ATM II RPG

[Celuien]

The protest march had only gone a little way Speakeasy Corner when they were intercepted by the Blue Istari. A few turns past the Mottled Arch (or whatever it was called - Panakeia was far too distracted by the dreadful news she had just heard to remember properly) had been the total of their journey. But even that brief distance seemed to be greater than the ends of the world to our heroine in her rush to return. She hoped - dimly, it is true, but with all the hope she could find in her heart - that the Istari had only been having a cruel joke and that she would find Anakron alive. They might have been joking. It was certain that Anakron had finally given up his role as Grand Anakronist. The wizards might have found it amusing to torment her with false news of Anakron's death out of some twisted idea of revenge on her for leading him to that decision. Panakeia told herself that must have been the case. She had not parted with Anakron on good terms, and the thought of never being able to tell her one true love the right of things (if he were actually dead) was unbearable.

Out of breath and filled with anxiety for Anakron, Panakeia rushed into Speakeasy Corner. Anakron wasn't there. A deep sigh escaped her and she whispered, "Not here. They must have been joking. He's not here."

But then loud sniffles and wailing came from behind a tree. Panakeia looked up and spotted Lûgnût noisily blowing his/her/its nose into a pink and yellow checked handkerchief. In that same moment, Lûgnût spotted Panakeia and ran over blubbering.

"He's dead. The Gee-Ay is dead. What will I do?" Finding the handkerchief soaked through, s/he grabbed a flowing flap of Panakeia's sleeve and rubbed its eyes.

Feeling as though she had been crushed under all the weight of the Spam walls of Potted Ham Court Station, Panakeia stood speechless and numb. All was lost, then. Lûgnût sniffled.

"Where is he?" she finally managed to ask.

"I made all the arrangements," Lûgnût hiccoughed. "They came and took him off to...to...bury him." S/he sobbed again.

His last thought was to leave Mordor. Panakeia recalled those words. And now Anakron would be here forever. She couldn't allow it

"No!" she cried. "Not here. Not here. He wanted to leave. He should go back to Umbar." Then, grief catching up with her once more, she joined Lûgnût in tears.

"But it's too late," Lûgnût whimpered.

Then a tap on the shoulder caused Panakeia to whirl around. The two hippies - or former hippies, for when the ISMs were dispelled, these two seemed to have abandoned their counter-cultural appearance as well - had caught up with her. Panakeia glared at the shorter of the two, who had tapped her while the other looked down from his great height.

"Excuse me," the first said with a bow. He spoke with a slight accent.

"Yes?" she stared coldly through her tears.

"I could not help but overhear. You are in need of help?" Panakeia nodded, and he bowed again. "We will help you. My friend and I. Maybe your Anakron is not dead."

Lûgnût broke in. "He is."

"We do not know this. He had much to live for." Another slight bow was offered to Panakeia. "Even if he is, we will help you to bring his remains from this place."

Panakeia looked suspiciously at the pair through tear-stained lashes. "Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is In Ego Toyota and I will aid you. Come, we have many plans to make."

The four huddled together in a corner to think, until, with their plans settled at last, they set off in search of Anakron.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The dimly lit halls, ruined and lamentable to look upon, loomed over the two Dwarves as they paced with hastening steps. Khuz held up a hand and they both stopped, the old Dwarf lent heavily on his staff and breathed like a marathon runner who, after letting himself go a bit, tries his hand at the old sport. Smilog looked upwards at the ceiling; it was full of holes and covered in filth, yet still seemed strong enough to hold for a while at least.

Khuz began walking again, his trembling hands gripping his staff as if it were his only way of keeping alive. A shiver ran through the mountain, the walls began to shake, the ceiling let fall many tiles and chandeliers plummeted to the floor. Gripping his father's arm, Smilog dashed towards the nearest small room. Yet as he approached, a beam of wood fell across the entrance and splinters flew towards the duo.

The Dwarves threw themselves to the floor and covered their heads, awaiting only death. However, soon enough, the shaking stopped and all was calm once again. Covered in dust, Smilog raised his head and opened his eyes slowly. Two tall cloaked figures stood before him, one had a long wooden staff pointed towards Smilog's head. The other just stood there grinning.

"Good evening," said the one with the staff,

"Actually," said Khuz, standing up and dragging Smilog to his feet, "it's three in the morning." The Blue Istari cocked their heads simultaneously in a manner that made the dwarves take a step back.

"We are well aware of the time," Pallando grinned and lifted his staff to plant it on the ground as he would when walking. He nodded to his companion and they grinned grins that made professional grinners grin less. Alatar, the shorter of the two, drew a long sword from beneath his robe. "You are not needed, Dwarf," Pallando continued, "and so, we will..." he looked up and raised an eyebrow, "... kill you."

"Is that it?" said Khuz,

"Isn't that enough?" asked a rather startled Alatar

"Well, 'kill' has never been your style has it? Its always been, 'disemboweling' and 'inhumeing' and goodness knows what else. but 'Kill' oh no. Surely you can think of something better than 'kill'."

"Erm..." said Pallando, "give us a minuet..." the two wizards turned their backs on the dwarves and began a heated, yet whispered argument. Occasionally they glanced back at the dwarves. Eventually, Pallando turned back to face them and said, "We've decided to 'un-life' you." there was a pause before the wizards angrily turned back to their debate.

Smilog slowly lifted his axe from his belt, glancing between his father and the wizards, being careful not to make any sudden movements. Unfortunately, his hands slipped and his axe dropped to the floor with a clatter. The two wizards turned around dramatically, their robes flowing in the temporary gust they made for themselves.

"You'll be pleased to know," began Alatar, "that we are going to... Exterminate you!" Then they picked up their staffs and held them towards the Dwarves shouting, "Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!"

***

"Well, I think that door is a 'no'", said Tollin as he and his undead companion left Sauron's wardrobe and began walking through the many corridors of Mount Zoom. To their utter and lasting astonishment, there were still some Orcs gambling in the casinos, some were streaked with blood and sweat, but that was normal for this place, even when the Mountain wasn't moving.

While the matters of gambling Orcs covered their minds, the Mountain began to shake once again. With swift movements, Tollin made his way to the nearest window and looked out. "I say! What can you see Old Bean?" shouted The Barrow Wight, "is it good news?" Tollin scowled at him.

"Of course not!" shouted the minotaur, "The Mountain is erupting! Either that or it's going to set off again."

"Gosh," mumbled the Wight, trying to stand up straight. Yet it was in vain for, all of a sudden, the floor crumbled beneath their feet. With shouts, they fell through three levels until landing curiously on a soft feather mattress covered in burns marks and ashes. The shaking finished and the duo found themselves surrounded by dust and settling ceiling fragments.

Tollin coughed heavily in his throat, the Barrow Wight merely coughed a smoker's cough before pulling out his pipe and lighting it. "What are the chances of that, old chap?" he asked, "Question is, what Blighter has a bed in this Mountain?"

"Well," began Tollin, "judging by all burns and evidence of fire, either a pyromaniac or Roggie." The Barrow Wight nodded and looked at all of the cupboards that now became visible. He wandered over to one and pulled on the handle, but it would not open. Cursing he took out his sword and sliced through the wood, leaving a pile of filthy ties on the floor.

"Blast, no wine," he mopped.

"Come on," said Tollin, "wine is the least of our worries. We'd better find a way out of this Mountain and then see if we can get to somewhere civilised."

"Yes, I should like to get back to my Barrow." mused the Wight, failing to notice how Tollin hand vanished with a crash and how there was now a hole in the floor. "You see, there is something quintessentially jolly about a-" and he fell down the hole.

***

"Exterminate!" Cried Pallando as a large, hairy Minotaur fell on him, ploughing him into the rock flooring. Alatar leappad back and watched a corpse that seemed to glow green follow the Minotaur onto Pallando's head. Before anyone could say, "what's going on?" the two Dwarves were scampering off through the far end of the corridor.

Pallando threw Tollin and The Barrow Wight off him and looked around the room, "Where have they gone?" he demanded, Alatar shrugged, "oh, who cares, let's go to a grave yard, I need cheering up." The Wizards vanished in a flash.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli had absolutely no inclination to be here. She never asked for this. She didn't want the dreams, the drama, or even, any more, the job. She'd had a nice, if toasty, job winging balrogs and yeah, it wasn't perfect, and yeah, she had to deal with admins all the time, and not all of the balrogs were as friendly as Roggie, but seriously, she was always warm, she could pay her phone bill when it came, not just in terms of 'please, please pay it for me and I'll owe you, I don't get paid for another two weeks and Eru, I only have sixty minutes left this billing cycle and that doesn't end for another month and seriously, this poor stude-- I mean spymaster thing really isn't working for me,' but in terms of "Oh, a bill, okay, I'll write a check." She was warm, had steady pay, had a few good friends, could wear leather every single day without it being a fashion statement, AND she could say anything without compromising national security.

But noooooo, she had to get chosen for that confounded Escape from Mordor plot, and nooooo, she just had to end up falling in lov-- I mean getting a bit of a crush on some stupid guy that ended up being a King somewhere, and she just had to end up taking a job for a friend that got her in all kinds of trouble, angered wizards, t'd off werewolves, and had her curled up in a cemetery with bills to pay, no tea, people chasing her, and a lot of politicians in her every day life.

Last time she did a favor for a friend, she thought, looking around, listening to strategically ominous howling, and looked up at the moon.

Full.

"Eru!" she shouted to the moon. Aimè hurried to hush her, looking toward the are-you-sure-they-aren't-hyenas? howls, pulling her into a tomb so at least they'd have solid stone at their backs when the battle came. Because she was a Seer and he was a Hunter, or was he a Ranger? But either way werewolves didn't like them, and were guaranteed to seek for them at night, and it was night, and thunder boomed across the cloudless sky.

"Illamatar!" she cried. "Speak to me, you miserable creature!"

"Alli," he panicked, "Blasphemy..."

She turned on him. "Aimè, I DO NOT HIDE. I don't hide. And I can't see a thing in here."

He couldn't tell if she was being literal. It was pitch black spotted with darker shadows of even pitch blacker in the tomb, and he had a disconcerting idea that he was sitting on something dead.

"Illamatar, now would be a good time for guidance, what with the Fate of Mordor resting on my shoulders." She could only hope the war she simply Knew was brewing could be forestalled, just like in a story. Except, she reflected, this isn't a story. "Illamatar, you know THERE HAS TO BE A WAR because OTHERWISE LIFE IS TOO PREDICTABLE. You know that the ADVISORS have to somehow end up in this cemetery WITH ADVERSARIES ON ALL SIDES because this is real life and the climactic moments require a lot of UNHAPPY PEOPLE with grudges and you know that you're going to have to, ILLAMATAR, STEP IN AND SAVE THE DAY."

There was no response.

Alli sat moodily in the tomb, thinking of her phone bill, thinking of a lot of people on their way to CERTAIN DOOM in the cemetery, thinking of how Mordor was falling to ruin, thinking of how annoying it was that Roggie and Mardil couldn't just get along, and thinking how now wouldn't quite be the right timing for Eru to respond, given that it was just in the point of the story where she was supposed to say, and did:

"Well, it's not like it can get any worse."

[Anguirel]

Dracomir was becoming rapidly bored by wasting his time in the presence of the boorish Frej and the disdainful Lola. When Frej began playing with his hair and singing, however, he stopped being bored and became bloodwhimperingly furious.

He endured, cold and silent, Frej's cacophonous ballad and pompous expostulations, and then turned away. Lola glanced after him, quizzical but mocking, yet her young swain did not rise to the bait and left without another pause.

Even had he felt like talking as he left the office, he would not have been able to. His passionate rage locked his tongue behind his teeth. His tread was becoming heavier, the determined grimness of his gaze ever more implacable...

Tom Felton was off to fulfil his appointment with Alli, long ago made, and other business called him too. As he loped into the cold air of the castle's parapet, his keen ears heard the far-off, echoing sound of the howl of a wolf...and, running his hand through his extending, darkening hair, he re-echoed it.

The wolf dashed along the rampart to one of the western side-gates, slipped through an ill-maintained portcullis and left the Castle of Roggie, and Mount Doom itself, behind it.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

With breathless steps and Dwarvish cursing, Smilog clambered over the final step of the long staircase leading through Mount Doom. His father followed him at a slower pace, but still just as out of breath. Before them lay the long corridor that spiralled around the mountain. The floors were carpeted, but what value had been in them was now gone, for the numerous adventures of the moving Mountain had torn them to shreds. Potted plants that had once graced the corridor at regular intervals, now lay on the floor, with their soil spewed out like blood all around them.

"This way," commanded Khuz, "we must get to the control room." They marched on, each step more cautious than the last, Smilog took his axe in hand and began examining every shadow with grave detail. There were no windows, and the only light came from a torch that Smilog was holding; yet, in the faint light, they could see the remains of chandeliers and wall lamps.

A shudder ran through Khuz as they passed a map of Mordor that had fallen from the wall and now lay pathetically on the floor like an old and drunk tramp. They marched on in this manner for about half an hour before they came to the end. There was a door. Of sorts. At least, it had been a door at some point, but was now a bricked up hole in the shape of an archway with a 'Do not enter, there is nothing behind here, go away' sign on the front.

"What now?" whispered Smilog

"Hush!" instructed his father, "If I know anything about Mordor workmanship, it's this..." he pressed his hand against the middle of the wall. To Smilogs astonishment, although, not lasting astonishment, the bricks fell backwards and left an opening onto the side of the mountain.

They stepped out and saw that there was a short path leading to the door of Zoom, as it later became known. The control room of that dread place. Cautiously, they drew near and found that the door was not locked. Into the cave, they marched, slowly and quietly. Or, rather, as quietly as dwarves can get. The red fire light shone up ahead and before long, they found themselves before the numerous controls.

Stood at these controls was a tall figure, hooded and cloaked in black. Smilog approached the stranger and said, "Good day to you sir. Who are you?"

The creature turned and they saw that it was a human... sort of... It had enormous eyes, but they had no pupils. Its teeth were very unkempt and the hair drooped down to its knees. Beneath the cloak was a dress of blood red linen, covered in disturbing pictures of orcs and dragons eating cakes.

"I" it said, "am the driver..."

***

The Barrow Wight pulled himself together once more and then peered around at their surroundings. "I say," he said, "this is a most unkempt Mountain, what-what?"

"Well," said Tollin as he brushed the ceiling remnants from his front, "I'd like to see any home stay in good keep after moving around so violently." The Barrow Wight nodded and then lowered his head. His eyes fixed upon a small white scroll that was lying just where Pallando had stood just moments earlier.

"What do you make of that, old bean?" he asked, turning to Tollin. The Minotaur lifted the scroll and unravelled it. The runes were Elvish, but the Language was Numenorian.

"You Barrow Wights are supposed to be Numenorian or something," he said, "can you read this?"

"My dear boy," retorted The Barrow Wight, "we Wights are spirits sent to dwell in the Barrow-downs by the Witch-king of Angmar during his wars with the remnant of Arnor, and who remained there long after the realm of Angmar itself had vanished from the world." He cocked his head and then snatched the scroll, "But yes, I can read it;

In Mordor, they say evil is done
Sauron's hand may yet be gone
In the deeps, the horror dwells
Blue Wizards cast their spells
No song is sung by any bard
of what lies in the grave yard
All shall throw faces to the floor
Woe if you are assigned to Mordor"

The two odd fellows scratched their heads and wondered about this odd poem. Failing to ask why it coincidentally rhymed when translated into English.

Eventually, Tollin raised his head; "That Wizard said something about a grave yard. Should we look into it? Sounds like it could be important." The Barrow Wight took out his pipe and pointed to the exit.

"A Jolly good idea," he said.

[Celuien]

"Do you think it will work?" In whispered.

Panakeia replied, "I'm sure. Ouch! Lûgnût!" The orc had just poked her with the tip of an umbrella.

"Sorry. It's crowded in here."

That was true enough. The group huddled inside a small phone booth, uncomfortably sandwiched under Fuzziwick, friend of In Ego Toyota. They were making a phone call to some Mordorian bureaucracy, trying to find out where Anakron had been taken. Fuzziwick had already been transferred to fourteen different departments by the automated answering system as they attempted to find someone with the information they needed. In was beginning to lose patience and had suggested storming Anakron's former offices at White-All with his sword, as he claimed to be the world's greatest swordsman. Panakeia knew, however, that the concentration of orcish bureaucrats there was so great that they would only be more confused there than they were from the relative safety of their phone booth.

Fuzziwick was speaking again. Evidently, he finally reached another living person or orc to speak with instead of the computerized system. Panakeia waited expectantly. No luck. Transferred again. She sighed.

"In. What about this friend of yours we're supposed to find? Tell me about him again."

"A great man, once under the employ of the Blue Istari. But they fired him long ago. It was said that his spells had begun to go astray and no longer served them as they wished. But he may be able to help us."

"I hope so." Panakeia's eyes filled again.

Fuzziwick's voice boomed. "Yes, thank you." He put down the phone.

"We know where to go now. Let's go."

"Where?" asked In, Panakeia, and Lûgnût together.

"A graveyard, not far from here."

Panakeia's head fell at the reminder of Anakron's demise. In nodded sagely and said, "Very well. We shall go. But first, to find the last of our party. Wait here. Fuzziwick and I shall return shortly."

Whispering to each other, In and Fuzziwick hurried down a side alley.

"But how can we convince him to come?"

"We will. We must."

~*~

Before long, they returned with a third man between them, covered under a heavy gray cloak and hood. Somehow, he looked vaguely familiar to Panakeia. There was no time for questions and the man was silent, so she and Lûgnût followed Fuzziwick and In. Their next stop: a graveyard, and a new tomb.

It was pitch black, other than the pale glow of the moon on iron gates when they arrived at the graveyard. Anakron's resting place was not difficult to find. For once, Mordor had moved with efficiency and a new marble tomb already stood in a corner. They hurried toward it, Panakeia now in the lead, and saw an inscription on the door.

Anakron
Ex-Grand Anakronist

"Oh, Anakron," Panakeia sighed and began to weep again. The stranger jumped, but still said nothing.

Fuzziwick easily lifted the door from its hinges.

"Come!" In waved his sword and stepped into the tomb.

Anakron had been lain in the center of the tomb. The stranger stepped forward and looked him over.

"Yes. I think it is possible that he is not all dead, but only mostly dead. And as you know, all dead and mostly dead are not the same. Because if your mostly dead, you're slightly alive."

That voice! It was so familiar. Where had Panakeia heard it before?

He went on. "But of course, it all depends on what he has to live for." He threw back his hood, and Panakeia gasped.

"Phizzick!" she exclaimed.

"Yes. It is I. I, to whom you were once nearly wed, so long ago. I ask you, what does he have to live for?"

Outside, the howling of a wolf sounded across the tombstones.