ATM II RPG

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Andvari's form grew great and terrible. Fear went before him and dread followed his wake. All fled before before his face. All, save one. One figure, tall and broad with a heavy morning star drawn forth stood firm and would not flee before the Champion of Were Creatures.

The Barrow Wight leappad down the hill in amongst the hundreds of soldiers who rushed towards the army of Were Creatures who still poured into the grave yard. On his back, he bore Smilog the Dwarf. Smilog's eyes were bloodshot and his breath was short. He groaned and the rough ride went on. Yet, fortune had an odd plan for them, for at that moment, The Barrow Wight tripped on a stone and he fell forwards; Smilog landed on top of a large creature that was blubbering to itself.

Smilog lifted his head and cried out. Elempi quickly turned from what he was doing and stared at the Dwarf. The Barrow Wight scampered to his side and said, "I say, aren't you that Wizard chap?"

"Erm..." said Elempi, "sort of." Smilog cried out again, as his wound seemed to throw forth more blood. The Dwarf clutched at his shoulder and shrieked in pain. Elempi bit his lip and knelt beside the Dwarf. "There is some devilry in his wound," he said, "Dwarves are sturdy folk and should survive such a wound easily."

"Well?" said The Barrow Wight,

"Well what?"

"You know... do some jiggery pokery and get him on his old feet again."

"Jiggery pokery?"

"Or what ever the devil it is."

~~~

Tollin swung his morning star left and right, snarling as he did so. Andvari stood up tall in all his might; his great arms spread out and his fierce head facing the sky. The Wolf let out a mighty howl and then laughed. He reached behind his head and pulled a large sword from an unknown place (the tales say it was probably magic or something).

"You will not descend from this hill," growled Tollin, "If by my life or death I can hider thee, I shall. Get ye gone to the black abyss!" The Wolf laughed and swung his sword down at the Minotaur. Tollin leappad aside and lifted his Morning star up, spinning it on its chain. The great head of the weapon connected with the right arm of the beast. With a pain filled howl, Andvari thrust his arm into Tollin and pinned him to the ground with a single paw.

"Thou fool," grinned the Wolf, "Fool of fools! I am your doom! Die now and know that all thy trials are vain." In a fit of rage, Tollin bit the leg of Andvari, causing him to stumble backwards. Leaping in the air, the Minotaur swung his morning star down upn his adversary. But Andvari stopped his blow with his mighty sword and he let forth a deafening cry.

A tremor ran through the earth beneath them. Something was on the move. Andvari looked northwards and with his keen sight he saw the Dwarven host fast approaching. With a snarl, the were wolf struck out at Tollin, but he ducked and rolled between the feet of Andvari and then leaped upon his back.

With a cry, Tollin swung his Morning Star down upon the head of Andvari. There was a crack and a thud as the creature fell. Tollin stood atop the great beast and looked down at his fallen foe. With a cry, he leaped down the hill and passed all the forces of Mordor. He swung his great weapon, sweeping aside foes like leaves in a forest.

~~~

"What on earth is Jiggery pokery?" exclaimed Elempi. The Barrow Wight shrugged and stood up.

"You know, magic stuff." The Barrow Wight looked uneasily at the battle before them. "something that can at least get him on his feet for this dreadful thing."

Elempi looked up at Panakeia and sighed, "There is nothing I can do." he turned to the Barrow Wight, "I'm sorry." With bowed head, Elempi placed his hand on the Dwarf's shoulder and said, "I wish I could help. But all I remember is something about... oh, now it's gone again." He sighed again and muttered something under his breath.

With a suddenness that made them all leap back, Smilog sat up. The Dwarf looked at his shoulder and, though it was blood stained, there was no wound. "Looks like there is something left in you yet." said Panakeia.

"The Vala are merciful," muttered Elempi.

"Enough of this," shouted Smilog, drawing his axe, "to battle and death"

"To Death!" they all cried... Thus the winds of change began.

[the phantom]

****At Henneth Annûn****

"You may sit," said King Mardil II.

A dozen or so rough and tired looking Gondorians slumped into chairs surrounding a crude wooden table that nearly filled the small side chamber. Mardil, seated at the head, signaled to a waiting servant and soon the table was set with food and drink.

After the men had finished eating, Mardil rose and addressed them. "You have all performed your tasks admirably. When this crisis is passed and the need for secrecy is gone, your names will be known and honored throughout Gondor."

The men smiled grimly in acknowledgement. The man at the opposite end of the table rose and bowed to Mardil, and answered, "We thank you for your words, Lord. But know that you would have our service without promise of glory to come, or even the silver pieces that you provide as compensation for our efforts. The cause itself is worthy of all toil, and it is honor enough to play a part in ridding Gondor of injustice and evil."

The other men raised their glasses and let out a hearty "Aye!" and drank. Mardil nodded to the speaker. "You and the men of your house are true Gondorians, Bergil III. A happy day it was that King Elessar released Beregond from his service to be a blessing to the House of Stewards."

At that moment a messenger entered, bowed, and spoke to Mardil. "Your father sends his greetings and wishes to inform you that your wife and son are in good health. He also requests a word on the status of the plan."

"You may tell my father that all but one of my team of smugglers has returned. The one who was captured was apprehended entering Mordor, but was caught with nothing but the clothes on his back. He is loyal, and will not utter a word of our plan. And even if he does, it is too late for Roggie, the Blue Istari, or anyone else to stop us now. Operation Vaccine is nearly complete!" declared Mardil.

The messenger bowed again and exited the chamber.

"How soon will the final phase begin, Lord?" asked Bergil.

"When you and those under your command complete your final run into Mordor, I will announce a date for the... procedure," answered Mardil. "All the preparations are made. You have the final list, don't you?" Bergil nodded. "How long do you think this smuggling run will take? Six days?"

"That would be my estimate, sir," answered Bergil.

"Good," said Mardil, smiling in approval. "Go ahead and rest for the remainder of the day. My men will see that you have all the equipment and provender you need for the journey. You leave with the rising of the sun."

[Roggie of Morgoth]

Roggie was less than happy to be called from his steam sauna (originally a shower) to interrogate a political prisoner. He was willing to stake his power on the fact that he'd initially had others hired to do such things. However with Alli gone, the palace in regular motion, war on the brink...

He grumbled as he stalked into the dungeons.

"Man of Gondor, why are you in my country?" The prisoner did not respond, choosing rather to stare at the floor.

One of Roggie's representatives met his lord's eyes and spoke. "He carries nothing but that which is on his back, and this, m'lord."

He handed Roggie the spy's weapon, a beautifully crafted sword. Roggie inspected it with an eye for detail and spoke angrily. "What is your name, Ranger, and what is your business?"

The man did not speak.

Roggie demanded more harshly, leaning in to allow his own heat to draw sweat from the prisoner's brow. The man's discomfort was obvious. Roggie let a small ball of flame kindle within him, threatening. The man's eyes widened, but he did not speak. Even afraid, he was calm.

Roggie scorched the floor around his feet and the man cried out, "No!"

Roggie gestured violently, knocking his enemy's spy to the floor.

"Strip him," he said impatiently, "and find out what of his pretty little toes so delights him."

Roggie's guards were more than glad to find work, having been out of it so long. With Alli gone, their jobs had been to shuffle papers and look busy. One spoke again, hesitantly. "My lord, he said before you came, 'Rest assured that neither I nor my Lord wish to harm you or Mordorian citizens, but I cannot name my errand.' That is when we came for you. You know we would never normally bother you with such trifles..."

The Lord of Mordor grumbled, kindling slightly. He watched impatiently as the man's boots were removed. The man did not struggle, though he might have.

"My Lord!" cried one searcher, "he carries papers!"

Roggie did not touch them for fear of igniting them, but chose rather for the man who had found them to list their contents. If Gondor knew, so could his own men... whatever the contents.

"There is... my lord..." The man hesitated. Roggie growled and he continued. The Ranger spy watched the floor. "They are... drawings... and descriptions."

"Of what, minion? The palace? The casino? The countryside? Is Mardil trying to infiltrate? TELL ME!"

"They are, my revered lord... of a toaster, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Chuck Norris."

They questioned the Ranger, yet he refused to divulge his secret, though his name was given almost freely.

"Bergil," Roggie growled. "I have heard of you in my court."

After ordering Bergil to the dungeons for a prolonged period of uncertain incarceration with inattentive guards and less attentive cooks, Roggie disappeared to his chambers to mull.

Upon his desk he found a neatly printed letter, possibly from Lola, though it was uncertain. He had not seen her in a rather long time and had never quite learned to differentiate between her writing and anybody else's.

The sounds of his anger could be heard throughout the palace after he read that Mardil II had declared a Gondorian holiday for the following day, and that every person in the kingdom of Gondor was to travel to the nearest population center.

Roggie feared some dire stroke, but could not think what Mardil could possibly be hoping to achieve.

This post ended, consequently, on an uncertain note, with a smoking King of Mordor fuming in many literal ways within his study.

[Formendacil]

"Hyarmenwë! Lord Hyarmenwë!"

The old Gondorian heard his name being called, and stumbled slightly in his flight. Elrogorn grabbed his arm, and hauled him back to his feet before he could even begin hitting the ground.

"Do not listen!" said Elrogorn in a hiss, "it is a siren!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" said Maika, "that sounded nothing like a police car or ambulance."

"No, it sounded like Angawen," said Hyarmenwë.

"The snotty lady Gondorian?" said Maika.

"The same," said Hyarmenwë with a half-frown. "Angawen!" he shouted into the ever-darkening graveyard, "is that you?"

"Lord Hyarmenwë," pressed Elrogorn, "we really shouldn't pause."

"Right," said Maika. "If we're going to go through with foolishly making for the gates, let's get it over with."

[the phantom]

Mardil II looked up from his desk as his father, Denethor IV, entered the room. "We've been expecting you to join us for some time, son," said Denethor. "Are you almost finished? The entire household is ready to join the holiday throng."

"Yes, yes... I'm just finishing my instructions to Bregor and Gundor. They'll be leaving in the morning." Mardil dipped his quill into a bottle of ink and continued writing.

Denethor sighed and sat down across from Mardil. "So, you still think you can work with him?"

"Yes."

Denethor shook his head. "He's a balrog, Mardil. A BALROG! Nothing good has ever come from his kind. He can't be trusted. You ought- "

"We've been through this before," interjected Mardil. "My mind hasn't changed."

"You say he's not wholly evil, Mardil, but the fact remains that he is moody, aggressive, unreasonable, and is easily upset," argued Denethor. "I'm telling you, you can't deal with someone like that."

Mardil laid his quill aside, pushed his chair back, and rose to his feet. "You forgot one thing, father- Alli. She can deal with Roggie, and talk sense into him when no one else can. All I have to do is make her see the benefits of cooperation, and she will see that Roggie complies for his own good as well as hers."

"Oh, sure, Alli will be great help until the day that, in a fit of rage, Roggie squashes her and fries her to a crisp," retorted Denethor.

"That's never going to happen!" returned Mardil. "I've seen them together. Roggie would never hurt her. Maybe others, but not her."

Denethor stood, walked around the table, and placed his hands on his son's shoulders. "So, you truly believe in Alli's ability to influence Roggie enough to risk the lives of your two most loyal servants?"

"Yes," answered Mardil without hesitation. "And surely my willingness to entrust Roggie with the lives of my men will convince him further that I wish to work with him, and not against him."

Denethor squeezed Mardil's shoulders and smiled. "You are firm in your beliefs- just the way a King should be."

**********

All across the kingdom, in town after town, the residents of Gondor gazed in wonder at drawings and descriptions of anachronisms of all shapes and sizes. The collection of anachronisms was huge- the result of many many smuggling runs by Bergil and company. The rest of the collection was furnished by King Mardil himself, who had spent countless days and nights writing about the various anachronisms he saw during his stay in Mordor.

Slowly and surely, the entire population of Gondor was being vaccinated against the weakening dweomer. For, as Anakron had told Mardil behind closed doors, once an anachronism becomes commonly known in the real and present world, it loses its anachronistic power.

New assignments to Mordor fell to almost nothing overnight. The evil curse of the Blue Wizards was being undone. Roggie's realm was no longer growing.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog shivered and cowered below a tombstone. He looked at his blooded hands, shaking uncontrollably. He fought the tears that were welling in his eyes but he could not stop it. A thin hand gripped his shoulder and he yelped.

"Come along, old bean," said a kindly voice, "what's the matter with you?" it was The Barrow Wight and his sword was now deep red. Smilog avoided the Dead man's eyes and picked up his axe again.

"I've never killed anything before," he said slowly, "I felt so horrid." At that moment a great snarling werewolf leaped at them and Smilog immediately swung his axe wildly, not seeming to care that he was inches away from decapitating The Barrow Wight. The beast fell to the ground and made no further sound. Smilog fell to his knees, "What am I doing?" he cried.

"Courage," said The Wight, "you must have courage. There is nothing for it." he gripped the Dwarf by the arm and lifted him up. The whole graveyard was filled with the enemy and all seemed to be going wrong. The screams of the Mordorians as they were slaughtered filled Smilog's ears and he looked towards the south where he saw his father doing battle with a Wereduck. At last his nerves gave way to a feeling of duty. He leaped into the battle and did great deeds... so he said.

Tollin, with a fit of rage upon him, swung his morning scar left and right. He had come to the very end of the Were army. Behind him only the blackness of Mordor, before him the sea of foes. Sweeping were creatures aside like dead leaves on the forest floor. Even the very largest could not stand before him, his eyes were like fire and his face was terrible to behold. The Barrow Wight saw him as he decapitated a Werewolf. Thinking that next to Tollin would probably be the best bet for safest, he made his way towards the Minotaur, slashing as he went.

Pallando's face was set like stone. He could see that all was going well. If they could defeat this minotaur resistance before the dwarves arrived, then his victory would be assured. But he looked to where Tollin was, and saw that he would to great damage to his plans if not dealt with. None could get close to him. With a wide grin, Pallando poked Alatar and then pointed at the Minotaur. The Brown Wizard nodded and took out his bow.

With a suddenness that made some Were creatures step back, Tollin stopped his slaughter. The Barrow Wight rushed over to see what was happening, but two Mordorians stopped him. A long blue arrow stuck out from Tollin's chest. It burned him and was buried deep. He raised his Morning Star and swooped it across the line of foes that now approached, but another arrow soon hit him. Falling to his knees, Tollin cried aloud. The Were Creatures stepped back and whimpered slightly as he took up his weapon and killed three more.

A third and a fourth arrow soon followed. Tollin fell to the ground at the last and did no more. Satisfied, Allatar gave no more thought to him and turned his attentions to the rest of the battle. The Barrow Wight, on the other hand, dashed to Tollin's side and saw that he yet lived.

"Come on, old chap," he sniffed, "stiff upper lip, wot-wot?" Tollin smiled vaguely and looked up at the sky.

"Alas," he said, "this is my end, I fear."

"Don't say that," mumbled The Barrow Wight, "Let me get rid of those arrows and perhaps I'll find that Elempi chap."

"It's too late," Tollin sighed, "the arrows are poisoned anyway. My mind is going, I can feel it. Farewell, you old Wight. Do not vanish in the sunlight. Be sure to haunt your old barrow for many years. As for me, I go to a long rest. At the least, I have not spent my last moments in that blasted labyrinttthhhh. If only that Dwarf were here, I could thank him properly. Farewell, my friend, farewell"

Tollin smiled and breathed his last.

[Celuien]

The winds of change continued to blow, aided by the very large fans some of the Were-creatures had chosen to bring to the battle. Panakeia found the winds most annoying, as no matter which way she turned, her hair ended up in her eyes, sending her arrows (conveniently abandoned by an unnamed archer, who, mid-battle, had been recruited for the Mordorian Ollimpic Archery Team and so left the fighting behind) wild.

"Oww!" Luggie cried. Panakeia's arrow whizzed through his/her handkerchief and dragged the fabric betwixt its/their fingers. "You gave me a hankie-burn."

"Sorry." She shot another arrow in the air, but where it landed, she knew not where. Up and up it went into the sky, until it could be seen no longer. Most likely, it did not land in the side of an enemy.*

The Were-creatures pressed in from all sides. Panakeia was nearly out of arrows. What did it matter anyway? Outnumbered as they were, they were doomed. She ducked behind a tombstone with Elempí.

"What can we do? We're trapped and practically unarmed. Is this really the end?"

*It was later determined by the use of highly sophisticated and anakronistic physics equations that Panakeia's arrow was launched at an angle of exactly 72.6583 degrees from the graveyard surface with an initial velocity of 23.6 meters per second. Therefore, it should have followed the usual laws of projectile motion and landed 32.8 meters away from its starting point in Panakeia's borrowed bow after 4.658 seconds of travel. This, of course, does not account for air resistance, which was greater than usual on this day due to the effect of the winds of change.

No arrow was found in that location, but it is said that a mysterious arrow landed that day in a tiny Mordorian village far from the battle, and became the inspiration for a collection of love poetry. Was it the same arrow? To this day, the answer is not known.

[littlemanpoet]

Elempí's jaw dropped. His eyes bugged out. He looked very unprofessorial. Especially in a groom's tux. What was Panakeia doing? It was obvious that she was high tailing it, as impressively as any white tail deer, out of the wedding. But what was she doing it for? Elempí was so dumbstruck that he didn't even bother to correct his ungrammatical thought.

Once over the initial shock, his eyes began to rove here and there, noticing the huge throng gathered there, half of them watching the receding high tail of Panakei'a headdress, half of them watching Elempí to see what his reaction would be. How embarrassing! He wanted the Fountains to leap up and drag him down under water. He was humiliated. Humilitated, even. Homogenized and horrificated. Subliminealized. Stumped. His legs gave way and he fell in a heap on the walkway.

"Woe is me. She doesn't love me. She has run away because she has realized just in time that she doesn't want to marry me." Someone kicked him in the leg. Hard. "Ouch!"

"Get up, you ninny!" cried Lûgnût. "She wants you to chase her down! Any orc can see that! She's behaving like any lovestruck orc-lass, she wants to be caught and tackled and pulled brought back by the whisker hairs."

"Don't be silly. Especially when it's disgusting," Elempí grumped. "She doesn't love me."

Lûgnût kicked him again. "Get up, you lousy excuse for an orc!"

"I'm not an orc!"

"Thank Illamatar! You'd make an awful one! Now go get your orc-lass and bring her back!"

"My woman, you mean."

"Whatever, just do it!" Lûgnût turned to the crowd, who had hunkered down close as they could to catch every word. "What do you say everybody, should Elempí go tackle his bride?!?"

"Yes!!!!" came the roaring reply, "Tackle the bride!" The words formed a chant. "TACKLE - THE - BRIDE! TACKLE - THE - BRIDE! TACKLE - THE - BRIDE!"

"All right! All right! Enough already!" Elempí dragged himself back to his feet and began to walk the way Panakeia had run.

"You better run!" cried Lûgnût. As if on cue, or queue, or mind the gap, or whatever, the band that had showed up for the reception, "Plink Foyd", started riffing on Lûgnût's words, and the lead singer was really getting into it.

"You better run all night and run all day....! ..... Run Run Run Run Run!" Mysteriously, a Wall started abuilding right behind the group on which videos of screeching lorries and varied misbehaving hooligans careened from scene to scene. Elempí couldn't help but get into the spirit of it, and he began to run.

[Celuien]

Many heads turned to watch the spectacle of Panakeia running down the high street in her wedding regalia. It wasn't everyday, after all, that a runaway bride turned up.

Out of breath and with aching feet, Panakeia ducked down an alley and leant against a tiny blue building. She ruefully pulled off she shoes, still sparkling under a layer of dust acquired during her flight. This was not the happily-ever-after ending she had wanted. But neither was the garishly over-perfect wedding she had fled. True, it might have been something taken directly from a magazine. But after so many struggles - the battle, Anakron's identity switch, death and undeath - it wasn't right at all. Panakeia simply wanted to leave Mordor fade into a quiet obscurity with her beloved Elempi, never to be heard from again. Except, perhaps, as a rumor in an epilogue.

But would that ever happen now? Panakeia hoped that Elempi would understand her flight was not about doubts about him, but had only been because she was overwhelmed by the setting. If only he could find her now!

But Panakeia wasn't entirely sure that she could find herself. The route she had taken had been haphazard, and Panakeia hadn't been paying great attention to her path. She was lost. She would have to contact someone - somehow!

The answer came as she looked up at the tiny blue building. Public call. She could try to call someone from there, and hope that she could make it back to the Can Sing Ton Guard Inns in time to explain things. Even if it wasn't exactly what she wanted, the noisy display was better than missing her wedding entirely.

Panakeia tried the door. It wouldn't budge. That made no sense at all. Why would it be locked? She tried again, shoving against the door with all her might, and closed her eyes as a curious tingling sensation passed over her.

When she opened her eyes again, Panakeia gasped. This couldn't be the inside of the tiny box. It just wasn't possible.

"What?" she cried.

"What?" came a louder, equally surprised answer from behind an odd structure in the centre of the spacious room. A man in a suit came out from behind the...thing, waving a small, blue-glowing device in front of him. "Not again. Why is it always brides?" He waved the device in fron of Panakeia, and she stepped back.

"What?" she said again, meaning to say, "What is that? And what is this place? And...what are you talking about?" For the man was speaking again, and Panakeia couldn't make any sense out of his rapid commentary.

"Been around things pulled out of time, have you? Leaves a trace. Particles. Sort of a magnetic effect. Must have been what pulled you in here. There. That ought to fix it." He kept waving the little glowing thing in front of her.

Panakeia gasped again as a tiny glowing stream of dust rose from her gown and trickled away across the room.

"You wouldn't happen to want to go to Chiswick, would you?"

"Chiswick? What? No. I was in the Can Sing Ton Guard Inns."

"At your wedding. And you don't want to be late. Right then!" He ran back to the middle of the room and threw a switch.

There was a sudden lurch, and Panakeia nearly lost her footing. Then another lurch, and the man ran back across the room to fling open the door. They were in the Guard Inns, only a little way from the Eat all yen fountains.

"There you are." Panakeia, feeling rather dazed, stepped out the door. She whirled to see it close behind her, and her jaw dropped as the blue box faded into thin air.

She continued to stare, spellbound, at the spot where the box had been, until a noise from the fountains roused her from her daze. Lûgnût and a few scattered guests were running up to her.

The orc started to ask a thousand questions, but Panakeia cut it off with one of her own.

"Where's Elempi?"

"Tsk, tsk," the orc smirked. "Ran away from your own wedding."

"Where is he?" she repeated crossly, in no mood for delay. She needed to explain to Elempi.

"Off looking for you."

Panakeia groaned.

[littlemanpoet]

Elempí ran until his legs ached, then jogged until he could not keep his breath, then walked until he realized that he had no idea where Panakeia might have got to.

"Well that was ripping silly!" he said aloud to himself in his best imitation of Limey dialect (such things were notorious in Dweomer ridden Mordor).

He looked around. He was near a big building surrounded by a tall black wrought iron fence, outside of which was a sign reading Wessman Stabby. A red-robed almbudsman orwhateveryoucallit stood by a gate in the fence, allowing some people through and turning others away (sometimes with an entertainingly swift kick). Elempí went up to him.

"Pardon me sir," he attempted in his best imitation British, "did you happen to see a - erm - bride run by?"

The redrobed man's thick gray brow rose. "A bride, you say?"

"Yes," Elempí nodded encouragingly.

"Running, you say?"

"Yes sir," Elempí nodded even more encouragingly.

"Whatever for?"

Elempí sighed. He was going to have to explain. "We are to marry, sir."

"I dare say not, if she's running, don't you know!" The almbudsman laughed at his own wittiness.

"Sir," Elempí attempted again with extreme patience, "did you see her?"

"Ah, um .... No. I should say not."

"Oh. Well, thank you anyway. I must be-"

"But there was a white robed nun came in just before you got here, and I thought to meself how frilly a nun's getup it seemed."

"Well that might be her then, wot?"

"I'm thinking that it might indeed."

"Spendid! May I go in?"

"I should say not!"

"No? Why not, sir?"

"It's a special day. Rites and observances and all that. Can't go in if you're looking for your bride."

"Oh. But if I was going in to observe the rites, then I could go in?"

"Yes."

"Well then, may I go in?"

"What for?"

"To observe the rites this special day, sir!"

"By all means. In you go!"

"Many thanks, sir!"

"Mind you watch out for the statues! They're a bit lively today!"

Elempí hustled into the Stabby, wondering what on earth the man could mean. He passed through the oversized double doors and found himself in a spacious hall. All manner of men and women were walking about, wearing all manner of styles and periods of costume. There were many empty pedestals. And all the personages seemed to have a gray cast to them. That would make it relatively easy to find a white dressed nun, he thought. One grayish fellow seemed friendly enough.

"Hello there, I'm wondering, sir, if you might have seen-"

"Greetings. And who might you be?" The man's hair was wild and worn over his ears. He wore a frock coat and seemed in bad health.

"I'm Elempí of Umbar, sir, and who might you be?"

"William Wilbur of Forth of Fifth."

"You don't say!"

"I just did."

"Well, so you did, sir. Did you happen to see a nun dressed in white? Or a bride who looked like a nun? Or a n-" Elempí stopped, confused.

"I did. She went to the poets' corner." William put his hand to his mouth to whisper conspiratorially. "Watch out for the busts!"

"Many thanks!" Elempí grinned. He wondered what busts the man was referring to as he made his way down the long, tall, and relatively narrow hallway in the direction of what was supposed to be the poets' corner. He hoped he would know it when he saw it. And he hoped Panakeia would be there.

[Celuien]

Amdist the celebrating throngs gathered in Wessman Stabby, there was one very forlorn figure snuffling in a nondescript corner of the building. Indeed, with her drab brown dress and bloodshot eyes, she looked as nondescript as the dusty corner.

And who, of all the celebrants, had reason to be sad? It was, of course, Panakeia. But how had she gone from bridalwear to yesterday's laundry?

After arriving back at the Guard Inns to find Elempi as missing as she had been earlier, Panakeia had fled once again, this time to her little flat. She had to search for Elempi, and there was no way to run an efficient trek through the city in her gown. And so she quickly changed to traveling clothes and then, as she left again, handed her elaborate wedding dress off to a passing Orc whom she noticed looking at it longingly. The dress had only brought her bad luck, despite being quite fashionable, and Panakeia didn't want it. And then she went off in search of her beloved.

The search proved to be more challenging than she had anticipated. Elempi was nowhere near the Guard Inns, as far as she could tell. And worse, the ever present crowds had grown denser. No matter how much she tried to move against it, Panakeia found that the crowd was slowly and irresistibly pulling her along to the southwest, and before long, she found that she had been shuffled into the vast halls of Wessman Stabby, where a celebration of some kind was in full swing. Even the Orc who had claimed her gown was there. But she didn't see Elempi.

Seeing the dress reminded Panakeia of the day's disaster, and she hurried away to as distant a corner as she could manage to have a good cry. She did not know how long she sat there before a gentle tap on the shoulder brought her back to reality.

[littlemanpoet]

Elempi came to the Poets' Corner.

"I wouldn't go there if I were you," said a voice. Elempi looked around. "Over here. No, here. No no no! Over here." Elempi found the source of the voice. It was a dreaded bust. None other than Sir Water Scotch & Rye, to be precise.

"I always thought that scowl was very lifelike," Elempi remarked.

"Of course it is! Now don't go over there."

"Over where?"

Sir Water Scotch & Rye indicated to his right with a nod of his head, which set his shoulders rattling on the pedestal.

"Careful!"

"Never you mind! Just don't go over there!"

"Why ever not?" Elempi asked.

"You'll be stepping on deadmen's bones, that's why ever not!"

"Erm, that is hardly avoidable in this great Stabby, don't you think?"

The bust rolled its eyes. "You do not want to step on that particular grave."

Elempi went over for a look. Jeff Chaw Sir. "Shouldn't that be Sir Jeff Chaw? And why have I never heard of him?"

A deep groan came from beneath the ancient stones.

"You stepped on him," the bust accused.

"Did not."

"Maybe not with your feet, but with your words."

"That hardly counts."

"It counts most of all!"

"Whatever. Have you seen a bride?"

"A bride? Here? Whatever for? There's no wedding today."

"My bride ran away. Cold feet and all that. I'm trying to find her."

"I'll tell you what I saw if you get off that grave."

"I'm not on the grave."

"Liar."

Elempi looked down. The groan came again from deep beneath his feet. "Why, the stones moved!"

"Hmph!" cried Sir Water Scotch & Rye.

Elempi stepped off the grave. "So what did you see?"

"Nothing."

Elempi groaned. In harmony with the voice from beneath the stones. It was actually pretty nice to hear. It sounded a bit like 'Illamatar Save the Queen'. Well, it would have to a pack of hounds. At any rate, there was no white gowned bride in the Poets Corner, so Elempi forsook the place and Sir Water Scotch & Rye and ambled on up some steps beside massive sarcophagi in honor of much dead royalty, until he stopped, listening to a sound that seemed familiar somehow. It was coming from a little corner tucked away between the tombs of Deadwood the Confettior and Henpecked IV. Someone was sniffling. Crying, even. The someone was not in the white bridal gown, but it would not hurt to ask. Maybe this person had heard from Panakeia and was weeping in sympathy. Poppycock, you twit, Elempi said to himself. But why not?

He tapped on the weeper's shoulder.

"Pardon me, but have you seen a bride running away from her groom?"