Assigned to Mordor RPG

[piosenniel]

Encaitare's post


"Oh, very well, Mr. Swanky. You may have some licorice even if it's not quite lunchtime yet." The old woman unscrewed the cap from the handle of her walking-stick and removed a licorice whip. She broke a little piece off the end and appeared to feed it to her garish hat.

"Daddy, look, that lady is giving her hat lunch!" a small girl noted, tugging on her father's sleeve.

The man took a look and said to his daughter, "Never you mind, hon. That's just old Wilhelmina Brokenback. She's crazy."

Luckily, Wilhelmina was a bit deaf and didn’t hear the exchange; otherwise the man would have gotten a smart whack with her walking-stick for calling her crazy and mispronouncing her name in the same breath. Instead, she slowly chewed the rest of the licorice herself, waiting for the selection of names to begin. If anyone deserved to get out of Mordor, she did. She'd been in the wretched land for more than fifty years, and although she'd gotten used to it, it would be nice to live in a place where speeding drivers didn't try to mow her down on her way to the corner store. Yet she had dwelt there for so long that she felt quite patient to wait for the names to be drawn. What were a few more minutes compared to the years already gone?

Around her, people were chatting excitedly. "The first thing I'm going to do if I get out of here..." was the phrase that was flying about. One shrill voice cut through the din; "Wrinkle-Away Skin Firming Solution! Take ten years off your face instantly!"

"'S that Panakeia loony again," Wilhelmina muttered to herself. "If you ask me, she could use some of that face cream stuff herself. Not that I'm one to talk, of course," she added, as though someone had called her hypocritical.

Suddenly, the crowd hushed as the Grand Anakronist stepped forth and cleared his throat. He announced that it was time to choose the lucky few who would comprise the Offending Party. Hundreds of eyes watched as the ATM rose from the ground, and everyone seemed to hold his (or her) breath as the transactions were completed.

"Alumìn-E Umfuìl," Anakron read. A pretty young girl pushed her way forward, griping about how he’d said her name wrong. "Panakeia of Harad," he continued. The saleswoman joined the first girl at Anakron’s side. The machine spat out a third card. The man squinted at it for a moment, and then read, "Wilhelmina Brochenbach."

Wilhelmina grinned and made her way to the front. "Good man!" she said jovially. "Got the ach-Lauts and everything! Did you hear that, Mr. Swanky? We’re going to get out of here!"

[piosenniel]

the guy who be short's post


Much as Fléin would have liked to have left Mordor, he simply didn't have enough energy to be enthusiastic. Being woken at four ante meridian by twittering songbirds was hardly the best way to start a day, but when said awakening is accompanied by discovering you have conjunctivitis - well, it's hard to deal with. After discovering that he was not, in fact, blind, but merely lacking in eyelid mobility due to a gooey discharge, Fléin had tried to rush blindly to the well. Unfortunately, fate was smiling down in a particularly twisted manner that day, and before he had taken five paces, Fléin was face down on the ground due to excess phlegm coating the floor.

Life in Mordor was never easy, but people have especially bad days even in the Black Land. So far, this appeared to be one of them. He had been in Mordor for only two years, maybe less, but the longing to leave was like a manic kitten in his heart - painful and stingingly noticable.

So it was that Fléin found himself behind a large crowd at Cair Pairadocks, hoping beyond hope that he would be chosen to leave Mordor.

The noise of flugel horns startled Fléin, causing him to blink, or rather, causing him to perform half of the action that is generally thought sufficient to be considered a blink. His eyes stuck shut.

"Blasted Conjunctivitis!" the Dwarf swore. He had visited a nurse just before coming to the docks, but she was a know nothing and hadn't been any help at all. In a way, it was perhaps nicer having ones eyes sealed shut. One didn't have to take into account the blasted landscape, or the even more blasted aspects of civilisation that had made their way into Mordor.

"Excuse me," Fléin intoned into the air at large. I've just gone temporarily blind. Little help, someone?"

"Blindness? How positively bestial. Do stay away from me, be a good fellow," a snotty upperclassman had replied.

The Dwarf sighed. Sometimes it was better to say nothing at all. He stuck his fists into his eyes and forcibly peeled them apart.

By this time, the Grand Anakronist had already declared the name of Alumìne Umfuìl as the first member of the Offending Party. Though he had freed his eyes (albeit they were streaming pus all over his face and into his beard) Fléin couldn't see her through the press of human bodies around him. From what he heard, he instantly disliked the girl. Here she was, given the chance to leave this curséd land - what a chance! - and all she could do was moan about her name.

Panakeia, the next name to be selected, turned out to be a woman who sounded even more annoying than Alumìne. What a buffoon, he thought. Thank goodness I'm not her, even if my eyes are melting.

Wilhelmia Brochenbach was next. What a disgusting name. And yet another woman? Suspicions about the Grand Anakronist's honour whizzed through Fléin's mind. But then again, why would he choose a whiny child, an idiotic saleswoman and an old bat out of all the women in Mordor?

The possibility that he was being bitter about his bad morning and taking it out, completely unjustifiably, on those running into a bit of luck flittered through Fléin's mind. He tried to make it go away.

"Fléin son of Fréin of the Ironfoots" the Grand Anakronist cried, his voice rolling through the courtyard.

"Ironfeet!" injected an annoying English teacher.

Fléin couldn't believe it. What a piece of luck! How wonderfully harmonious the universe seemed, that he should be given the chance to leave with those three fine women! "That's me! That's me!" he screamed. "Out of my way!"

The crowd parted around him, and he made his way up to the ATM and the Grand Anakronist himself. The latter eyed him with disdain. "It is, is it?" he intoned, looking down the length of his nose at the Dwarf.

"Er, yes, sir," Fléin meekly replied, but the Grand Anakronist had already turned to read the next card the machine had just excreted, so he stood there, smiling jovially at the whiner, the nutter and the old bat.

[piosenniel]

Kath's post


Sai opened her eyes and immediately closed them again as the world’s strange new habit of spinning was making her feel sick. Keeping her eyes closed she slowly sat up. As she did so she realised that every part of her body ached, like the time she’d sneezed and fallen off the climbing wall. Wondering what had happened she gingerly opened her eyes, and sighed in relief when she saw that her surroundings were still again. Her sigh was followed by an exclamation of surprise and shock. Where in all of Middle-Earth was she? Looking around she could see hundreds of things that would never be found in the normal world. There were hundreds of ATMs, with the people lining up in front of them all trying to cut the queue at the same time. There were small groups of people all over the place, arguing about language and spellings and the misuse of apostrophes, things Sai had always wished to speak about but was unable to because of their Anakronist status. As she was just thinking that these people would be dragged off to Mordor any minute, she suddenly realised, when she fainted she must have fallen off the cart as they passed through the gates. She must be in Mordor!

Along with this realisation came the fear. She was in Mordor! With all the nasty anakronisms that had been sent there over the years, along with some really nasty people. Speaking of people, she noticed a large group of them all crowded round a man who seemed to be standing on a large platform. Deciding that she wasn’t about to lie on the floor all day and feel sorry for herself Sai jumped up, ignoring the protests from various parts of her body, and began to make her way over. An osteopath, who came towards her with arms outstretched, just ready to try and crush her, immediately interrupted her progress but Sai was already unhappy with her situation, and just kicked him in the shin and carried on.

Reaching the edge of the group she began to squeeze herself through the barely there gaps, suddenly grateful for her slight stature. Still, she was constantly shoved and pushed by intolerant people all the way, and so she felt no guilt about lashing a foot back at the last person to do so as she reached the front. She could now see that there were four other people in the centre with the strange man and sought to satisfy her insatiable curiosity.

“What’s going on?” she whispered to the man standing next to her. He glanced down at her disdainfully and muttered something about teenagers answering back to their elders before turning away and ignoring her completely. Irritated about this since he had not said anything she could answer back to, Sai sidled over to another person and was about to ask them the same question when she heard her name being called.

“Sai Onara is the fifth person to have been chosen by the ATM!”

The voice came from the man in the middle and Sai looked at him in surprise. She half turned, expecting to see another person who happened to have the same name coming forward, but nobody else was moving. The man repeated the name a couple of times, and eventually Sai thought she’d better step forward. As she did so he swivelled round to her.

“You are Sai Onara?” he asked.

“Er, yes but I don’t . . .” she never did finish the question as he interrupted her.

“Go and join the others over there.” He said waving a hand in the general direction of the four people she had seen before and turned back to his machine.

Sai reluctantly did as she was told, hoping that at least this motley crew would give her some answers. The Dwarf didn’t look like he’d be much help, since he had yellow pus from what looked like conjunctivitis pouring from his eyes he probably didn’t even know where he was. Seeing another girl about her own age she finally got the chance to ask what was going on.

“Don’t you know?” she had replied in astonishment. “We’re getting out of Mordor!

[piosenniel]

the phantom's post


A loud knock at his bedroom door spurred Mardil into a state of slight consciousness.

"Wha- whass goin' on...mmm, jusss...go'way...m'sleepin'..." he mumbled, slipping back into slumber as he spoke.

The knock sounded again. Mardil opened his eyes. Annoyed, he grumbled, "Leave me alone," but the knock sounded again, accompanied by a "I have a message for you, Lord Mardil."

Mardil recognized the speaker. "Gundor, I told you I'm trying to sleep. I'll read my message later!"

"But Milord," protested Gundor, "The message is from the Grand Anakronist. The man who delivered it said it was imperative that it be given to you immediately."

Mardil rolled over onto his back and stretched his arms out above his head. "Well, I suppose now that I'm awake I might as well read it. Bring it to me."

The door to the well furnished room opened and a tall man with grey-flecked black hair entered, carrying a parchment in his left hand. He was dressed in finely crafted armor and held a spear in his right hand. "Here it is, Master," he said as he offered Mardil the parchment.

Mardil took the message and unfolded it. It read-

Lord Mardil II,

I know that you never bother to come to gatherings, even if they are declared mandatory, but I would strongly suggest joining the assembly in Caer Pairadocks this morning.

I know what you are thinking. You believe there is no way that your name will be chosen because the King's writ and pardon are involved, but I assure you, the King has no control over which names are picked. The selection is random. The only person that can influence the ATM machine is me- The Grand Anakronist.

And now that I've said that, let me just say that I have a strong feeling your name will be chosen.

If you do not arrive before noon you forfeit your chance of escape.

-The Grand Anakronist

Mardil sighed and handed the letter back to Gundor. "What did it say, Milord?"

"Go ahead and read it if you like, Gundor." Mardil sat for a moment staring at the wall, waiting for Gundor to finish.

After Gundor reached the end of the letter, he looked up. "I assume you are going to go, Lord Mardil?"

"I suppose. My life would certainly be easier back home than it is here, but... it wouldn't be as good as the way I left it. I'm worried that I would constantly compare my life with what it was before Mordor- and that would rob me of all joy. Perhaps it would be best to stay here."

"That may be true," said Gundor, "But if I may say so, Milord, there are more reasons to live than for joy and happiness. What about power, your family's honor and status, and revenge against those that wronged you? Surely those things are worth pursuing. Aren't those reasons good enough to leave Mordor for?"

Mardil smiled grimly. "Yes, Gundor, those are good reasons." After a short pause, Mardil stood to his feet and placed his hand on Gundor's shoulder. "You are a good and faithful servant, Gundor. I can't tell you how glad I am that you and Bregor chose to join me here. If I escape I will find a way to get you out of this place. I promise. Now, go and get Bregor and have him help you pack my things, and then load them onto a cart and deliver them to me in Caer Pairadocks. I will go on ahead to be sure I am there before noon."

----------

Mardil stood upon a balcony overlooking the courtyard of Caer Pairadocks. So far, The Grand Anakronist had called forward an overdressed middle aged lady, a short old lady, a dwarf, a slender girl who looked to be around seventeen, and a young lady who was overly touchy about the pronunciation of her name. I hope she isn't that touchy about everything. If she is, she will be a real pain to have along thought Mardil, though she certainly is easy on the eyes he observed as he looked her up and down for about the twentieth time.

The voice of the Grand Anakronist interrupted Mardil's musings. "Mardil II!"

Mardil waved from the balcony. The Grand Anakronist looked up at him and nodded.

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

From the moment her woke up, Valde knew that this day, of all days, would be different. He knew, the very second he felt his mind being dragged into consciousness, that his life would be changing very soon. It was suddenly as if this was a long day prophesized in a time long forgotten, though the memory had resurfaced in the man’s dreams. Perhaps it came from the remembrance of more pleasant mornings, when he had been wakened gently from a peaceful slumber on top of a fluffy feather mattress. He had been treated like a young prince-ling in Minas Tirith, and he had of course been as handsome as one then, too. The harsh lands of Mordor had worn him down to what he was, a man rejected by his past and constantly tortured by the present, but one who stood boldly in the face of the future. Now he was but a simple man, who yearned for more, and would stop at nothing to reach it.

Or so, at least, it was told to anyone who asked about that day.

The truth was, he had awakened that morning with many groanings and moanings, and had counted on spending his day in sorrowful meditation where of course everyone could see him. His first movement since falling asleep was to reach up and wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth. He then felt the pillow, found it wet, and decided that he must inform anyone who asked that he had cried himself to sleep that night, just in case anyone decided to give his pillow a feel. Stumbling out of his room, he cursed every object on the floor that he stepped on, wishing to give the sea life in the Nurn an impressive collection of ironware, quills, and empty ink pots, along with a large stack consisting of the not-yet-so-famous tragedies of Valde Delego, written for the stage.

Upon knocking down one such stack, Valde noticed a particular piece of parchment. It was larger than the rest, and the letters upon it were to match, glaring at him. It was almost as if he could see their eyebrows slanting and their lips curling, and so he quickly crumpled up the sheet to hide them. Angrily he threw it out his open window, and the falling paper was greeted with an unnaturally high-pitched squeal.

“Do not screech in my window, thee harpy!” he shouted upon rushing to stick his head outside, and then quickly he pulled the shudders shut with a slam. He regretted not saying more to the squealer, but decided that a solemn, silent curse would be enough until they met again. For but a moment he bemoaned his situation, muttering to himself, the only words audible being ‘wretched, poor, stricken, forsaken, maimed, brutal, wound, and ticks.’ Of course, he was obviously relating the Grand Anakronist and the King to parasites, or simply a good poke in the eye. And his reason for this at the moment was plain: gatherings were mandatory, and one was today.

Reluctantly, and pulling his grim cloak of sadness tighter around him (a ratty old thing of black cloth that rippled nicely in the wind, perfect for swirling, and thus perfect for either gloomy or angry brooding, depending on the occasion), Valde made his way to the Anakronist’s gathering. Just look at all these filthy people, he thought upon arriving at Caer Pairadocks, Look at that hideous orange scarf that woman’s wearing. What was she thinking? ‘Tis a Mordorian style, if I ever saw one. No wonder she’s stuck here.

Taking a position at the back of the crowd, huddled in his cloak with the tall neck pulled up so that he stared over with his dark eyes and large eyebrows as he scanned the gathering, his face frozen in what he thought to be frigid. It became obvious to him that he was trying too hard when a passing woman asked him if he needed to relieve himself. She received first a wide-eyed look of pure shock, which quickly turned to fierce resentfulness. “You would so bother a simple man, protected from the elements by only these scraps of cloth, and even less protected from the storms within the heart? There is no wondering, madam, why you are here in Mordor.”

“The same to you, chap.” And with that, the woman moved on, leaving Valde to boil in his anger. So, naturally, he did not notice when the Grand Anakronist began extracting names from the ATM machine. At least, not until he heard his own name, though he naturally wished his ears were lying to him, not knowing why on earth he was called. He quickly smoothed his cloak and gave a tug to the collar, and began to make his way through the crowd, matching every curse at him for pushing with a more iniquitous one.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron led the Offending Party off of the Platform of Caer Pairadocks, his black cloak flowing behind him regally. As they came to a wall in a high building with bad architecture, he looked over his shoulder once, condescendingly, and said, "Single file, please." Immediately, squabbling broke out for pride of place behind the pontifical presence of the Grand Anakronist himself. Anakron rolled his eyes, caring not who was first or last.

They entered the building and walked down a narrow, musty corridor. There was room for one individual going in either direction, and they Offending Party passed by many officiously dressed Orcs, all of whom had halitosis, causing those with health conditions to gag and cough and water profusely from their eyes. Anakron seemed immune to both the smell and its effects upon their bodies.

Finally the corridor led after a while to a huge foyer, knwon as the (what else?) Grand Entrance of Caer Pairadocks, known by all and sundry in that part of town as White-All. Which seemed a gross misapplication, since the building was quite dirty and gray, perhaps with the fumes that were ever in the air in Mordor.

Anakron stopped the Offending Party at a long desk in the Grand Entrance, behind which stood an officious looking Orc dressed in a drab gray uniform covered in badges, bars, and stripes, denoting the Orc's high station in the Mordorian bureaucracy.

Anakron raised his staff and the Siamese Cat sitting atop it opened its mouth and yowled. "Your prepared speech, Lugnut."

Lugnut blinked with a pained expression. "Lûgnût, sir," coughed the Orc. Lûgnût faced the Offending Party officiously.

"Your obstreperous duty," said the genderless one, "is to propend from these premises to Edge-Where, at which location will be transferred to you your next challenge. All currency shall be removed from your persons post haste, and to each of you will be donated ten Trolls for various and sundry expenditures that you will incur whilst on your meandering journey. Oh, and you also shall be invested with these maps for your perusal and potential aid."

Each of the Offending Party handed in their money and received ten Trolls, and were directed to stand where the Grand Anakronist indicated with his Staff.

"Oh, one final detail. No assistance of any nature that you consider your personal possession, be they butlers, servants, men at arms, or what have you, may propound to you whilst on this endeavor. You must attend to your own considerations of the more necessary nature.

"You have one day, that is, a period not less nor more than twenty-four hours, to reach your destination whilst journeying through the metropolitan demesne Lûndûn, using the [i]public transport system[/b], to arrive at Edge-where. Be aware that the maps have erroneous names. Such places as Less-Terse-Square, as you know them, are given names on these maps that read more like Lice-Ester-Square. So use care in finding your way around. And at this moment, you may endeavor to begin."

With that, the Offending Party raced out into the open air and were immediately smitten by the familiar fume and stench of White-All. Litter blew down the walks and streets in a stiff wind, for it was another day of bad weather. The roads were jammed with yellow PT Cruisers or Little French Cars With No Guts, most of them blaring their horns in a horrendous din. Orcs were behind the wheel of every vehicle they saw. Worse, the Offending Party were constantly getting bumped by people, all of whom seemed to be in a rush.

Anakron shouted from the doorway, "Well, don't just stand there, gawking and procrastinating, you fools! Get on with it! Your future depends on it!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli glared down at the map with what could only be called total disdain. Of course there are erroneous names on the maps, she thought, because who in this dratted place ever gets anybody's name right without a good scolding? With hardly a second thought, she binned the map and hoisted her bag on her shoulders. Looking around, she had to stifle a laugh... city life, she thought amusedly... She looked at her boot-clad feet and groaned. Not here too! Painted upon the very stones of the roadway were small images and writing in what looked like a Jamesian dialect of English. What does that say? She knelt, taking a closer look.

"Buyeth thineself one Razr phone? What in the...? Must be an advertisement for some oddly shaped new form of palantir." Laughing at the pitiable state of the road, she walked off down it, oblivious to the many stares she accumulated from young men that thought she was stupid because she was pretty. They took in her slim frame as it appeared clad in her usual outfit: she had come straight to Caer Pairadocks from work, and she looked remarkably good in her uniform. She donned soft flame-retardant leather breeches tucked into sturdy boots with strong leg guards fastened above. There were a few singed spots on the sleeves of her white blouse, but the shirt was mostly protected by the fitted leather jerkin she wore laced over it. Gauntlets kept her forearms protected, and leather gloves protected the tender skin of her burned hands from the chill in the air. Being a balrog-winger was tough and she had to dress for the working hazards. Her pin-straight hair was pulled away from her face and fastened into a messy chignon. A few stray locks had slipped into her face but she ignored them, glancing about Lûndûn.

A few chavs loitered near an almost unidentifiable shop that seemed to carry overpriced smoothies by the looks of the disgruntled public who had waiting for quite some time in an unmoving queue to get them. On the other side of the road stood a marketer shouting his wares. Alli walked over and smoothly purchased one of his magazines, flipping through it as she walked.

Without consideration, Alli sauntered down the center of the road. A rude driver gave her the finger as he drove by yelling something to the point of "Get out of the road! Sidewalks are made so that you don't have to get in my way!" Realizing that there was indeed a sidewalk, also covered in luridly colored advertisements, Alli shifted there and walked a bit more with her nose stuck in the publication.

An article about a hobbit named Màrîo had caught her attention. The illustration showed the small fellow clad in red... a most unhobbitly shade. Apparently he'd been beaten unconscious by an unidentified kilt-clad Scotsman. The culprit was on the loose and the writer of the article passively voiced that Màrîo was on the mend, that if anybody spotted someone tall, dark, handsome, and flanked by screaming fangirls, they should keep their distance and report him to an official. She closed the magazine, disappointed that the other article that had caught her interest, "101 Ways to Escape Mordor", was nothing more than a lot of bologna that added up to nothing more than many variations of the phrase "smooth-talk the bureaucrats".

She wondered if she would have any company on her trip to Edge-Where. That Lord Mardil, perhaps... she could discuss politics with him. After all, surely as a lord, he would have many opinions on the government of Gondor. Or even that girl. What was her name? Sai? She seemed like she'd be a fun travelling companion. Who knew what would happen though. She had to get to Edge-Where before she could think about the rest of the trip out of Mordor. As she'd tossed her map, Alli began to look around in search of a friendly face that she could ask for directions.