Thread: ATM II RPG
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Old 06-24-2006, 05:19 PM   #137
Celuien
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Join Date: May 2005
Location: Assigned to Mordor
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Time washed over Panakeia like the sands of Ml-in-B 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.
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