[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.