Thread: ATM II RPG
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Old 06-09-2006, 11:11 AM   #68
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Join Date: Mar 2005
Location: The 1590s
Posts: 2,825
Anguirel is a guest of Tom Bombadil.
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...
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