ATM II RPG

[littlemanpoet]

The rain poured down.

"Panakeia, get you gone from Mordor."

"But-"

The sky was becoming darker with swirling cloud.

"I must stay. I have no choice."

"No! I-"

Wind swirled with increasing speed in chaotic directions.

"You will leave Mordor. I cannot now be held responsible for what may happen to you."

Panakeia was soaked through by now and the picture of despondency. Anakron could not tell whether her face was soaked with tears or rain or both. It did not matter.

"If you will not leave, then I must leave you. You have been warned!" With that, Anakron left her by the Eye Tail Yam Guard Tons or whatever the place was called. He had been duped by the Blue Istari. There was no escape. They were evil and had every intention of corrupting him. Resistance had proved futile. Rage seethed within him. He walked quickly, his robe billowing about him in the wind, heedless of the rain and lightning and thunder and frenzied people running for shelter which could barely be found in these Guard Tons. Ridiculous name.

He was going to konvey something. But the last times he had tried, things had gone awry. How had that been possible? Were the Blue Istari losing power? He doubted it. No, it must be that they were trying to confuse and frustrate him. So be it.

After a few miles more of walking he came to Caer Pairadocks and stood on the pier before the billowing sea of Nurn. He raised his staff, which howled in feline ferocity.

"Ankronism! Konvey as never before! Find that which is the most horrible force from the terrible age from which these anakronisms come! Bring it down upon all our heads! Kaos come! Konveeeeeeey!!"

Anakron felt the staff vibrate and the kat did katerwawl most fiercely, and afterward began to hak as if in a fit of hairball choking as never before, for all it could get out was "ism! ism! ism!" It was a strange thing for a kat to choke out. The wind picked up the sound and instead of kaotic howling, it carried the call and into the city of Lûndûn, screaming the strange utterance - "Ism!! Ism!! Ism!!" - unceasingly.

Anakron did not see all that happened next, but it was reported to him later.

Orks opened their eyes, which became suddenly fierce. "Ism! Ism! Ism!" Some force seemed to kollectivize them into armies of indoktrination and soon armed kontingents of orks were prowling the city calling out "Marks - Ism! Marks - Ism! Marks - Ism!" Bystanders fled in fear.

Trolls in their university chairs raised their ugly heads and heard the strange kry as far away as Kirith Ungol University. "Ism. Ism. Ism." They gathered together in deeply serious filosofikal groups, marching throught he streets, intoning, "Dialektik-Ism .... Dialektik-Ism" None knew whether they were dangerous, but most feared that somehow they were.

All over Mordor little groups became infected with the Ism konveyance, and formed bigger groups until there were armies of opposing Isms all over the land. All in a single day.

[Anguirel]

Dracomir reappeared on another floor, having travelled, as far as he'd gathered, in the general direction of Alli's office. He felt rather queasy from all this teleportation, whether save-induced or Apparation, and had he known of the crushing sloth of his writer, who was eager to skip further scenes wandering about in corridors, he would have been unhappy, possibly murderously so. But as it was he had no choice and no scapegoat.

With vague memories of hangovers after cast parties in some impossibly remote other life, Tom lurched about, his hair flopping into his eyes. Until, that is, he was instantly frozen in place by a spell that silently but firmly froze him where he was.

"You look a disgrace to the House of Black, boy," a haughty voice announced. Tom ticked the boxes in his head. Aristocratic belief system, husky voice, stiletto heel clinks-it had to be Auntie Bellatrix. As she walked round into Dracomir's sight, her face of dramatically ruin'd beauty faced his. She looked like a cross between Helen McCrory and Helena Bonham-Carter. Blasted casting department, Tom thought, they should really make their minds up.

"And where are you off to, weakling whelp of worthy wizards?" Bellatrix asked (her mastery of Anglo-Saxon poetic techniques was one of her most attractive, but lesser-known, interests). Of course Dracomir, paralysed, could not reply, but he guessed she must be attempting to read his mind, or rather "examine the fickle skeins of mortal thought" or whatever you called mind-reading to make it sound more impressive.

With supreme boredom, Malfoidacil mentally replied to his aunt, That won't work, you taught me Occlumency, remember? Now any chance of letting me go to get to my vital meeting with the Lady Spymaster?

Bellatrix let out a proud laugh. "Lady Spymaster? Miss Umfuil? You are much mistaken, boy. Lord Roggie trusts in me alone, his most faithful friend and servant unto death!"

Dracomir rolled his eyes. Bellatrix Lestrange had a bad Dark Lord complex. She always deluded herself that she was the most favoured minion of whatever supervillain happened to be hanging about. Voldy, naturally, Lord Asriel for a while, and, lord, that stint with Blofeld didn't bear thinking about. Roggie was apparently her latest idol.

Her stay at the Evil Single Ladies Motel with Jadis, Mrs Coulter and all those other ladettes hadn't exactly improved things.

Bellatrix released Dracomir with a flick of her pitch-black wand. "A touch of discipline is what you need, boy. Now. I have orders straight from..." she looked about carefully, "...Those-Who-Must-Not-Be Named..."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Within a Mordorian amount of unspecified but unnecessarily lengthy, just to be obnoxious, time, Aimè was clean, sober, and smelling deliciously of feminine swoon inducement. It took all of Alli's will to keep her mind on the subject at hand.

"Aimè, we have a problem. We killed Mario... the Dweomer brought him back, as well as J.Lo. Whether or not they are wolves still eludes me, and I am not cool with that lack of knowledge. Illamatar is silent and my sources are unaware of the problem and therefore do not know to look for anything.

"There was an attack in the palace, Aimè... last night... my Ranger died. It was not Mario... he has an alibi... something to do with mushrooms and a princess, and that doesn't much sound plausible, but we're in Mordor, so quite frankly..." She trailed off for a moment, sipping some Jack and Coke. "I do not know where Lopez is... she could be anywhere. So my options are that Lopez attacked last night under my very nose, or that the third wolf, never identified, is in the palace slaughtering... or... there are more now.

"Aimè... what in Eru's name am I supposed to do? I'm in danger... if they find out I'm the Seer... they'll kill me. I'm their biggest threat... Aimè..." her voice fell to a whisper. "I don't want to die."

[Celuien]

Panakeia shivered in the small yellow building, her soaked dress clinging to her in folds while the wind drove yet more stinging raindrops under the roof of her inadequate shelter. Anakron's departure left her numb, and she stared blankly at the rapidly overflowing fountains. The courtyard flooded, and might have continued to flood until the entire Guard Ton was swept away if not for an outflow at the end opposite Panakeia where the rising waters could spill over to join the Sir Pen Time.

All was lost. Panakeia felt that her final battle with the Blue Istari for Anakron had been fought to a bitter end. She could do nothing more. That knowledge settled into her, and all the warmth she had felt turned to a leaden ache. Half dazed, she walked into the rain, not knowing or caring that the rain poured in ever greater torrents. Lûndûn moved past her. The streets were filled with columns of marching Orcs, chanting in an incomprehensible rhythm. They joined the muddle of scenery, and Panakeia did not learn until much later what they meant.

At the end of her walk, Panakeia found herself back in her flat, looking like nothing so much as a recently bathed cat. With no clear plan in mind, she opened a chest in her closet. Reaching into the bottom of the chest, Panakeia pulled out a faded green traveling dress and hooded brown cloak, relics of her first journey from the ruins of her childhood home. For many long years, they had lain forgotten in the trunk, but now she put them on as old friends. She had left one ruin, and they would join her in her flight from her latest tragedy.

The trunk did not remain emptied long. Panakeia's valuables soon filled it to the brim. As she was about to close it, she took a final glance around the flat. One more item caught her notice. She wrapped it in a scarf and gently slipped the package into a corner of the trunk before locking the lid.

Then came a flurry of packing. Much was left behind, but Panakeia forgot nothing of importance. Venturing into the rain again, she waved down a taxi, took her bags, and left Lûndûn.