Thread: ATM II RPG
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Old 06-08-2006, 11:09 PM   #64
Formendacil
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Formendacil is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Formendacil is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Formendacil is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Formendacil is lost in the dark paths of Moria.
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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.
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