ATM II RPG

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The buffet table had been cast across the room several times during Mount Doom's various travels recently. Smilog sat on his chair only to find half an egg sandwich already occupying it, he scowled and looked around. Several of the other delegates were looking confused even before Skittles left. The whole situation was getting weirder all the time. Tollin scooped up a large slice of chicken that only had one footprint on; he sniffed it and then ate it with a sigh.

"What is supposed to be going on now?" asked Smilog, peering out of the door only to see Skittles far off down the corridor and turning down a side passage, "do we continue negotiations or do we-" he was cut short as someone threw a chair at him. He lay on the floor dazed and unconscious. The Barrow Wight blew some smoke from his pipe and sat down, looking at the dwarf.

"Bad luck old bean," he said, "we'd better find something to do. We can't sit around on our backsides all day accomplishing nothing. That’s what politicians do. I say-" he paused as some of the delegates eyed him with evil eyes. "Well, jolly good show. What, what?" he moved to the door and dragged Smilog to his chair and sat him down. "Well, get on with your meeting... I'll be... somewhere else." the Wight dashed to the door, only to forget to open it and knock half his bones off as he hit the floor.

[the guy who be short]

Angawen snapped back to reality at the word "war." Normally, she wouldn't let her mind wander during any such meeting; she had time to be retrospective afterwards. But the meeting with Tugwubs in the little inn had annoyed her. He had seemed so normal, yet it turned out that he himself was an anakronism. She had shuddered that one seeming so normal could be so, and cursed the land where this was possible.

She turned to Maikaelwen, or Maika as she liked to be called. Angawen could not see why. The schwa at the end of her name was repulsive to one learned in high Elven speech.

"We have no need of mini-Palantíri in Gondor. Think of the evil our citizens could contrive with such devices... And I do not believe that these small metallic items of yours could ever rival the great Palantíri of old. May I see one?"

Maika handed her phone over, to a squeal of excitement from Smilog and a warning from Hyarmenwë.

"Do not worry, Hyarmenwë. I wish only to inspect this." She fingered it before handing it back to Maika. "I doubt such a device could survive a fall from the heights of Orthanc. We may, however, accept these if they were to be melted down and sold in bars."

"Oh, you can't drink them!" Smilog interjected, jumping up from his chair. All eyes turned to him. "Trust me, metal doesn't make for good eating or drinking - a Dwarf should know. Stick to ale."

All eyes turned away from him. A faint "oh" of comprehension floated over from behind, which they duly ignored.

Maika shifted to her other leg, and something almost resembling a frown flitted across her face. "It would be pointless to melt them down, but I do not see why we should not export metal, as Hyarmenwë-" she stopped short as she turned to him, for he was staring away into the middle distance.

"Hyarmenwë!" Angawen snapped firmly, "pay attention!"

"Sorry... but the Dwarf speaks wisely, albeit by mischance! Ale! Surely Mordor produces ale? This would be an acceptable export, a more than welcome one, providing production procedures are orthodox," the old man ejaculated.

Angawen and Dracomir nodded their assent, and turned expectantly to Maika.

[Lhunardawen]

With a casual wipe of her cellphone with her cardigan, Maika succeeded in diverging the Gondorians' attention from her eyes and her silence--particularly Angawen's, who scowled as though she found the gesture insulting. Maika needed time to think; she knew nothing that could satisfy their expectant looks. For one, never before had she drunk any alcoholic beverage, or indeed ever found the desire to; she was way too obsessed with keeping herself under total control to engage in such a frivolity. And surely, this counted as reason number two, there was a law! Minors under the age of twenty-one were not to be sold alcohol, she seemed to remember seeing somewhere...in Lost Angles, perhaps? It did not matter this time, Maika thought impatiently, all that mattered was that she was in danger of being revealed for the mere child that she actually was!

As she gently rubbed the hem of the cardigan on the cellphone screen, she mentally cursed Skittles and Igör for running off and leaving her alone. But she held no power over them, she admitted, and she would not give the Gondorians the pleasure of witnessing an argument among them three--or rather, between her and the two of them. Maika was simply relieved that the Gondorians did not tell her off for letting Skittles and Igör go when she just previously told Hyarmenwë to sit down.

Flipping the cellphone over to its back, which she rubbed a bit more vigorously, she looked around the table, almost hoping that by glancing at the vacated seats Skittles and Igör would reappear to her rescue. The Gondorians, Maika was amused to see, were still staring at her cellphone curiously...then her eyes fell on the Dwarf.

Never before--or ever again, one could safely suspect--did she feel grateful for Smilog's presence.

"Ale..." Maika repeated softly, merely moments later as she put her cellphone back in her pocket. With the slightest hint of a smile playing on her lips, she turned back to Angawen.

"Smilog was making a subtle suggestion that none of us but Hyarmenwë was perceptive enough to pick up, and for that we apologise," she added, nodding to Smilog, whose eyes popped on the verge of falling off. "Now, Smilog dear, you were saying? What about ale?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Well," said Smilog suddenly feeling more important that he usually did, but this was cur short as a knife flew past his head and stuck into the side of his chair. One of the delegates had thrown it and was now looking at the Dwarf in a strange manner.

"Sorry," said the delegate, "his voice is making me sick."

"As I was saying," continued the dwarf, "... I" he paused and thought for a moment, "I can't remember what I was saying." there was a groan from the other delegates, "Oh, ale!" he cried, "something about ale. Well, its good for the stomach! But alas, there is no good ale in Mordor. Well, with the exception of Roggie's good store. That stuff knocks your socks off!" he licked his lips and remembered the taste.

The Barrow Wight had now pulled himself together and then produced the remaining bottle of Roggie's ale that he had not drunk yet. They passed it around and some had a taste. It defiantly was good stuff. No wonder Roggie locked himself in his chamber for days on end! "Jolly fine stuff I say, what - what?" the Wight announced as he stood on a chair, "problem is, there was only a small amount of the stuff in the old blighter's cabinet."

"Wait a moment," said Smilog, thinking aloud, "before the Mountain started moving, I... erm... investigated Roggie's ale cupboard and there were only three bottles there. Yet, later on when everyone was there, the cupboard was full... not for long, but it was. He must have a larger store somewhere."

The now empty bottle smashed on the wall just behind Smilog's head and an almost inebriated delegate stumbled up to him and said, "you'd better find it, or I'll do something horrible about that face and then play some cards with my buddies and then we'll all go to-" he fell asleep.