ATM II RPG

[Diamond18]

Skittles wandered up to the foreboding gates of the gothic cemetary, sipping on a banana grape slurpie. She had grown bored back at Mount Doom, as everyone seemed to be leaving for more adventures, and explaining the intricacies of Tolkienism to Hissyfit had soon grown boring. It seemed that the mojo Anakron had slapped on her wore off with her multiple shifts in personality, and she had suddenly forgotten exactly what it was she had been going on about.

"Hissyfit," she had said, "where did everyone go?"

"I dunno," Hissyfit had replied. "I fell asleep two hours ago." Here she paused to yawn and scratch herself.

Just then, Skittles' cellphone beeped, alerting her to the fact that a text message was arriving. The message was from Ali, and the important bits were highlighted in red letters, which caught even Skittles' ADD addled attention.

"Let's go to an unnamed graveyard and have some fun, eh wot?" she said to Hissyfit, and Hissyfit, knowing that rats and rabbits and other assorted vermin liked to burrow under crypts, agreed.

Here endeth the flashback.

Skittles looked up at the massive gateway leading into the graveyard. A raven sat perched on one wrought iron finial, croaking out a warning before taking off in a flutter of black wings. Hissyfit, who had been contemplating climbing the fence and eating the bird, sighed.

"So this is the graveyard," said Skittles. "Eh."

She tossed her now empty slurpie cup in the trash bin (ominously marked: please do not litter or you will be chopped up into little bits and used to fertilize the flowers) and pushed the gate open. A chill wind whistled down between the headstones and blew Skittle's jet black hair away from her pale white face. "Thank you, chill wind, for reminding everyone of my basic coloring," she said, cheerfully. "Come along, Hissyfit, let's see what's shaking."

[Celuien]

Mordor had a strange way of bringing about unexpected events in the least expected (and usually least convenient) ways. Phizzick's sudden reappearance out of Panakeia's nearly forgotten days in Harad was the proof to that rule. Phizzick. Panakeia had not even thought of him since she was a lass of seventeen sitting on the veranda at her lost childhood home.

Nearly wed? Surely he exaggerated the entire situation. Panakeia recalled a slightly different scenario in which Phizzick, only a few months older than she, had joking asked for her hand, and she had just as jokingly (and with dazzling teenage coquettish charm) accepted him on the condition that he bring her an ice cream cone. There had been no ice cream, but a silly romance had followed. Just as she had once had so many other flirtations in her earlier days. But it seemed that Phizzick had taken things more seriously, building it into a drama worthy of any soap opera instead of the light-hearted society fluff their former association had been.

Still, Phizzick's story was what it was and now was not the time to have a full argument. Not with Anakron's life hanging in the balance.

Panakeia replied hesitantly. "It's been a long time, Phizzick."

"It has. But you still haven't answered my question. What does your mostly dead friend have to live for?"

From the tomb's center, there came a sound. Low and muffled, but distinct, and in Anakron's voice.

"Trruuueeeeee loooovvvvvveeeeeeeee."

Panakeia gasped. "He spoke! He's alive!" Her spirits soared. "And he wants to live for..."

"Blue gloves." Phizzick broke in to complete the sentence. "Not much to live for, if you ask me. He's obviously talking about those Blue Wizards, and if there's anything I hate, it's the Blue Wizards. Especially since they fired me."

"That's not what he said! He said true love. You all heard him." In nodded. "The wizards fired you?" Panakeia asked.

"They did. Said my magic wasn't quite up to snuff. My cures kept going wrong. Pack of lies. All I needed was a good MLT - mutton, lettuce and tomato. It's great. You ought to have one sometime."

"Maybe. But, Phizzick, please. Help Anakron. You heard him. True love. It's a wonderful thing to have. And he doesn't like the Istari either. That's how he got into this mess to begin with."

Phizzick squinted at her. "You're right. True love is a great thing. I know." He squinted harder, and Panakeia held her breath, terrified that he would accuse her of breaking his heart. "And as much as we're alike with our cures and all, that's why I'm glad we split up. I'd never have found my wife otherwise."

Waves of relief rushed over Panakeia. It was alright between them after all.

Phizzick kept talking. "Yes. What's it been? Almost thirty years now? Must be. But you say it's true love?"

"Yes. It is."

"Well, well. Can't let anything get in the way of that." He began to rummage through his pockets. "Let's see. MLT wrapper. Not that. And another MLT wrapper. Hmm. Where is it? Ah! Here it is!" He held out a shiny golden package in his palm.

"A chocolate?" Panakeia raised an eyebrow, recalling her own dubious cures.

"Not just any chocolate. This has something special. Practically guaranteed to revive the slightly alive part of anyone."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Then he's no worse off than he was before. What have you got to lose?"

That was true. Panakeia unwrapped the candy and put it in Anakron's mouth. Then, unable to bear the suspense, she turned and leant with her forehead against the wall of the crypt.

Startled gasps came from the three watchers. Then footsteps. Footsteps in Panakeia's direction. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a balding, bespectacled man with a huge grin under his beard.

"Hi. Good to see you again. Well, as me. I've been here all long, you know." He winked.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog stomped his way from Mount Zoom in a fierce and frenzied way; in all respects, this was a Dwarf who had had a bad day. He grumbled and moaned, swore and spat until he just frowned as he stomped. "I blame you for this," he muttered, "Roggie! You and your blasted mountain." Khuz hobbled along a little behind his son and eventually had to cough loudly in order to get his attention. Smilog turned swiftly on his heel and then sighed in annoyance as he watched his father hobble closer.

"You do know that there is a huge battle about to start?" queried Smilog, "only, by the time we get there it'll be over and maybe a whole different battle will have started; one that we have nothing to do with."

"Shut up!" shouted the old Dwarf, "my legs aren't what they used to be. Why couldn't that lass take us to the Battle in the Zoom?"

"She said it was too dangerous and quite frankly I'm glad to see the back of it."

They marched on, slowly and angrily; stomping their feet as hard as they could and with great intent of making as much dust fly up as they could. Weather this was to try and make a mysterious effect was was a mild coincidence, no tale tells, but most accept that it was the latter.

Above the black clouds of Mordor the moon was rising, it's great face's light unable to penetrate the rush hour like traffic of the clouds and so the moon felt rather unhappy and left out and so went off to sulk. Birds flew just below the clouds, circling around the grave yard awaiting their feast or, at least, light snack depending on who won. The stench of upturned soil and bellowing geezers filled the air, forcing the Dwarves to cover their noses and make unsavory faces.

There was a disturbance in the air; the silence of the land was broken by a most unearthly sound....

CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMP

Mixed with an eery and haunting;

BOOM... boom-boom-boom... BOOM...boom-boom-boom... BOOM

"War drums," murmured Khuz, "we have little time." forgetting their annoyance, the Dwarves hurried along the path with as swift a pace as they could. Leaping over rocks and roots that lay in their way and panting like fat children in a cross country marathon. Within a few swift minutes they came to the gate of the grave yard, yet as they stood beneath the arc of the gate, an eery voice trailed over their heads...

"Trruuueeeeee loooovvvvvveeeeeeeee."

"Blue gloves?" said Smilog, "who's going on about blue gloves at a time like this?"

***

Tollin's eyes fixed on where the sound of relentless quacking was coming; wereducks were something one didn't forget in a hurry. The Barrow Wight's golden hilted sword some how managed to glisten in the dim light of the Mordorian night. A red gem glowed in the guard and the pommel bore words in the Numenorian language. Not that The Barrow Wight had ever read them, that Sword had spent most of its life on a shelf above his fire place, he wasn't even sure if it was sharp.

"Looks like a terrible business, old chap," said the Wight, "they say were ducks can bight your face right off!"

"Who says?"

"Erm..." The Barrow Wight looked upwards and rolled his eyes around, "I'm not sure. But I'm sure whoever it is that said it, did indeed say it."

"I've never heard that," mused Tollin, "in fact, you're the only one I've heard say it. For all I know, the 'they' you speak of might be you. You don't have schizophrenia by any chance?"

"QUACK!" from behind them, the ghastly noise rose like... well... a rising sound. Almost instinctively, Tollin lifted his Morning Star and sung it down in the direction of the sound. There was an almighty 'splat' and a fading 'quack'. They lowered their heads and there, beneath the spikes and ball of the Morning star, lay the body of a wereduck; splattered.

"By Jingo," said The Barrow Wight, "looks like the blighter died instantly."

"You!" came an oddly familiar and probably bearded voice, "I thought you were surly dead!" Smilog trotted up to the Minotaur and the dead man and remarked, "you look right at home here, Mr Wight."

"Gosh." said The Barrow Wight.

[Kath]

Igor stood alone in the corridors of Mount Doom, having watched as Smilog and crew, Anakron and finally Skittles all ran off in different directions and in varying degrees of madness. He had the strangest feeling, as though he was supposed to be somewhere else, but as he didn't have any idea where this other place was he headed down to the now unoccupied chambers that had housed the Gondorian negotiators and fetched his ear instead of worrying about it. After all, these things generally seemed to sort themselves out in the end.

Even with both ears now attached the mountain was eerily quiet. Igor had got used to the antics of the other diplomats, as well as the steady noise of the orcs and guards that constantly moved around, but now there was no one in sight. Walking past an open door he saw a chair lying on the floor with papers scattered around it. In the great hall a goblet was slowly spinning in circles on the table, as though it had just been dropped there. He heard a cry from the hallway outside the room and darted out to see what was happening, watching in astonishment as an orc vanished into thin air with a quiet 'pop', his uneaten dinner falling to the floor with a crash.

The Dweomer? Igor wondered to himself as he crept towards the site where the orc had disappeared, but he dismissed the idea. He hadn't seen Anakron or heard his maniacal laughter in too long for it to be him doing this, and since the thing was stuck on ISMs at the moment it seemed unlikely to be the cause of all these strange events, unless there really was such a thing as a vanishISM.

Still musing to himself the sudden appearance of two tall men clothed all in blue caused Igor to emit a very undignified shriek and fall backwards, wincing as he felt himself land in the peas and gravy the orc had been about to eat. Glaring up at the culprits of this embarrassing incident Igor opened his mouth to give them a piece of his mind (not literally of course, he could unpick a few stitches, remove a bit of brain and give it to someone but he'd found he didn't tend to get it back very often and so rarely did it these days) but as his eyes travelled up he realised that perhaps that was not such a good idea.

"You're the Blue Wizards." He told them, and then rolled his eyes at himself. 'Way to be Captain Obvious.' He thought, before cursing at the valley girl language he'd just used. "What are you doing here?"

"Quack." Was the initial confusing answer, or so Igor thought. But as his mind caught up with his ears he realised that it had not been a person that had said that. Fear gripped him.

"Getting that." Came a grim reply, this time from above him.

Dreading what they were about to see after that noise Igor's eyes followed the extended finger of the Wizard closest to him, one moving somewhat faster than the other. Eventually though both eyes found themselves staring at the same horrifying sight. Leaping up out of the mess and behind the Wizards Igor peeked round their robes in shock.

"A - a - a Wereduck? In Mount Doom? Why? How?"

"It does not matter. It is in the wrong place and it will be moved. As will you."

Igor opened his mouth again to protest but found himself interrupted by the same small pop he had heard before. The noise echoed, getting louder all the time, and a blue light surrounded him as the corridors faded away. Suddenly the noise stopped and Igor lurched forward, landing on his hands and knees in what looked very much like a graveyard, facing a very disgruntled looking Wereduck.

Petrified Igor didn't so much as wait for the creature to blink (if indeed Wereducks do). A sprint start from his position on the ground had him heading away from certain death and into uncertain possible harm, as well as towards the voices that were, thankfully, coming from somewhere the Wereduck was not.

[littlemanpoet]

The balding, bespectacled, and grinning man who had tapped on Panakeia's shoulder, watched Panakeia as her face twisted from blankness to surprise to consternation to .... well, to something he couldn't quite make out: wonder? curiosity? the need to find a restroom? Unsure which it might be, he shrugged.

"You know, you really do look prettier without all that glop on your face."

She was still staring at him as if she had not been able to get her mind quite in gear.

"Say," he asked, "do you remember the last time we had words? Do you even know who I am?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Blue gloves and true love being what they were, the entirety of the tomb knew this situation was simply built to be dramatized.

"Aime..." Alli whispered to his lips in the shadows, "we're not alone. How have they not seen us yet?"

"I could stab them all swiftly."

"Aime, that's not my point. Maybe it is. Oh, Aime! Panakeia and Anakron and various and sundry extras, and I'm almost certain I heard Smilog, though I could so easily be wrong... and a man from Panakeia's past and blue gloves, Aime, blue gloves!"

"I know..." He didn't.

"Aime, everyone knows that blue gloves are symbols. Ceremonial garb for those serving the darker powers. Blue gloves! Oh, Aime! Blue gloves, and from Panakeia and Anakron, oh what shall I do! Where shall I turn!? We are trapped in this very small, cramped, dark, badly lit, slightly smelly, certainly damp and a bit moldy tomb that may or may not contain corpses, and we are not alone!"

"Shh, they'll hear you."

"Aime, there is only one exit, and they are between us and it, and the wolves," the sound of howls punctuated the moment, "are closing in, and blue gloves! They've turned on me, Aime. The Wizards and Wolves aren't enough, but my friends have betrayed me and block my escape! How shall I ever survive?"

And thusly, Alli swooned into his arms and whether their companions in the former resting place of the former Grand Anakronist heard any of their exchange, they did indeed block Alli's exit, and Alli did indeed believe them to be secret wearers of Blue Gloves. Things, to put it lightly, had just taken a turn for the worse.

[Celuien]

"Do you even know who I am?"

Panakeia continued to stare. Slowly, she answered, "Yes. Yes. I do know who you are. Elempí. We met in Dol Gaurgauroth." Her mind traveled back, as it was wont to do, and she relived the first moments of their acquaintance.

Anakron seemed to split in two. Out from Anakron walked a balding, bearded, and bespectacled nincompoop who smiled stupidly at everybody else, trying hopelessly to fit in as quick as possible.

"This, my friends, is my abstemious alter ego, Elempí, a most embarrassing figment, no doubt you can see right away."

Yes. That same man now stood before her. Elempí, Anakron's usually carefully hidden alter-ego.

"Well that's good. For a minute there, I thought you forgot."

"No. I didn't forget. I - I just wasn't expecting - Phizzick! What happened?"

The miracle-healer shrugged. "Beats me. I guess this was the part of him that was still alive. The part that was talking about true love and such. If you don't like it, talk to my lawyer."

Elempí looked ready to pout. "What's wrong? Aren't you happy to see me?"

Was she? Could she accept that Anakron was no longer Anakron, but instead had transformed into his alter-ego? Would Elempí turn out to be the holder of the good in Anakron, as the Grand Anakronist had claimed more than once? Would Panakeia and Elempí live happily ever after, after all? That future all hung upon Panakeia's reply to a simple question. Was she happy to see Elempí again?

Panakeia's lips began to form their answer, but just then a soft thump echoed in the chamber.

"What's that?" she whispered, startled by the disturbance.

In drew his sword. "We shall see." With the expert swordsman in the lead, the group turned towards a dark corner of the crypt, not knowing who or what they would find in its recesses.