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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.
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