopped!" everyone turned to look at the Minotaur, some for the first time. "The mountain has stopped, I'm sure of it."

"Oh, that's nice," grunted Smilog, "but we're no closer to an agreement." he was then knocked off his chair by a flying table. The Barrow Wight blew smoke rings over the heads of the diplomats; he then took a large empty bottle of wine from his cloaks inside pocket. Disappointed at the lack of drink, The Barrow Wight walked out of the room in search of more. No one seemed to mind.

All along the corridor, the Wight saw nothing but hallucinations of snakes all over the ceiling. "I say," he drooled, "those bally, jolly, molly bollys had better... do something... sharp ish! Or they'll have to answer to the sergeant major! And you don't want that!" he laughed to himself and began recounting an absurd story of himself and another Wight being 'behind enemy lines', ‘shootign jerry out of the sky’ and ‘chasing the blosh' yet the story made little sense and had no continuity.

Eventually, the Barrow Wight came to a window looking out of the Mountain; he used it to be sick out of. "Blasted things," he muttered, "strung them all up! The whole bally lot of them!" He peered over the landscape of Lûndûn and mused on his old wartime adventures. Yet, something was staring him in the face and he couldn't work out what it was until it pecked him in the eye. "Blasted seagulls," he mumbled, "what about the piranhas? I've got a family to support! I can't be worrying about starving children!"

A towering... erm... tower seemed to dominate the skyline. A huge clock face shone forth from it, its hands almost both vertical. The Barrow Wight sung a little song to comfort himself as he watched the last hand slowly tick onto the huge "XII" at the top. There was a deafening 'DONG' and the mountain shook, as did the rest of Lûndûn. This was followed by eleven further 'DONG's. Suddenly, The Barrow Wight found himself sober and full of fear. He ran back to the conference chamber as fast as he could.

[Lhunardawen]

"Where are we going?" Maika finally spoke after she and Hyarmenwë have been walking silently for quite some time.

"I was of the idea, lady," responded Hyarmenwë, "that you will decide on our destination."

Maika stopped and turned abruptly to her right, looking up at the towering Gondorian. "Wait a minute - you're the one who called me out of the room."

"You know this place far better than I do, or ever will."

"Oh, yeah..." Maika slowly turned away, feeling shamed by Hyarmenwë's diplomatic tone against her own slightly aggressive one. Control your nerves, silly. "Alright, then."

She stepped on ahead, Hyarmenwë quickly catching up with her, and they resumed walking in silence. Out of the corner of her eye Maika saw him throwing uneasy glances at her now and again. She smiled inwardly, but pretended not to take notice.

"Where are you leading me?" he asked after a while, in a surprisingly quiet voice that belied the apprehension Maika thought he must be feeling.

"You said you wanted a private word," she replied, jerking her head to look at him without breaking her stride. "There's only one place for such a conversation."

She stopped beside a door; a sign hanging on it said BROOM SHED. Hyarmenwë looked doubtfully at the sign, and then at Maika, who pushed the door open.

"--phecy made about you and Lord Vol--"

"Professor!" a boy's voice gasped.

The two ambassadors stared wide-eyed at the broom shed's occupants. One, who had apparently been speaking as Maika opened the door, was an old man; a spider was crawling down his tall, pointed black hat to his surprised face. The boy had instinctively pulled out a wand from his pocket and was now pointing it at Maika. His eyes, she could see, flashed dangerously, but hers were drawn upwards to a curious scar, shaped like a lightning bolt, on his forehead.

"Pardon us," said Hyarmenwë with an apologetic bow, slowly shut the door, and pulled Maika away gently by the elbow. At this she stirred, as though from a waking dream, and shook her head vigorously, as though to dislodge the dream from her memory.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her lips barely moving. "Come on," she added a bit more loudly, and led Hyarmenwë down the hallway. They walked on with Maika muttering "Can't believe someone beat me to it..."

"Lady Maika," Hyarmenwë began tentatively, "do those - people - in the broom shed, do they, by any chance, bear any relation to Dracomir Malfoidacil?"

"They're anakronisms," Maika waved her hand dismissively. "Better not dwell on them."

She slightly upped her pace and felt Hyarmenwë beside her do likewise. At her lead they finally halted beside another door: a wardrobe, right in the hallway. Maika stretched her arm towards the handle--

"You won't get into Nurnia again by that route."

They turned around to see another old man - no pointed black hat this time - standing across them.

"Bless me," he added as he left them dumbfounded, "what do they teach them at these schools?" The old man rounded a corner, and he was gone. Maika turned back to the wardrobe and reached for the handle again, opened the door, and put her right foot in.

"Are you certain--"

"Hyarmenwë, you heard him," she gestured at the old man's wake. "It's safe. Now hurry up and get in. And whatever you do, don't shut the door behind you - that would be stupid."

"But--"

"Oh, come on! What's anakronistic about stepping into a wardrobe?"

Maika put her left foot in (and shook nothing about, nor did the hokey-pokey) before Hyarmenwë, who followed hesitantly behind, could stop her. They slowly made their way deeper into the wardrobe, guided by the sliver of light from the crack at the door.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Follow me, old bean," said the quivering Barrow Wight as he dragged Smilog out of the conference chamber. Tollin followed along to see what the fuss was about. "It's right over there!" the Wight waved out of the window and hid his eyes. "It's jolly horrible!"

"What," said Smilog, "the curtains?"

"No!" shouted the Barrow Wight, "there! That thing! I'll tell you what it is!" Smilog yawned and sat down as the ghostly skeleton said, in a deep and haunting voice, "Small Jim!" Smilog rolled his eyes. "I'm serious, old spice! Maybe that mumbling old fool was right about the blue wizards."

"Oh shut up." said the dwarf, "small Jim was built as a monument to annoy all the conspiracy theorists. I should know! I commissioned it. And there are no elaborate plans for a great uncloaking hidden under the floor boards."

The Barrow Wight sighed and lent against the wall before following the others back to the conference room. Smilog made a small diversion to visit the toilet. He passed through a door while the other two waited outside. They spoke of things past and present as well as what may yet to be. Or, rather, they speculated about how long they had left on that accursed Mountain of DOOM!

Time passed. And passed. It was nearly half an hour since Smilog vanished behind the door. Tollin arose and pushed open the door before he heard a familiar voice coming from behind him. "You are not going to believe this!" they turned around to see Smilog covered in slime and beaming.

"What happen?" asked Tollin, "did you fall into the toilet?"

"No, you imbecile!" snapped the Dwarf before a swift swing of Tollin's morning star corrected him. "Anyway," he continued, "there is a tiny door in there that leads inside of Gandalf Mithrandir!" The others looked at him puzzled. "It's true! You go in and you see through his eyes for about fifteen minuets before your spat out at a round about near Small Jim!"

"Who's Gandalf Mithrandir?" asked Tollin,

"Oh," replied Smilog, "he's this istari, but a good one."

"Perhaps he can deal with those blue blighters," suggested the Barrow Wight.

"No chance," replied the Dwarf, "he's in Valinor."

"Oh well," hummed Tollin, "we'd better get back."

"But-" began Smilog trying to bring himself to think of a convincing argument, but ultimately failing and saying, "Okay, lets go."

[littlemanpoet]

"Careful, Lûgnût," said Anakron, "we're about to enter Nurnia again, and the roads and steering wheels change. So get ready to jump to the other side of the car."

"Can't you undo that thing?" Lûgnût whined.

"Hardly. You threw away my gear."

"Dra-aaAAAAT!!!" Suddenly the road had begun to weave over its opposite lanes, and the steering wheel had suddenly disappeared from Lûgnût's grasp, only to reappear on the right side of the limo. Lûgnût scrabbled over to the right side as the limo began to swerve off the road, righting it just in time. Just then a lavendar Jeep Cherokee veered from the northbound lanes across the median, directly in front of Anakron's black limo. It figured: an orc was driving it....madly, over the protesting grip of another orc sitting in the driver's seat. Lucky for them they were going to be spared The Switch by crashing before they got there. Lûgnût let out a stream of cuss words as he jerked the steering wheel to the right to avoid a head-on, or direct-of-some-sort collision .... which they failed to do.

The Jeep Cherokee's engine practically howled like a stereotypical Native American ready for war whilst the limo roared and screeched, but they collided and locked fenders, such that Anakron found himself looking out his left window at the frantic orc who was grasping the steering wheel over the sitting orc's protests; meanwhile the frantic .... female ... orc was staring at him, with a silly, somewhat beaming grin on its hideous features. The sheer fascination caught and held Anakron's attention, and he could not help a slight sneer form upon his lips in appreciation for the horrific contrast between pure joy and pure ugliness on this female orc's face. But somehow the face did resemble someone, he just couldn't place whom.

Or had it been during the Challenge a year ago? There was a striking resemblance, take away the orcishness to-

"Panakeia!" Anakron blurted. "Stop this car!" he shouted.

"How the bliddy Thangorodrim am I supposed to control anything about this car with that putrid Jeep locking lips with my fend .... oh. We're stopped."

The female orc who was Panakeia climbed most ungraciously all over the other orc in her effort to somehow get out of the Jeep. Meanwhile, Anakron lunged for the free door to do the same. Panakeia jumped out the opposite side of the door and hooted with glee, jumping onto the roof of the Jeep while Anakron climbed undecorously onto the limo.

Anakron stopped. She was really quite grotesque.... at first. Her over-long arms began to shrink to normal size, she became bashful and embarrassed instead of aggressive, and as her fangs and forehead diminished, a not so awful looking blush came to her humanizing cheeks, and in moments she was his beauty. He jumped from roof to roof, and with the lavender deck firmly beneath their feet, Anarkon threw his arms around Panakeia.

"My Valinor! My Silmaril!"

Panakeia positively beamed.

They locked lips.

[Diamond18]

Smilog & Co.™ traversed the twisting tunnels of Mount Doom, trying to get back to the audience chamber, but being as the halls, porticos, and general walking-areas of Mount Doom are twisty turny tunnels, they became hopelessly lost. Either Mount Doom was pulling a Rose Red or their directional skills had plummeted severely for no apparent reason. At any rate, the easy hop skip and a jump one might expect from the window back to the negotiational area was really more like a trip, stumble and a wander.

Eventually, after much bickering about where they were going and several violent acts upon Smilog (who kept proclaiming that he knew the way like the hairs on his chinny-chin-chin, or maybe it was that he had the blueprints tattooed all over his body, but no one asked him to take his shirt off to prove it) the triumphant trio came to their destination.

Or so they thought.

When they opened the door they found, not the last lingering remnants of the We-Still-Think-This-Is-About-Negotiating faction, but Igör, Skittles, and Hissyfit seated in a circle on the floor in various stages of inebriation.

Or so they thought.

Skittles looked up, an odd looking smear of brown, green, and pink across her mouth and dribbling down her chin. She hiccuped. Igör grinned sheepishly and tried to hide a soup tureen filled with what appeared to be Mordor's most over-toppinged banana split. Hissyfit was covered head to tail in raspberry mint chocolate fudge vanilla ripple and continued to lick herself without taking much notice of the intruders.

"What ho," said The Barrow-Wight in the kind of British accent one would expect from a Midwestern person who watches lots of PBS. "From your happy glow and wandering eyes I'd say you'd found the really good wine. Do you have a spot to spare for an old spectre?"

"Sorry, no alca...er...alcahoooool here," Skittles said with another hiccup.

"We're having an ice cream party," supplied Igör, though it would have become self evident in a moment to Smilog & Co.™ when they took further stock of the room and noticed it was decked out like an Olde Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor and Soda Shoppe with every ice cream flavor imaginable.

"Care to join us?" offered Skittles. She staggered to her feet. "I feel like a triple cherry amaretto blue moon fudge sundae."

"Why are there no chairs in here?" Smilog wondered, quite reasonably, and was awarded with a backhand from Skittles, or would have been had she not been seeing double and only managed to backhand Tollin, who was standing next to him.

"It's to save room for all the gigantic tubs of ice cream and various assorted vats of ice cream toppings," explained Igör.

"No brandy?" asked The Barrow-Wight, looking forlorn. "Or Irish cream, both of which are excellent with ice cream?"

"I'm ignoring you now," sang Skittles, sticking her head into a vat of chocolate jimmies.

Tollin, meanwhile, had recovered from the shock of the unexpected backhand and was devouring a tub of triple chocolate chip cookie dough in a truly mythical fashion.

Smilog gave up wondering about the chairs and decided against asking in what time or world it was normal for Olde Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor and Soda Shoppes to consist mainly of gigantic tubs of ice cream and various assorted vats of ice cream toppings. He went with the flow and indulged in the kind of bliss only a macadamia toffee brittle peanut butter cashew blast waffle cone can induce. Soon The Barrow Wight gave up asking for potent potables, seeing that everyone else’s eyes were slightly glazed over and the only replies he was getting were mumbled incoherencies something along the barely discernible lines of, "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream."

"I think I'll have a scoop of vanilla," he said, to no one in particular because obviously no one gave a root beer float about him anyway.

A random orc walked by at that moment, as random orcs are wont to do at just the right time, and caught a glimpse of the gross display of gluttony inside this strange unmarked room which was not the negotiation chamber. He/She/It shuddered and hastened on his/her/its way, muttering about how Mordor just wasn't the same these days.

Or so he/she/it thought.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Barrow Wight investigated the 'kitchens' or whatever room the ice cream was kept in while Smilog and Tollin remained in the parlour eating some of the stuff. The Dwarf regarded the coffee flavoured ice cream with the sort of content that an orc would regard a scented bath. "I'm not eating this," he declared, throwing it upon the floor, "Let me have some of that chocolate flavour!" Skittles threw a bucket into the face of the Dwarf who then fell over.

Tollin had now finished his fourth bucket and was reaching for a fifth when suddenly there was a bang and a crash from the storage room. Out came the Barrow Wight, covered in more ice cream flavours than there are in existence. "The horror!" he said, "the bally horror of it all!" He fell on the floor and began shivering.

"What happened to you?" asked Smilog, getting up, "the shelf fell on you did it?"

"What?" cried The Wight, "Do you think me a simpleton? No, dear boy. That ice cream is alive! It bally well attacked me!"

"You're drunk." observed Tollin.

"No I'm not!" The Barrow Wight retorted, "I just have a speech impediment." he was then sick on the floor, "and a stomach virus." he fell over, "and an inner ear infection." Tollin rose and picked up the Wight, and sitting him in the corner.

"He found the rum flavour by the looks of it," scowled Skittles, "I was saving that."

"I demand the finest wine available to man kind!" cried the Wight, "I want it here, and I want it NOW!"

Smilog slowly walked over to the storeroom and peered inside. There he saw a site he thought he'd never see. Orcs were inside the giant tubs of ice cream; they had cut holes in the bottom for their legs and in the sides for their arms. They appeared to be doing some strange form of Morris dancing that involved the throwing of ice cream. "Not again." sighed the Dwarf.

[Celuien]

In the many long ages of the world that followed Anakron and Panakeia's joyous reunion in the mangled remains of their cars on the borders of Eye Ninety Five, loremasters told the tale of their understandings, misunderstandings, and reunderstandings in verse, song and prose.

They told that it seemed to Panakeia, as she rested in Anakron's arms, that time itself came to a halt and that music played to the rhythm of fireworks dancing across the sky. Long was their embrace, and filled with bliss, for they returned to each other in a happy moment after many troubles to see their love renewed. And so it came to pass that they were together once again, and they rejoiced.

The fireworks and music may have been poetic exaggeration. As was not uncommon in Mordor of those years, they were not at peace for long. Panakeia, in her haste to find Anakron, had failed to note her recent allies in the news media trailing her Jeep. They arrived in time to find Panakeia and Anakron in the midst of their osculatory moment and to capture it on Kandid Kamura. No music or fireworks were present, though there was an accompaniment of a sort from Lûgnût. Consisting as it did of hooting and pointing at the increasingly embarrassed couple while cackling and shouting advice (of an entirely Orcish nature), his actions could hardly be called music to anyone's ears. It was least musical of all to Panakeia, who, finally noting the presence of the kamura krew in no small distemper, put an end to both the Orc's irritating behavior and the unwelcome intrusion of a Mordor-wide audience to her business with Anakron by seizing the kamura and fitting it to Lûgnût's head. Kamura shaped hats were all the rage at the next season's fashion shows as a result. But that does not come into this tale. Suffice it to say that though the kamura was destroyed by its untimely encounter with Lûgnût's unsuspecting cranium, the film within was not, allowing the moment to be recorded for posterity and historical interest.

Who is to say that the poetry, though not found by a spectator, did not exist within Panakeia's mind and heart? For she did rejoice at Anakron's renewal, and at the disappearance of his uniform as Grand Anakronist, which she noted for the first time as she returned to Anakron after bashing Lûgnût with the kamura. Her heart leapt, and Panakeia's lips met Anakron's for a second time. The office would never come between them again.

While the office could not separate them, Samê Blather, irate over the destruction of the kamura could. For a moment. What mattered an annoying news anchor when Panakeia saw her future with Anakron unfolding before her? Anakron tossed a few coins in payment for the kamura, and they left for a more private spot to discuss their plans.

Sheltered from the road by a thicket of high weeds, Panakeia sighed contentedly. Alone at last. If only they could always be alone, free from Orcs, reality TV, and the news media. She knew that as long as they remained in Mordor, they would never be free for long.

"Anakron?" she said.

"Yes, my Silmaril?"

"Let's leave. Mordor. For good."

[Diamond18]

Skittles entered the storeroom behind Smilog and espied the Orcs.

"This won't do, this won't do at all," she said. "Nassty, thieving orcs in my ice cream! They must suffer, for no one does really freakishly weird things with my ice cream without my consent! I am the Chief Warlordess of Roggie, hear me roar!"

With that, she promptly became sick on the floor. But afterwards, she was ready to kick some orc hiney and got to it with much enthusiasm. She stabbed madly at the ice cream tubs with her switchblades while shrieking wildly. The orcs fought back by slinging ice cream at her.

Smilog ducked out of the storeroom and shut the door, feeling that this was the wisest course of action.

Horrible noises came from within; screaming, screeching, crashing, thudding, stomping, and random bursts of polka music. Finally, Skittles emerged, bedecked in ice cream but with a triumphant glow in her crazed eyes. "I have vanquished the dancing orcs," she proclaimed, brandishing a soda straw.

"But where's the rum flavoured ice cream?" asked The Barrow Wight.

Everyone in the room groaned.

[Formendacil]

"Oh, come on! What's anakronistic about stepping into a wardrobe?"

Hyarmenwë could think of all sorts of reasons why he's rather not step into the wardrobe, but none of them were pertinent to the question, and he allowed himself to be talked into it...

...and stepped out into a rather empty-looking field of grain, not a person, tree, fence, rock, or interesting thing in sight. Only a stream in the far distance meandering down from distant mountains.

"Where are we?" Hyarmenwë gazed around, a bit concerned.

"Nurnia," explained Maika, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The Wardrobe leads to Nurnia."

Well, Hyarmenwë knew that Nurn had been the breadbasket of Sauron's empire, and it stood to reason that that was where they were. Precisely how that was supposed to relate to the wardrobe, he hadn't the foggiest idea. He also didn't want to know. It smacked of anakronism, and he had more important things to do, anyway.

"What I wished to speak to you about, Lady Maika," he began, "is a matter on which we have, I think, a certain amount of shared interest. You wish, I deem, to see certain of those Assigned to Mordor legitimate ability to return to Gondor- including yourself, I think. Well, it so happens that I have someone in Mordor I wish to find, and likewise restore to Gondor. My daughter was Assigned on birth for the unhappy name my wife gave her."

Something stirred in Maika. What, Hyarmenwë couldn't say, but clearly she was interested.

"How old would she be? And what was the unlucky name?" Maika whipped out her palm pilot.

"She'd be about ten, fifteen years younger than you," said Hyarmenwë, glaring at the palm pilot. "As to her name, I do not know. My wife refused to utter it when I returned and found our daughter gone."

"I'll need as exact an age as you can give," said Maika. "She'd be twenty-ish, then?"

"Eighteen... I think," Hyarmenwë scoured his mind. What year had that been? He'd tried so hard to put it out of his mind, that he wasn't quite sure. And age didn't help either.

Again, there was that flicker on Maika's face. She appeared ready to say something, but Hyarmenwë, irked at the look she was giving the palm pilot, a look entirely too used to it, grabbed the palm pilot, and tossed it away into the grains.

"WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?" Maika demanded to know, every bit as royally enraged as a Gondorian noble.

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

"Just a second," snapped Maika, "We have no agreement yet!"

"Then I put it to you now," said Hyarmenwë, a good deal more composed than Maika was. "You know my offer. Do you accept?"

[Anguirel]

Dracomir stretched lanquidly across three seats at the now utterly deserted negotiation table. Even less progress had evidently been made by either side than yesterday. He had not really bothered, after his initial imput, to follow the sordid descent of the day's business into yet another sublime ludicrosity. A folded, silvery bundle on one chair-formerly Maika's-caught his eye, and he pocketed the Inaudibility Cloak once again. One couldn't be too careful. And it was something to do.

In a similar spirit, Tom produced the crumpled Mordorers' Map, and wearily muttered the weird incantation about filling in saves. Then, his eyes rolling, he attempted to locate his fellow, er, ambassadors. Smilog, surrounded by the usual pack of intoxicated intoxicates. Angawen and Beauregard not far off, pacing. Hyarmenwe and Maika in a wardrobe.

Hyarmenwe and Maika in a wardrobe???

Excellent. With the gossip-columnist mentality of a second-string villain, Dracomir grinned and twirled out his wand.

"Accio Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes-Quill!"

It was as Dracomir had suspected. Someone had, at some point, Assigned her to Mordor, and the Quill shot through a priceless window dating from the Second Age and depicting Sauron in the form of a fruitbat, shattering it to tiny pieces.

Dracomir stroked the Quill lightly, produced some clean parchment left over from the negotiations, and said in a monotone voice, "Your Hotness King Roggie, I think you should know that one of your ambassadors, Maika, has been found in a compromising permission with one of my colleagues. I fear treachery as well as gross moral misconduct. Signed, your old pal, Tom Felton."

He glanced at the paper. It was as he had hoped; the Quill had successfully read between the lines of his statement and produced a tabloid article dripping with lurid libel, denouncing Hyarmenwe and Maika as traitors to both their causes, as well as illicit lovers.

"Acccio Orc," the ghastly young journo-in-the-making cried imperiously, and a harrassed looking guard flew through an open door. "Take this to the King-without fail. Off you go."

The Lord Malfoidacil watched the Orc scurry off with a wicked smile on his angelic features.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

It must have been the ice cream talking, but Smilog had some how dared to call Skitttles a useless cretin. Roggie's war adviser had not taken this criticism well it seems, as the dwarf opened his eyes to find that he was tied to the back of Mount Zoom by a long rope. He was on the floor in a heap staring up at the immense mountain with its great wheels coated in enough tyres to feed the world.

The Barrow Wight's head was sticking out of the ground near by; apparently he had been buried for tearing the ceiling down 'in search of a drink'. Tollin was nowhere to be seen. The Mountain appeared to be re-fuelling, for there was a large pipe sticking out from the side and the sound of gushing lava could be heard flowing through it. The Barrow Wight mumbled to himself a little song:

Cold be heart and lots of beer
And cold be sleep after hangover
Never more to wake again
Till headache gone and...

He was stuck and couldn't think of an appropriate word. He shook his head and looked around to see where he was. "I say" he said, "what the devil is going on?"

"I don't know," replied the Dwarf, wriggling out of the surprisingly lose ropes, "we had better get back in the mountain."

"I've got a better idea," said the Wight, pointing to a near by pub, "Lets have another drink!"

"No!" Smilog smacked the Barrow Wight in the face; "you've had enough for a year in the last four hours."

"But I have no stomach!" protested the dead man, "drink goes right through me... literally!" Smilog ignored this and began to climb up the Mountain again. After a while of mumbling, the Barrow Wight followed on. They climbed for some time before coming to a window and slipping through, they lay in the corridor getting their breath back while several Orcs passed by all dressed in shirts and ties and looking very uncomfortable.

To their sheer and lasting amazement, they were outside the ice-cream chamber... thing. "Blast." said the Barrow Wight.

[Lhunardawen]

Maika gave Hyarmenwë a look of purest loathing, fumbled for her palm pilot on the ground, and, with a fierce battle-cry to rival the Amazonas', hurled it violently towards his face.

If she were Skittles in disguise, perhaps.

But the real Maika could only glare at the Gondorian. An unwilling silence stifled all that was threatening to burst from her mouth--none of which had anything to do with the palm pilot lying near her feet. She suddenly found the meandering stream in the distance interesting, and towards it she turned her gaze as it softened. The clouds above them, she noticed gratefully, covered the sky entirely.

"What made you think, in the first place," she asked in as casual a voice as she could manage, "that I am one of those Gondorians I spoke of? Surely I am every bit as Mordorian as my fellow ambassadors are."

"No one else would have made that suggestion, Lady Maika. What motive could drive a non-Gondorian to want it done? And I mean no offence, but I've always thought you seem a bit too...normal, if you will, for their company."

"That's fair enough, I suppose..." she said, letting her gentle amusement trail into insignificance. "Alright then, you caught me. I am Gondorian. Or I was, rather."

Maika glanced at Hyarmenwë. Despite having correctly guessed, a mild surprise had still sneaked into his face.

"But you were right in only one count," she continued, again turning away. "I have no desire to return to Gondor."

"Why not, my lady?" The surprise rendered this time in his voice was more apparent.

"My loyalty lies with this land," she answered as she lightly touched her nose, and silently sighed in relief. "Surely you, of all people, know the meaning of duty. And it is as you yourself have expressed concern; there is no certainty that I will ever be purged of the anakronisms to which I've been accustomed."

"I understand," Hyarmenwë's response softly came. Maika did an internal double-take. Was there a hint of sadness in his voice, or was that just what she desired to hear?

"But as for your daughter..." she continued, pushing the thought away, "I'm certain that the child of someone of your position will have been cared for by the more conservative assigned Gondorians. They might have adopted her the moment she stepped into Mordor, and a visit to them can possibly lead us to her."

"So it is us, then?"

"Yes." Maika faced Hyarmenwë fully. "Yes," she repeated, "I am willing to help you inasmuch as I can."

"I am grateful," said Hyarmenwë with a bow.

"That might not be anything, though. For all I know those people regard me now as a traitor," Maika said carelessly, shrugging. "And I do not need to tell you--as you've already seen enough of this land for yourself--that this mission, quest, thing...it will not be easy."

"I am aware of that."

"Good. Now, if you have nothing else to say, let us return." She pointed towards the mountain behind them. "That's the back of the wardrobe; it is nothing more than a concealed exit from Mount Doom. We have, you see, been parking here in Nurnia for quite some time now."

Without waiting for a response, without seeing Hyarmenwë relieved that no anakronism had occured, without even thinking to pick up her palm pilot, Maika started her way back.

[littlemanpoet]

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

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

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

"Then we shall."

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

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

"A date?"

"An extended date. Shall we?"

"Let's shall!"

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

At least for the time being.

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Hookbill the Goomba]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

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

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

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

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

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

And so the night began...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

The valiant Dunadan raised his sword in formal challenge.

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

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

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

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

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

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Formendacil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Boromir88]

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

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

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

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

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

[littlemanpoet]

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

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

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

"Don't remind me."

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Wow," said The Barrow Wight as he removed his duck costume, "that was a daring escape!" Tollin and Smilog sat down in the shadow of Small Jim and peered at Mount Zoom, still standing still. For a stupid and really worn out joke, it seemed to have evaded destruction so far.

"Well," mused Smilog as he rose once again, stroking his beard, "burning the Golden Fleece and finding the purple piper were the hard parts, after that, the rest was easy!" Their daring escape from the police and their many other adventures had quite left them worn out.

Smilog had quite forgotten about any negotiations that may or may not have been going on inside the Mountain. The Ice-cream parlour had made his memory a bit of a blur, not to mention being chased by a Balrug* down a corridor of fossilised shoes. Yet now they were about a mile away from Mount Zoom and under the strange building that contained Small Jim; the great Bell of Mordor that had once rung in Cirath Ungol as a warning and now sat atop this magnificent tower to tone the hour.

Tollin opened the door leading into the building and said, "Do you think we should investigate this?" Smilog shrugged and sat down again.

"If you wish," he grunted, "I doubt you will find anything interesting, though. As I said, I commissioned this thing, if there were any plot hidden here by the blue wizards, I'd know about it."

"You didn't know about the Balrug," said The Barrow Wight, "when you clamed to know those tunnels like the back of your hand."

"Oh very well," sighed the Dwarf, "let us see what is in this tower."


*A strange creature of carpet and dust. It seemed to be man sized, but slightly bigger. The Carpeted skin seemed to be shrouded in dust. The one detail he was not sure of was when the dust about it had stretched forth like two vast wings...

[Kath]

Igor was beginning to wonder if they would ever even begin negotiations, let alone finish them. It seemed that they had another day to themselves and, still feeling sick from the day before, he decided that he would try not to spend it with Skittles. The madness that followed her around was catching and definitely not conducive to any form of well being.

He rolled his eyes, and then spent the next thirty seconds or so waiting for one to stop. Once in control of his body again he took it out of the door, and headed to one of the balconies that were dotted all around the moving mountain. He had asked one of the orcs why the balconies had been built as not many people really used them, not wanting to stick their head out into the filthy air of Mordor.

"Forthooth, if came a gutht that lifted on high a body that thtanding there wath, why they would die and thith would Roggie pleathe." One had replied, speaking such a garbled mixture of old English, Yoda talk and natural orc speech that it had taken Igor several minutes to translate it, and even once he had he didn't entirely understand.

"Like, assasination? Why don't you simply throw them off the top?

The orc had given him a shocked and wounded look.

"Like common murdererth? Thame on you for thinking tho." And he (or possibly she, the long flowing hair was giving Igor some difficulty in deciding) stalked off in disgust.

Leaning over the balcony now, though keeping a tight grip on it just in case, Igor sighed and wondered just how many more mishaps would occur today. He was quite impressed that the whole team of negotiators was still alive and wondered if the stories about Alli being on speaking terms with Illuvatar was giving them this level of luck.

Speaking of Alli, he thought it strange that they hadn't seen anything of her that morning. She had never not given them instructions or at least guidelines before, and the noises from the night certainly needed some explaining. Perhaps she was still dealing with the aftermath of whatever had happened.

Sighing again he cocked his ear, the other still being in the Gondorian's chambers where he'd left it, and listened out for any explosions that might mean he was needed.

[Formendacil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyarmenwë must have looked completely baffled, because Elrogorn continued.

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

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

But Elrogorn was continuing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maika.

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

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

[Diamond18]

SAVE

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

[Celuien]

In which the grand tour of Lûndûn is continued.

[Anguirel]

Something to do with Audrey's post that's something to do with mine

[littlemanpoet]

something to do with Blue Istari, a staff, hat, and cloak...

[Kath]

Save.

Because Igor thought this looked like fun and didn't have anything better to do.

[Lhunardawen]

SAVE - because we simply have to beat ATM (I) at something.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

In which all preceding saves become permanent fixtures to the story. See ATM1 for details.

[Celuien]

An odd sense of foreboding came over Panakeia as she stepped into Can Sing To Guard Inns with Anakron, much as it had many times over the past week, sending prickles along her spine. She swept it away to a distant dustbin of doubting, locked in the lockbox of her mind, where she had banished the previous disturbances. Silly. Unreasonable. The week had gone perfectly. It was, in fact, the best week of Panakeia's life.

That simple truth was the reason behind Panakeia's nervousness. All good things must come to an end. The maxim had been etched into Panakeia's mind by hard experience. Good things did invariably, dramatically, and permanently come to a terrible end. Her fairy tale childhood had come to ruins. Why should this fairy tale romance end in happily ever after? Now that a happy ending seemed almost complete, Panakeia felt more reason than ever to fear that it would be snatched away.

But for now, fear and worry were forgotten, and Panakeia walked with Anakron along the paths of the Guard Inns, wondering aloud why there were no guards or Inns to be found. Both laughed and shook their heads at the absurdities of Mordor's anakronisms and wandered down a tree-lined lane, completely unaware of the doom that was soon to meet them.

[littlemanpoet]

Sooner than one would have thought.

Anakron and Panakeia had thoroughly enjoyed the dogs of Can Sing To Guard Inns, and Anakron wondered if the howling and barking of the happy dogs was supposed to be the singing, and their owners the guards. Probably not, but the sheer variety of breeds of dog was a wonder. Not every anakronism was a bad thing.

Now they were strolling along the water's edge, watching the cormorants, moor hens, and other birdlife, and were come to the Eat all yen fountains at the far end of the Guard Inns, where stood an ornate yellowish building that that graced the far end of the fountain pools. The pair made their way to the square building to rest under its shade. Just as they were making to sit down before it, Anakron spied a swish of blue in one of the openings. He went to look.

There, leaning against the wall, was his staff, hat, and cloak. Just inside the building was Pallando, the Blue Istari. Anakron's teeth ground.

"Where's your other half?" Anakron grated.

"Otherwise occupied."

"What's this?" he nodded at the staff, hat, and cloak.

"Do not think that merely throwing them into a firey furnace ends your role. The powers of the anakronism dweomer do not lie in this staff or the paraphernalia you've added to them. That power lies with us, and we convey it to you. It has not stopped being yours. You are still the Grand Anakronist. Stop dallying and do your job."

Panakeia had come to his side. "What's going on, Anakron?" Her voice sounded anxious, as if she guessed what was wrong. "Oh! You!" Her hands came up protectively to Anakron's shoulders.

He looked down at her. Her face was full of fear. She was right to fear.

"You had better leave me, dearest, before something bad happens."

He turned back to the Blue Wizard, but he was not there. Only the staff, hat, and cloak were.

"Just leave them there! Let's leave Mordor!" Panakeia said.

"Do you really thing that's possible, Panakeia? Do you?"

[Lhunardawen]

The handsome stranger, still holding the door open, continued to stare at Maika as though she had just stepped out of a dreamy fairy tale. His mouth dropped open in an impossibly cute way, but Maika did not care. She had eyes only for the other man in the laundry room.

"There seems to be something strangely different about you today, my lady," said Hyarmenwë, his eyes narrowed and his head tilted in an effort to figure out what it was.

"You noticed?" Maika bowed slightly, letting her hair fall from behind her shoulder to hide her pale pink cheeks. "They were, uh, broken, and I currently have no time to look for another pair..."

"I must say it makes you look a few years younger."

Maika's face snapped up towards Hyarmenwë. She thought she must have been glaring at him, because he proceeded to apologise for the comment.

"Forget it," she interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. They had to stop talking about age, and fast. "So, are you ready?"

"I rather doubt, Lady Maika, that I would be here if I wasn't," came Hyarmenwë's confident reply, but Maika knew better; she could see that he looked worried. Better let him worry about anakronisms, she thought. It's a healthy fear that would keep him safe.

"If you say so. Now, then, shall we?"

Maika stepped out into the hallway, the handsome stranger still standing where he was, and heard the door click shut behind her. She walked ahead, her hair swaying softly behind her. She felt comfortably light without the usual bun weighing her down, and it was evident in the hint of a skip in her stride. Unless the skip had another purpose for its existence that she did not know.

"Where are we headed?" The Gondorian seemed less scared now. Maika smiled, inwardly of course, at his show of bravery.

"For now, the wardrobe. I've arranged our transportation, and it's waiting for us there."

"Surely it's not--"

"Unless you'd rather walk, in which you're more likely to have a lengthy encounter with anakronisms. I don't mind walking."

Maika turned momentarily to Hyarmenwë, who now walked beside her.

"Strange though it sounds for a Gondorian to say it...I trust you, Lady Maika."

"As you should," she curtly replied. They halted in front of the now-familiar wardrobe. There was no sign of the old man they had previously met in sight. Maika thought, amused, that he had been so mistaken then.

"You know the drill," she told Hyarmenwë, and went in. He followed after her, keeping the door unnoticeably, except for the light from outside, open, as he did the last time. Again they stepped into Nurnia, which looked as it did when they first got there: the same field of grain, the same meandering stream from the same distant mountains. But there were new additions: two not-so-strange things, in the form of two shabby, obviously poorly kept, horses.

"I'm sorry," said Maika, "but these are the best I can find. Nobody rides on these in Mordor anymore."

"Fret not, my lady, I can make do with them," responded Hyarmenwë graciously as he approached the horses, and proceeded to stroke the dirty dark brown mane of one. "I'm even surprised you still have horses here with all the...anakronisms..."

Maika walked over to Hyarmenwë. Her long dark hair was flying, now behind her, now covering her face, in the gentle breeze. "They weren't easy to find, but a woman of position has her perks," she said shrugging, and gracefully mounted the other, dirty white, horse. Hyarmenwë followed suit on his.

"Before we leave," he said, "would you mind telling me our next destination?"

"I don't know if you'll believe me if I tell you, but here it is. Somewhere in Mordor lies a strange inn. At least it is strange for us, but for you it would certainly look ordinary. An oasis of rationality, you might even call it."

Hyarmenwë looked at Maika, surprised.

"I knew you would react like that."

"No, my lady, it's just that I have been in such a place before; Lady Alli had brought us Gondorians - apart from Dracomir, that is - there, over a fortnight ago."

Dracomir. Maika frowned ever so slightly at the name. That dirty little...no, she thought, catching herself. Now's not the time.

"Then it must be the same place, because I'm sure no other one exists in this land. That's very good. Now, let us be off."

And off rode the two ambassadors, one glad to be back in his element, the other awkward in the unfamiliar mode of transport, both oblivious to the light footsteps on their trail.

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë and Maika had been travelling for a good hour when a rather attention-demanding cough caused them to turn around. Hyarmenwë, who had been thinking that his sorry nag might not be so sorry if it had a proper grooming, and had been thinking of various ways to go about it, was surprised indeed to see that strange, anakronistic... half-elf person from the laundry room trailing them.

"I beg your pardon, good elder," he addressed Hyarmenwë, "but you've got my handkerchief." He pointed at Hyarmenwë's boot where, indeed, a very dirty, blood-stained handkerchief was stuck. The blood, which had been damp and sticky back in the laundry room had dried, bonding the handkerchief to his boot. With a tug, Hyarmenwë ripped it up, and dourly handed it to Elrogorn.

"Is there any particular reason why you waited a good hour before speaking up?" asked Maika. "I assume you've been following us the whole time?"

"Yes, I've been following," said Elrogorn, "but it took me until now to catch up."

"Why didn't you stop me before I left that... room... or in the halls?" asked Hyarmenwë.

"You were talking," said Elrogorn, as if it were really quite simple. "Far be it from me to rudely interrupt so intriguing a conversation my mundane request for a dirty handkerchief."

"And then, once you had shaken yourself out of this politeness, you followed us on foot for an hour, rather than just shouting and catching our attention?" Maika asked.

"Pretty much, yes," said Elrogorn, flashing her a smile that said he had planned it that way.

"Hold on..." said Hyarmenwë. "These are a couple of sorry nags, but they aren't that slow. You caught up to us on foot? You aren't even out of breath! You're as fresh as a garden vegetable!"

"Why, thank you," said Elrogorn, with a smooth bow. "But I can move quickly when I need to. It runs in the family, really. My uncle Aragorn was known as 'Strider', you know, and my mother's godfather, Tom Bombadil, was well-able to keep pace with hobbits riding ponies, and my legs are much longer than his."

"I still think a wise man would have shouted us down a good fifty-nine minutes ago," interjected Maika. "Why didn't you?"

"Having heard your conversation, my curiosity was piqued," said Elrogorn. "I know the tavern you travel to quite well. As nephew of the great King Elessar, I'm something of the Bonnie Prince Charlie of Mordor- minus the legitimate claim, of course. Though I don't know that the Gondmordorians are really of a Jacobite bent. In any case, as a someone who knows the dangers of Wereducks in the Wild, and having sworn to let none fall to their bills, it is only appropriate that I join the two of you on your journey, and not leave you to their dastardly clutches."

"So, basically, you didn't say anything so that we'd have to let you join us?" said Maika.

"Yes, pretty much," agreed the part-Elf. "I am Elrogorn, son of Elrohir, and if by life or death or something uncanonical I can protect you, I will. You have my sword, and my bow, and my dagger, and my Swiss Army Knife."

Neither Maika or Hyarmenwë said a word, but simply spurred their horses into continuing on, while Elrogorn followed at a trot behind them.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Although there were many winding stairs covered in a great many different kinds of slime, Smilog and his party soon came to the top of the Tower of Small Jim. They ere in a large square room, ten foot high the walls and the ceiling was up held by many thin pillars. On each wall they could see, dimly, the outline of great clock faces, each with a sword painted on them with yellow writing above; yet what the writing said, none could tell, for it was blurred and in a foreign language. "Kids," muttered Smilog, "always graffiti-ing our stuff."

Tollin examined the centre of the room, where there were, suspended three foot off the ground, four large bells, surrounding a larger bell made of brass and steel. All about them was the loudly echoed sound of ticking and the creaking of floorboards whenever they moved. There seemed nothing particularly odd about the place, bar the small group of rats in the corner who appeared to be dressed as 16th Century English aristocrats and drinking gallons of tea.

"I say," Shouted the Barrow Wight as he inspected the clock face closely, "I recognise this."

"You do?" said Smilog, turning suddenly and nearly falling over in the process.

"Yes, quite plainly," the dead man took out a monocle and peered at the face even closer, "it was several years ago when me and some other Wights came here and decided to leave a little message of our own. It simply reads 'The Barrow Downs' those were good times." Smilog resisted the urge to punch the Wight.

"Look at this," said Tollin noticing a part of the floor that appeared to have been recently cut out and replaced. "I think I can open it," continued the Minotaur, "shall I?" Smilog nodded and Tollin lifted the floorboards. Then, several things happened; a horse sneezed, a rat leaped out of the floor and bit The Barrow Wight on the ear, Smilog slipped and smashed through the floor, and Tollin saw a small book in the hole being carried down by gravity, just above Smilog.

There was some crashing and banging before a silence grew once again. "Good grief," said the Barrow Wight, "Smilog, I say!" he cried down the hole, there were some groans from the deeps, "You seem to have fallen down a thirty foot hole."

"I think he knows that," pointed out Tollin, "can you move." Smilog swore at them and muttered something about getting back up if he had to grow wings. "There was a book!" cried Tollin, "can you see it?" there was some muffled cursing and sounds of movement.

"Yes. I have it!" came Smilog's reply.

"What does it say, old bean?" asked The Barrow Wight, taking his pipe out and lighting it.

"It says, 'get me out of here you stupid rotting corpse!'" Smilog threw a rock up, but it did not even get close to the top, but came back down and obviously his him on the head. Tollin rose and stroked his chin, trying to think of a plan.

All of a sudden, the ceiling collapsed and a large figured clothed in an orange robe fell to the floor and then rose up again, gripping a large metal staff. It appeared to be a man, tall and blond with a short stubble and long hair that his threw back. He smiled widely and showed a set of ridiculously white teeth. "Sorry I'm late," he said in an agonisingly arrogant voice, "did I miss anything? I bet you're all glad to see me at last, eh beardy!" he grabbed Tollin and head butted him, "we're all real men here!"

"I'm sorry," said The Barrow Wight, putting his pipe out, "Who are you?" the man punched the Wight in the face and laughed.

"Me?" he laughed, "Who am I? Who am I?"

"Yes, that's what I asked," said The Wight after putting his head back on.

"I'm Flashalim, the fabled orange wizard of the south!" he announced, "you can call me 'Flash'!" he winked and said, "I had some terrible business to sort out back west, but now I'm here to sort out the so-called dark Lord and then take all his birds! Woof!"

The Barrow Wight stared, almost feeling sick. "I don't think they get many in Mordor. The air is too poisonous for them to fly." Flash looked at him for an awful second, then he threw his head back and laughed.

"You're a funny fellow!" he cried, "Now! Let’s get kicking some Sauron backside! And then, to Gondor! Woof!"

After explaining to Flash many times that he was a little late for the war with Sauron, Tollin eventually got around to asking him to help get Smilog out of the hole. "Well," said Flash, standing up and throwing his hair back, "I've got just the spell for this!

Two hours later, Smilog and the rest stood at the bottom of Mount Zoom, peering at the devastated remains of Small Jim. Flash was next to him, covered from head to tow in soot and brick remnant. "Well, wasn't that fantastic?" cried Flash, "Now, it was bucko seeing you ladies, but I've got a Middle Earth to save!" a mysterious rope appeared from no where from the sky. Flash grabbed it and swung off shouting "Woof!"

"I do hope he gets eaten," said Smilog as he watched the 'wizard' fly of towards the homes of the wild Wargs.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli slipped through shadows like it was her job, glaring at the sun for being out and making what action should look impressive and mysterious simply start looking a little creepy. She straightened up and walked normally, her stride long, and her cape (yes, she was wearing a cape... she found it covered her stash of weaponry very tidily) billowed like Batman's frequently did.

She had a lot on her mind, to say the least. Most of it would be transcribed as gibberish, sort of like aoig haorlighw ionawerewolfaweoihg aAimèmmvvvve rrrrIllamatar!!! fjaoi.

She was not entirely sure in which direction she walked... she didn't really care. But she needed information, and she needed a Vision. She'd had no dreams in days; she'd fallen asleep, exhausted, loathing every extra moment spent in Mount Zoom. She'd heard no whispers, seen nothing. And now... a Ranger... killed. There were only so many people, and what if?

She knew some identities... she knew who she could trust, as far as non-wolvery went. But she never entirely knew how reliable her good guy friends were. It was always easier to trust her shady contacts. Bad guys can always be trusted to be bad. You can guarantee their allegiance with money, or with power, or with... well... she didn't really want to go into all the ways to guarantee an alliance with a sketchy dude. But they were reliable, so long as you remembered not to rely on them. And what was better, they all knew she didn't trust a word they said! With good guys, she knew they'd do something really stupid with the least provocation. There wouldn't be logic to it, they'd do it because it was the Right Thing To Do. And when she didn't trust them, half the time they were legitimately insulted. She groaned. Being in charge of all of this stuff was way too much effort and nobody actually appreciated the vast number of papers she spent her work hours ignoring.

She wanted to be in the field again. Being in charge is not fun, she reflected. Going out and slaughtering orcs... that's where the action is. Paperwork... She shuddered.

And then she rounded a corner.

The light had mysteriously dimmed to a horror-movie-graveyard shade of creepy. A shop that seemed to sell some less than legal wares played a sound track of mildly Gothic classical. A black cat ran out in front of her. She wrapped her cloak around her, pulling her hood over her long black hair. She'd tied it back at the nape of her neck, but two long, straight locks still framed her face. Try though she might, she never could stop looking like a supermodel. Even when she was trying to be secretive and creepy. She only came off as looking incredible gorgeous in a secretive and hot creepy way.

Her mind on the blisters her black leather boots were mysteriously beginning to give her, Alli never saw him coming.

[Celuien]

"Do you really thing that's possible, Panakeia? Do you?" Anakron's voice was tense and despairing. Panakeia heard the tone, and cold fear gripped her. It was as though they were back in Lost Angles a week before, when she said her adieu to Anakron near the shores of the Pathetic Ocean, and the gulls cried above in an echo of her grief.

"Oh yes. My love, my darling! It is. Let's go now. We'll leave and never come back. They'll never find us. We'll go far away from here and be happy - as happy as we've been this week."

Anakron did not reply. His handsome face looked troubled, and Panakeia's heart ached with pity for the struggle she read in his eyes. The cloak billowed on the ground, though there was no breeze to stir its folds. Panakeia stared at the cloak and hat, and it seemed to her that the hat grew larger as she watched it. Clouds began to gather in the sky, and she shivered.

At last Anakron spoke. "Yes, I have been happy, though I fear such happiness is not to be my fate."

"No! Don't say that! Don't think it! You can leave. You gave up being the Grand Anakronist. It's over. The wizards have no hold over you."

"But do you not see? They do, and will." Anakron stepped towards the staff with his fingers outstretched.

"Anakron?" Panakeia's voice cracked as she spoke.

Anakron paused, only half-looking at her, and Panakeia leant forward to kiss him. But he did not return the embrace.

"I am sorry." Anakron pulled away and took up the staff. As he did so, a storm blew out of the east. Rain began to pour. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and Anakron's robe waved in the wind.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

He had been lying in the street, in more than one way: prone on the ground, but also faking a serious leg injury to elicit sympathy. Even some burly drunken yobs had thrown him some coins, out of habit rather than care but it's results that matter, ain't it? He had plenty now to get him through another night, although one old lady had (quite rudely) advised him against purchasing another bottle. What would she know? Her measure of the fun in alcohol was probably wine spritzers: she couldn't know what was best for him!

He tried to stand up, and fell over again.

Because drunk people never see the irony, his thoughts passed swiftly to the sweet young thing crossing the street. Despite being wrapped up in black robes, this boy could tell when it was a girl (well, apart from that one time, or was it twice?) Regardless, this was a fine chance to engage with a lady. He had not had much luck with women recently; they tended to run from him and he did not know why.

Sneaking along the road behind her, for this boy was a master of stealth even at 50%, he pondered which line he would give her. He spied a trinket discarded on the ground and picked it up; then he called out: "Oh miss? Didst thou drop this jewel?"

She stopped in her tracks, but relaxed visibly. The man smiled, but this smile quickly turned to a gasp of wonder, for he recognised the girl standing before him. In the least, he was pleased to know that his judgment was accurate, and that the stranger really was a sweet young thing.

"No, Aimé, it's not mine; and besides, it's a pebble." Aimé checked his hand and sure enough the vaunted jewel was a fairly unremarkable rock.

"But it seemed so pretty..." he murmured.

"Poor inebriated Aimé" she said. "I'm glad to see you're not busy these days. I've been meaning to find you. Once we sort you out, we'll move on to business, right?"

"Sort me out?" questioned Aimé. "Whatever do you......Sweet Varda! What's going on?" He had been pulled in front of a looking glass and was forced to stare at what he had become, to confront his demons and behold this pale shadow of his former self. He could scarcely recognise the horrific image before him!

Well, by that I mean he needed a shave and a new suit; but, you know, when you looked so great previously...

"Alli, you're like that little voice of reason I never had."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Love of my life, you've always had me!" And ignoring that it wasn't in the least bit true, because she hadn't always known him, and even when she had, she still had that thing for Mardil, and then that [i]Feanor of the Peredhil showed up and, really, it wasn't so much that Aimè had ever been the love of Alli's life as that they'd got very and truly inebriated together to celebrate the death and destruction of the werewolf kind. They'd danced upon a table, held hands and even, Eru behold, kissed. Probably a few times. But ignoring all of that, Alli allowed for a moment of melodrama and threw her arms around Aimè.

"Oh how I've missed you!" she murmered sadly, and then backed away. "You know... Yeah... We really do need to get you cleaned up."

[Anguirel]

Suddenly Dracomir's head swam and he felt a pulling sensation behind his navel. Skittles too, amidst her leatherclad pre-rampage state, looked rather groggy, and even Hissyfit seemed to quail.

Tom shook his head violently, and the scene began to coalesce into focus again. Skittles' stare was uncharacteristically bewildered as well as angry. The two ambassadors and the cat were now in a completely different area of the Castle.

"Have you done some magical trick again, pretty-boy?" Skittles asked idly, her hand straying to her knife collection.

"This isn't me," Dracomir muttered. "Something...darker...is at work. Have you heard, Lady Skittles, of a grim and ancient incantation of delaying, propelling and postponing known only as a save?"

"No," Skittles confessed.

"Neither have I, really," Tom said with a shrug, "but I suspect that whatever it is, it's behind this mystery." I solemnly swear to fill in my save within 48 hours. Was Abraxas' enchanted map secretly involving him in powers beyond his control?

The corridor that the three reluctant companions now found themselves in was not especially exceptional. It was dusty, and dark almost to blackness, lit only by a single window, punctuated by graffiti and trophies from the Orcish Waterpolo Tournaments.

But ahead of them sprawled the distinguishing factor.

The horrifically mauled body of a man in a cloak of elven-grey, his eyes, still open and staring piteously upwards, the cold, commanding grey favoured by brooding romantic heroes, his ancient brand smashed to shards.

"A Ranger of the North," Dracomir muttered suspiciously. "But what could have been his bane?"

[Diamond18]

Skittles bent down and sniffed the corpse.

"Sulphiric residue," she announced sagely. "A sign of demonic presence. Possibly this is the work of a being possessed by an evil spirit."

She straightened and cast her gaze around the hall in a dark, stormy, ulta serious fashion. "Only one creature attacks in so bestial a manner and is possessed by an evil spirit."

Hissyfit made a comment to the effect that it wasn't her, if that's what Skittles was implying, but Skittles ignored her because it was, in fact, not what she was implying at all.

She looked at Tom for a long moment, and he looked back, conveniently speechless so as to preserve the gravity of the meaningful silence. Then, they said in unison:

"A werewolf!"

"A wereduck!"

There was a moment of confusion, then Skittles said, "I said wereduck."

"Well, I said werewolf," said Tom haughtily.

"It's clearly the work of a wereduck. Possibly several of the flockers," Skittles insisted.

"Don't be daft," Tom snorted. "See the claw marks? The tufts of fur left behind?"

"Silly boy, wereducks have claws on their little webbed feet. And that could be down tufts." Skittles crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. "Are we gonna have to fight about this?"

Tom thought for a moment, then suggested, "Maybe it's a werewolf and a wereduck working in conjunction? A fowl alliance?"

Skittles eyes lit up, despite the overused pun. "Bingo!" she cried, snapping open a gleaming blade. "You get the wolf, I'll go for the duck."

[Anguirel]

Dracomir nodded in a way that seemed both solemn and flippant, if that were possible.

"We shall strike at night, then, Skittles, and track down these fow...I mean, vile, creatures. I know you once dreamt, m'lady, of becoming a great oak tree."

Skittles stepped back, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, but the pseudo-Gondorian continued.

"And one day, without doubt, you shall be. But now is not the moment. You must take upon yourself the sacred duty of being a Hawk."

"Kreee kriii skkrrr krigh," Skittles answered, which was Hawkish for "Yes, and you shall be a Werewolf Hunter."

"We shall convene in the evenings to discuss our next moves," Malfoidacil went on sagely. "The culprits could be anyone in this castle. Even one of the other ambassadors. We must tell no one and never let our guard down. And, in strict confidence, I'll tell you who I'm suspecting most at the moment."

"Lola?" Skittles hissed. "Krree krivamp krree."

"One better," Tom replied. "I'm off to keep an appointment with the Spymaster of Mordor, Lady Alli..."

With that, he turned and Disapparated.

[littlemanpoet]

The rain poured down.

"Panakeia, get you gone from Mordor."

"But-"

The sky was becoming darker with swirling cloud.

"I must stay. I have no choice."

"No! I-"

Wind swirled with increasing speed in chaotic directions.

"You will leave Mordor. I cannot now be held responsible for what may happen to you."

Panakeia was soaked through by now and the picture of despondency. Anakron could not tell whether her face was soaked with tears or rain or both. It did not matter.

"If you will not leave, then I must leave you. You have been warned!" With that, Anakron left her by the Eye Tail Yam Guard Tons or whatever the place was called. He had been duped by the Blue Istari. There was no escape. They were evil and had every intention of corrupting him. Resistance had proved futile. Rage seethed within him. He walked quickly, his robe billowing about him in the wind, heedless of the rain and lightning and thunder and frenzied people running for shelter which could barely be found in these Guard Tons. Ridiculous name.

He was going to konvey something. But the last times he had tried, things had gone awry. How had that been possible? Were the Blue Istari losing power? He doubted it. No, it must be that they were trying to confuse and frustrate him. So be it.

After a few miles more of walking he came to Caer Pairadocks and stood on the pier before the billowing sea of Nurn. He raised his staff, which howled in feline ferocity.

"Ankronism! Konvey as never before! Find that which is the most horrible force from the terrible age from which these anakronisms come! Bring it down upon all our heads! Kaos come! Konveeeeeeey!!"

Anakron felt the staff vibrate and the kat did katerwawl most fiercely, and afterward began to hak as if in a fit of hairball choking as never before, for all it could get out was "ism! ism! ism!" It was a strange thing for a kat to choke out. The wind picked up the sound and instead of kaotic howling, it carried the call and into the city of Lûndûn, screaming the strange utterance - "Ism!! Ism!! Ism!!" - unceasingly.

Anakron did not see all that happened next, but it was reported to him later.

Orks opened their eyes, which became suddenly fierce. "Ism! Ism! Ism!" Some force seemed to kollectivize them into armies of indoktrination and soon armed kontingents of orks were prowling the city calling out "Marks - Ism! Marks - Ism! Marks - Ism!" Bystanders fled in fear.

Trolls in their university chairs raised their ugly heads and heard the strange kry as far away as Kirith Ungol University. "Ism. Ism. Ism." They gathered together in deeply serious filosofikal groups, marching throught he streets, intoning, "Dialektik-Ism .... Dialektik-Ism" None knew whether they were dangerous, but most feared that somehow they were.

All over Mordor little groups became infected with the Ism konveyance, and formed bigger groups until there were armies of opposing Isms all over the land. All in a single day.

[Anguirel]

Dracomir reappeared on another floor, having travelled, as far as he'd gathered, in the general direction of Alli's office. He felt rather queasy from all this teleportation, whether save-induced or Apparation, and had he known of the crushing sloth of his writer, who was eager to skip further scenes wandering about in corridors, he would have been unhappy, possibly murderously so. But as it was he had no choice and no scapegoat.

With vague memories of hangovers after cast parties in some impossibly remote other life, Tom lurched about, his hair flopping into his eyes. Until, that is, he was instantly frozen in place by a spell that silently but firmly froze him where he was.

"You look a disgrace to the House of Black, boy," a haughty voice announced. Tom ticked the boxes in his head. Aristocratic belief system, husky voice, stiletto heel clinks-it had to be Auntie Bellatrix. As she walked round into Dracomir's sight, her face of dramatically ruin'd beauty faced his. She looked like a cross between Helen McCrory and Helena Bonham-Carter. Blasted casting department, Tom thought, they should really make their minds up.

"And where are you off to, weakling whelp of worthy wizards?" Bellatrix asked (her mastery of Anglo-Saxon poetic techniques was one of her most attractive, but lesser-known, interests). Of course Dracomir, paralysed, could not reply, but he guessed she must be attempting to read his mind, or rather "examine the fickle skeins of mortal thought" or whatever you called mind-reading to make it sound more impressive.

With supreme boredom, Malfoidacil mentally replied to his aunt, That won't work, you taught me Occlumency, remember? Now any chance of letting me go to get to my vital meeting with the Lady Spymaster?

Bellatrix let out a proud laugh. "Lady Spymaster? Miss Umfuil? You are much mistaken, boy. Lord Roggie trusts in me alone, his most faithful friend and servant unto death!"

Dracomir rolled his eyes. Bellatrix Lestrange had a bad Dark Lord complex. She always deluded herself that she was the most favoured minion of whatever supervillain happened to be hanging about. Voldy, naturally, Lord Asriel for a while, and, lord, that stint with Blofeld didn't bear thinking about. Roggie was apparently her latest idol.

Her stay at the Evil Single Ladies Motel with Jadis, Mrs Coulter and all those other ladettes hadn't exactly improved things.

Bellatrix released Dracomir with a flick of her pitch-black wand. "A touch of discipline is what you need, boy. Now. I have orders straight from..." she looked about carefully, "...Those-Who-Must-Not-Be Named..."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Within a Mordorian amount of unspecified but unnecessarily lengthy, just to be obnoxious, time, Aimè was clean, sober, and smelling deliciously of feminine swoon inducement. It took all of Alli's will to keep her mind on the subject at hand.

"Aimè, we have a problem. We killed Mario... the Dweomer brought him back, as well as J.Lo. Whether or not they are wolves still eludes me, and I am not cool with that lack of knowledge. Illamatar is silent and my sources are unaware of the problem and therefore do not know to look for anything.

"There was an attack in the palace, Aimè... last night... my Ranger died. It was not Mario... he has an alibi... something to do with mushrooms and a princess, and that doesn't much sound plausible, but we're in Mordor, so quite frankly..." She trailed off for a moment, sipping some Jack and Coke. "I do not know where Lopez is... she could be anywhere. So my options are that Lopez attacked last night under my very nose, or that the third wolf, never identified, is in the palace slaughtering... or... there are more now.

"Aimè... what in Eru's name am I supposed to do? I'm in danger... if they find out I'm the Seer... they'll kill me. I'm their biggest threat... Aimè..." her voice fell to a whisper. "I don't want to die."

[Celuien]

Panakeia shivered in the small yellow building, her soaked dress clinging to her in folds while the wind drove yet more stinging raindrops under the roof of her inadequate shelter. Anakron's departure left her numb, and she stared blankly at the rapidly overflowing fountains. The courtyard flooded, and might have continued to flood until the entire Guard Ton was swept away if not for an outflow at the end opposite Panakeia where the rising waters could spill over to join the Sir Pen Time.

All was lost. Panakeia felt that her final battle with the Blue Istari for Anakron had been fought to a bitter end. She could do nothing more. That knowledge settled into her, and all the warmth she had felt turned to a leaden ache. Half dazed, she walked into the rain, not knowing or caring that the rain poured in ever greater torrents. Lûndûn moved past her. The streets were filled with columns of marching Orcs, chanting in an incomprehensible rhythm. They joined the muddle of scenery, and Panakeia did not learn until much later what they meant.

At the end of her walk, Panakeia found herself back in her flat, looking like nothing so much as a recently bathed cat. With no clear plan in mind, she opened a chest in her closet. Reaching into the bottom of the chest, Panakeia pulled out a faded green traveling dress and hooded brown cloak, relics of her first journey from the ruins of her childhood home. For many long years, they had lain forgotten in the trunk, but now she put them on as old friends. She had left one ruin, and they would join her in her flight from her latest tragedy.

The trunk did not remain emptied long. Panakeia's valuables soon filled it to the brim. As she was about to close it, she took a final glance around the flat. One more item caught her notice. She wrapped it in a scarf and gently slipped the package into a corner of the trunk before locking the lid.

Then came a flurry of packing. Much was left behind, but Panakeia forgot nothing of importance. Venturing into the rain again, she waved down a taxi, took her bags, and left Lûndûn.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Picking up a tree root that had been caught in the wheel of Mount Zoom, Tollin made a torch, for the night (and indeed the day) of Mordor was black and terrible. They followed Sauron's road up the Mountain for a while, not talking, but sometimes, Smilog would grumble something incoherent. The Barrow Wight took out a pipe and began to blow smoke as they walked; he was the only member of the party who didn't seem annoyed or unhappy.

"Wait a moment!" cried Tollin, stooping to the ground, "these are strange tracks." Smilog looked down and saw weird shapes on the floor. It looked like tracks made by webbed feet.

"It seems odd thing have been going on," said Smilog, "we've been out of the mountain too long. I'd better find the other delegates and see what has been decided." There was a small opening just above them, the same hole made by Tollin in an earlier adventure. Swiftly they clambered up and entered inside the Mountain. All around them they could see Orcs looking afraid and suspicious of everything; they regarded Tollin especially suspiciously.

"What has happened here, old boy?" asked The Barrow Wight as a small Orc passed by.

"Don't know," it replied, "some are saying there has been murder in the Mountain. Werewolves, or worse."

"What could be worse?" asked another Orc.

"Were-ducks." said Smilog, laughing.

"How did you know?" cried the first Orc in amazement.

"Eh?" said the Dwarf, "you cannot be serious." the Orc nodded solemnly and then dashed off. "Ah, who cares," Smilog snorted, "I've had enough adventure so far. Whatever this is can sort itself out."

[Formendacil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[littlemanpoet]

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

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

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

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

The threesome were commenting on Were-ducks and werewolves.

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

[Celuien]

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

"Stop here."

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

[Hookbill the Goomba]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____

Ten Months earlier...

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

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

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

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

"I beg your pardon!" He exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____

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

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

"Morinehtar..." Dracomir suggested,

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

"...and Romestamo..."

"Their names must not be uttered!"

"What, you mean Alatar and Pallando?"

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

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

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

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

[Diamond18]

After DracoTom’s departure Skittles spent a great deal of time pretending to be a hawk. This involved preening her feathers; swooping down upon small rodents, breaking their necks, and eating them; and flying. Flying in this case simply being running about with her arms extended.

Hissyfit yawned wide. “Lord, I am so bored,” she said. She had briefly enjoyed hunting rodents with Skittles, especially as she relished swallowing the small beings whole. To achieve this feat, she first chomped on the cranium to break up the skull and made it more palatable going down. But perhaps that is too much true-to-life detail, so let us merely say that she relished the rodents, but was now full and bored.

“It’s not yet nightfall,” Skittles told her.

“So?”

“We must wait till nightfall to reconvene with DracoTom and make our move.”

“Says who?”

“Says the aforementioned pale wizard, that’s who.”

“Since when do you take orders from that freak?”

Skittles stopped and lowered her arms. “That’s a good question,” she mused. “I don’t take orders from anyone! Besides Roggie and Alli, anyway! And occasionally Ms Martinet! And my parents! Also, the muffin man.”

“The muffin man?”

“Yes, the muffin man. Do you know the muffin man?”

“The one who lives on Drury Lane?”

“Yes. Anyway, I don’t take orders from Malfelton. So there’s no need to wait till night and reconvene.”

Hissyfit flicked her tail and nodded. “What shall we do?”

“Hunt wereducks, of course.”

“Wreck havoc? Cause mass hysteria?”

“If said wrecking and causing is done to wereducks, yes.” Skittles turned on her heel and stalked off down the corridor. “Come along, then, we have to round up the likely suspects and jump to conclusions and make vague statements and overuse conjunctives.”

Hissyfit trotted off after her, ears perked up with anticipation.

[littlemanpoet]

"What's this about lycanthropy?" Anakron asked the Minotaur, the Dwarf, and the Barrow Wight.

They walked away, and into the mountain. Anakron stared after them in disbelief. No one ignored the Grand Anakronist. It was simply unheard of. Or, perhaps it was better to say that no one ignored the Grand Anakronist for long. Not if he could help it. He stomped after them.

~*~

Many hours later, still following the threesome as they apparently had gotten themselves completely lost, without the aid of any anakronisms(!), Anakron saw the Dwarf accosted by a little man who was clearly in a blithering rage. The man accused the Dwarf of having killed his son. Next moment (or two), the Dwarf, followed quickly by the Minotaur and the Barrow Wight, fled right by him, again as if he was not even there. Most peculiar. Have I been rendered invisible by this staff? But Panakeia could see me. Anakron shrugged. The little man charged after them, apparently taking no notice of him either.

If nobody sees me, then why should I stay here?

Anakron began looking for an exit to Mount Zoom.

After a while he heard footsteps coming from ahead of him. He wondered who it might be, and if he would be noticed. He stopped and waited.

[JennyHallu]

Lola sat perched gracefully and precariously on the corner of her desk, long legs extended and one ungloved long-fingered hand reaching down to test the quality of the waxing job she'd had done on her recent mission. She'd just arrived back, stopping in the office to sort through the mail even before she'd taken off her thick fur coat. It had been her idea to have a contact placed in the staff of the "Sea of Nurn Day Spa", a skilled masseuse in fact. Alli'd given her a suspicious look when she'd received the proposal, but Lola's poker face was legend. She'd calmly explained that it was an unrivaled position to overhear the words of the rich and famous, and Alli, rolling her eyes, had given in. Lola rolled her shoulders luxuriously. Debriefing had taken an especially long time this week.

When the door opened unexpectedly, Lola didn't even look up, much less cover her extended leg. She deftly adjusted the tops of her hose and garters and looked up at the man facing her from under long, thick black lashes, platinum blond hair (with brand-new honey blond highlights) falling over her eyes with its usual perfection.

[Kath]

Igor had been standing on the balcony staring out at the scenery for a long time, but the frequent stopping and starting caused by that unpredictable thing known as a save had affected even his stomach and he began to think that perhaps he should go inside and see if the negotiations had restarted yet. Of course, for that to happen everyone would have to be in the same room, and since it took most of a day to even find all the ambassadors let alone convince them to leave off what ever it was they were doing, that probably wasn't going to happen.

As he mused Igor felt the first few drops of rain hit his head, and looked up just in time to see the skies open and a deluge of water begin to fall. He reached for his trusty umbrella, which was always kept in a pocket somewhere, but found that it had inexplicably become a missing umbrella. Well, perhaps not quite so inexplicably he thought darkly, remembering the covetous looks a certain Gondorian negotiator had been gracing the item to recently.

Turning on his good heel Igor marched back inside, for once allowing his now wet feet to slap against the floor to show his annoyance. This whole arrangement was beginning to get to him, and he just wanted to find a way to take his mind off it for a bit. Perhaps finding a good book to read, though that was generally hard considering little of a good nature had ever been assigned to this land.

Again lost in his thoughts Igor failed to notice the man in front of him until a sharp knock on the head brought him back to the present. Pressing a hand to the slowly forming lump he glared at the staff which had delivered the blow, and then allowed his gaze to fall upon the person holding it.

"You don't have to hit me with things to get my attention you know." He said, forgoing the habitual lisp and hoping the Grand Anakronist would see the humour in his words and not turn him into anything ... unnatural.

[Celuien]

Down, down, down into the valley went Panakeia, all the while tripping over flowers of many bright and cheery colors. As she went down the slope, she began to think that she had found a place where she might be, if not happy - for what happiness was there without Anakron? - at least content.

She reached the bottom. No flowers were to be seen at the bottom of the basin.

"Where have all the flowers gone?" she cried.

"Young girls picked them, every one," came a sudden reply from a not-so-young girl, wearing a wreath of flowers in her hair.

Slowly, other garlanded people approached. A circle formed around Panakeia.

"When will they ever learn?" they sang.

"Uh. I don't know." Panakeia was suddenly nervous. She didn't like being surrounded, particularly after the cab driver's frightened reaction to the valley.

"Where are you going?" another asked.

"I don't know. There is no place I'm going, really."

"Come along then. Follow the Tambourine Man." A tambourine was readily found, and a song was played, and all went following, sweeping Panakeia up in the midst of the parade.

[littlemanpoet]

It was Igor. "You don't have to hit me with things to get my attention you know."

Anakron stared at the loose-eyed man in consternation. "You can see me."

"Of course I can see you!" Igor picked himself up off the ground, reinserting a wayward eyeball, reattaching his right pinky, and lastly adjusting the fit of his left ear which had been hanging precariously by a bit of flesh. Anakron forced himself not to retch.

"Oh." Anakron was momentarily at a loss.

"What's the matter? Did your invisibility potion wear off or something?"

Anakron looked at Igor, agianst his will, afraid he'd see a tooth or nose dangling. The face, thankfully, was staying in place. Except for that dratted eye.

"No. That Dwarf, Minotaur, and Barrow Wight apparently couldn't see me, so I thought that maybe I had been rendered invisisble by some aspect of the anakronism dweomer. Apparently it is not so. But if that is the case, then I was visible to them the whole time and they simply ignored me." This had all been said only half in Igor's direction; Anakron had been speaking just as much to himself. Now he eyed Igor. "But you ignored me too, at first. Why!?" Anakron raised his staff threateningly, Sylvester yowling menacingly.

[Diamond18]

“Aha!” cried Skittles, jumping out from the shadows. “I smell a conspiracy. A connection. An evil alliance, of sorts. Now what business could the two of you have to discuss in a out-of-the-way, shadowy corridor?”

Anakron and Igör gave her blank stares. “What are you on about?” asked the Grand Anarkonist, grandly.

“There are Wereducks afoot. Or should I say, aweb?” Skittles informed them. “And I’m on the lookout for suspicious behavior. Like odd fraternization between parties not given to regular fraternization. What, praytell my pretties, are you discussing in so cloistered an area?”

“Invisibility,” supplied Igör.

“Or, being ignored,” Anakron put in.

Hissyfit sauntered up and sat down next to Skittles, taking a moment to smooth down the hairs on her chest before observing, “They don’t look very ducky to me.”

“Oh?” Skittles raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly do you consider as ‘ducky’?”

“Well, if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and waddles like a duck, it’s a duck.”

“Igör has been known to waddle.”

Igör wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”

Skittles ignored him, attending to Hissyfit, who replied, “But he doesn’t have any feathers.”

“That doesn’t mean anything during the day.”

“I think,” Anakron said to Igör, “she is speaking to her cat.” Sylvestor, who had been yowling before Skittles rudely interrupted, uttered an impatient bleat to remind everyone that he was still around and he was ready to put the whammy on somebody.

Hissyfit forgot her duck-assessment for a moment and looked at the staff, her tail fuzzing out like a woolly bear caterpillar. “What is that?” she hissed.

Skittles shrugged. “It’s a cat on a stick. You act like you’ve never seen one before.”

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Did you just see someone?" asked Tollin as they came to the lower floor, "only, I could have sworn I just..." he paused as Smilog was placing furniture against the door to the stairway while Palthwait hammered against it. "It doesn’t matter." They marched away as blares of insults and obscenities rolled out from behind the door. Smilog looked around, trying to work out where they were, but most of Mount Doom was the same, Roggie had not really gone into decorating in a big way.

The Barrow Wight took out a long pipe and began blowing smoke all around as they passed several casinos. Suddenly they heard a great BOOM. "The door!" cried Smilog, "he's got through! Run!" and that is what they did. The sounds of thundering footsteps reverberated around the Mountain.

"You cursed creature!" boomed Palthwait, "I shall catch you and kill you in a thousand different ways! Then I'll do it again! Just for the fun of it!" Smilog dashed into one of the closed rooms and Tollin piled things against the door. Fortunately Palthwait went right past the room, still booming and stomping. The Dwarf breathed a sigh of relief and sat on the floor, surveying his surroundings. It was full of food.

"I say," said the Barrow Wight, "this must be some sort of store room. Jolly good! I could do with a snack!" he stepped forth and stamped accidentally on a large cockroach. This was incredibly fortunate as this cockroach was the physical manifestation of the last remaining Nazgûl who, after nearly spending all his life force on getting a physical form again, planned to destroy the world in a strange and weird way. He'd now have to start all over again.

"I'd like some cake," said Tollin, they all ate their fill and put as much as they could into their packs before leaving the room. Smilog looked left and right to make sure they were not being perused. It was clear. So, they dashed back to where the door had been. There was now only a giant hole in the wall edged with ash smouldering embers and bits of feathers.

"Anakronisms." muttered Smilog, "He must be one of them. I hate them." They plodded up the stairs slowly and wearily, for the food they carried was heavy. At the top, Tollin spotted Igor and Skittles talking, or, as anyone who has been in a conversation with Skittles will tell you, it was more likely that Igor was simply listening.

[Kath]

Used by now to Skittles and her madness Igor thought it best to answer Anakron's earlier question and let Skittles and her cat come to an agreement before they spoke with her again. In any case, whatever Skittles' current state of mind, Anakron was the one talking softly while carrying a big stick, and a stick that could do some very nasty things to you at that.

"I didn't mean to ignore you." He said, hoping his still rolling eye wouldn't be taken as sarcasm. "I was just in a bad mood and wasn't looking where I was going. It wasn't until that knock on the head that I even realised anything was there."

The Grand Anakronist was watching the interplay between Hissyfit and Sylvestor with interest, and Igor wasn't sure if he'd heard him so he continued.

"I was wondering when we were going to find out what was going on after all those noises last night. Alli did pop in for a second to say she'd explain but then she disappeared again before she could."

"What noises?" Anakron asked suddenly, turning to Igor with a confused look.

"What noises? The noises that kept us all up half the night. There were screams and howls and now it seems that everyone thinks it was werewolves."

"Wereducks." Came a voice.

"Sorry, or possibly wereducks." Igor added. "I don't suppose you know anything about all this?"