Assigned to Mordor RPG

[the guy who be short]

After Alli left with Sai, Fléin receded back to the woods to think. Panakeia's ideas had gained strength in the village. Almost nobody believed in the wolves anymore, and as a result, nobody was voting. What would happen was anybody's guess. Indeed, many of the villagers had tried to guess, and each suggestion was - to Fléin's mind, anyway - as downright ridiculous as Panakeia's.

A sudden movement made him jump off of his stump and grasp his axe. He stared, eyes wide with wonder, as a dryad, frail and wispy, approached him. "Pray, put down your axe, good Dwarf," she said, and her voice was as the song of the Vanyar before the feet of Manwe upon the Hallowed Mountain, not that Fléin would ever know what that was like. He lowered his weapon.

"Are you an ent?"

"Nay, good sir. I am a dryad, a spirit of the trees. I am come to tell you that A Slan is on the move."

Fléin bowed his head. "My lady, I had heard this news before, though I know not what it forbodes."

The dryad's bell-like voice rung over his form, warming him. "Do you not then know who is A Slan?"

"Nay," he replied, bowing his head. In her presence, he felt uncouth and ignorant.

"My, you are uncouth and ignorant" the spirit replied.

"Tell me what A Slan is! Tell me what it means!"

"I must go!" was her response. There was a burst of wind, and the spirit seemed to dissipate.

Fléin rushed towards where her form had stood, only to see Anakron stalking towards him.

"There you are!" he said. "Most antisocial of you, staying here. Come back to the village with me."

Fléin had no choice but to be escorted away. He cast a last longing look around the place, searching for the dryad, but finding only two halves of a beaver.

Grudgingly, he returned to the village, but his thought was with the beautiful spirit - and with A Slan.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé (which had become quite a lovely and frequently-used nickname) remained quite moody. He had found a banjo of all things in one of the run-down cottages; almost like a slap in the face considering the horrific state of his fingers. Bar chords: the new fashionable drug, apparently.

The reason for this moodiness was more obvious to him now. Alli had made it clear to him that she—and not her alone—needed him. Aimé couldn't quite handle responsibility; and now he had a barely conceivable amount of the stuff (as he saw it). How was he supposed to take it? Whatever happened, he wasn't going to be happy about it.

And now he had heard about the crazed wizard's machinations concerning werewolves or the lack thereof or whatever it was that was happening in this village. Indeed, what was happening? And more importantly: Why was Aimé involved in it?

It wasn't all bad, though. There were a few pretty girls around. And what's more, one of them had even given Aimé a plausible romance to work with. Not that he was going to get too involved, though. The relationships between certain members of the Offending Party were very hard to decipher, especially the ones Alli was involved in. Aimé didn't know too much about them, and made it clear to the others that he didn't. He was outstanding in that he was so obviously 'to the side', a cameo, if you will, in the lives of these people.

One thing Aimé had experienced a lot in Mordor was after-date paranoia. This is something which, he argued, had its good aspects as well as its bad. It gave him something to think about. Alli gave him a hell of a lot to think about.

But he wasn't going to get too involved. He couldn't.

Right?

Aimé slouched by the well, and sighed in a rather melodramatic manner.

[Kath]

Mardil's reaction to Alli hadn't been entirely unexpected mused Sai as the two of them were led away by Aimé, especially after the recent shouting matches and the insults Alli had just thrown at him through the door. Mardil's response had been patronising and over the top and Sai couldn't blame Alli for the way she reacted, but it wasn't going to make things any easier.

It was getting close to lynching time now she was sure of it, but no one had voted and Anakron hadn't been seen inside the village all day. She was worried about what was going to happen when he found out that no one had voted. Would he just pick two people at random? Or would they finally be freed from the need to tear people apart that seemed to take them over each day?

She had sat down next to Fordim, but only realised when she started to sneeze. Cursing allergies and all of their varied symptoms she quickly moved away and saw Aimé over against a wall, looking thoroughly unhappy. She wanted to go over, and find out what was wrong, but wondered whether he wouldn't rather be left alone. While she was continuing this internal debate Aimé looked up with such a mournful expression on his face that she couldn't for shame leave him be, so she joined him in propping up the wall.

"Want to talk about it?"

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

'The way is shut.'

'Huh?' Nilpaurion said.

'The way is shut. It was not made for those who are mentally diseased.'

'Who are you?' he asked while looking all around the gateway, fearing that his alter-egos were playing some trick on him.

Out of the foggy air in front of the gate materialised a grim-looking spirit. He grinned creepily, revealing a row of decaying teeth.

'I am Mandos, gatekeeper of Mandos. The way is shut.'

'But . . . but . . .' he stammered, wondering how someone could be a gatekeeper of himself, or how a gate could keep itself. He dismissed the irrelevant thought, and tried to find a loophole. 'Wait, what about Fëanor?'

'He's really not here. He's in a Happy Farm at the feet of the Yellow Mountains.'

'There's a Yellow Mountains?'

'Why, yes, there is. There are Rainbow Mountains even.'

'Oh.' Nilpaurion was clearly baffled. 'But I'm cured already! See, no more alter-egos!'

'Liar.'

'Oh, dear.'

'See?'

'Don't I get another opinion?'

'Okay then . . .'

Moments later, Nilpaurion found himself in Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom. Around him were seated the Aratar, the eight Valar that really held power in Arda. Why they were needed when there was a more powerful deity--after all, he created Arda and everything in it--was beyond him. Well, there was that theory that Eru was a Warg (or a llama), and could not rule over humanoid life-forms. Hmph, specieists. Such people should be sent to Mordor.

'You asked for another opinion, right?' Mandos said. 'Well, you'll have seven of them.'

'What's with that crazy "Lynch me!" campaign?' asked Manwë. 'There's something wrong with your head, boy.'

'And he has that Lhunatic for a sister,' Varda added.

'Absolutely crazy,' said Aule.

'Stark-raving bonkers,' agreed Yavanna.

'Madman,' pronounced Ulmo.

'Mad Elf,' Oromë corrected. Another specieist, Nilp snorted.

'Boo hoo hoo! . . . Uh, what?' Nienna said. Now she's crazy.

'That's six votes. That's enough. You need to bring your torch,' Mandos said with the formality of a reality show host.

'What? But what about my TV shooooooooooooooooooo . . .'

. . .

Nilpaurion woke up. He was lying on something soft and comfortable. It was too bright here--wherever 'here' was--, and he found himself blinking as his eyes tried to adjust to the light.

'Welcome, Nilpaurion,' a strange voice said. He suddenly thought of men clad in strange black suits with wide foreheads and huge black eyes, doing impossible hand-to-hand fights. He angrily shook the thought off.

'Welcome to Dol Gaurgaurhoth.' Nilpaurion's eyes had fully adjusted, and he saw Anakron standing over him. 'Where have you been?'

'It's a long story,' Nilpaurion said diffidently.

'I'm already bored,' the Dweomer replied.

'Hey, get off my back, 'less you wanna bleed to death,' a creepy voice said from behind him--

What? But he was in bed! Who could be behind him? That creepy voice . . . He slowly rose from where he was lying and turned to see Adam Smith, or at least half of him, attached to his hips like they were Siamese twins. Well, this is interesting . . .

'And watcha lookin' at? If my arms could reach you I'd've throttled you by now,' said Adam unitalicisedly.

'I see, still insane as ever. Now, on to the game,' Anakron said as he sat back on his lazyboy.

Hmmm . . . If his first lynching has separated part of Adam from his body, then surely killing himself again would remove the obnoxious alter-ego completely.

But the villagers would now surely know that he's innocent. I need a new plan for this . . .

Wait, where's Alice and Emily?

~*~

Meanwhile, back in the ruins of MoUnT dOoM . . . errr . . . Mount Doom Casino and Resort, Alice and Emily were standing over the rubble, watching the tortuous lava flows surround them. They held hands as the molten rock slowly crawled its way up the hill where they had taken refuge.

'I love you,' said Emily.

Alice nodded. 'I'm glad that Fléin guy's not here to see us . . .'

~*~

A few minutes of re-acquainting himself with the village led him to discover that everyone had been questioning the veracity of the game. It seemed that the ModeVayor has failed to assign the roles, and that Dol Gaurgaurhoth was a hoax.

But the most important thing that he had heard was . . . nobody has voted yet. The DAY may be ending soon.

This is his chance. A life free of strange voices inside his head.

He takes it: 'I vote for

++Nilpaurion Felagund

again.'

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé started (as you may have inferred, he was a very twitchy sort) when he noticed Sai approach him. As she sat against the wall, Aimé summoned up a killer smile and, just as she asked him if he wanted to talk, he showed it; positively glowing, he smiled such a radiant smile that it took Sai's breath away. At least that's how he imagined it.

The reality was slightly more mundane, if still glad; because Sai smiled back at him and seemed a lot more comfortable. "I thought you looked rather unhappy" said she.

"Oh, it comes and goes" replied Aimé. "Sometimes, in moments of clarity and/or honesty I realise that I quite like being—if not sad then...wistful. Don't you know?"

"Oh yes" said Sai, looking ever so slightly confused but even more like she wanted to put her arm around Aimé's shoulder and say 'There, there!'

And so Sai and Aimé had their first important conversation, where stories were told, laughs were shared, and oaths of fellowship were taken (sort of). Aimé now trusted Sai totally; and he figured that, even if he shouldn't, he didn't ask for the responsibility which he had recently been saddled with. What bad thing was likely to come of this friendship?

Aimé looked out onto the village and espied a flock of pigeons. Now, the fact that Aimé quite liked pigeons has nothing to do with this scene. All he did was ponder how remarkable it was that such anakronisms would pop up at this particular time. It strongly reminded him of the practice of assigning things to Mordor purely for utility in, say, an RPG. It was like an anakronism-sibling, and it was certainly evident here in the not-too-busy village of Dol Gaurgauroth.

"Sai, you have cheered me up" he said, and hugged her. "Now, what the devil are we going to do now?"

[Kath]

"I suppose we wait for Anakron to turn up." Replied Sai. "Only that madman Nilp has voted and that was for himself, which means we only have one candidate for the lynching."

Aimé nodded, but didn't look too worried. Taking her cue from him, Sai decided to leave the panicking til after the event. Still, she couldn't deny that she was worried, and it must have shown on her face for Aimé took pity on her and began to chatter about what he thought of the various members of the Offending Party so far.

Sai was soon helpless as he gave her his interpretations of previous events (which he had only heard about) and how he imagined Fléin reacting to overzealous political correctness and Valde having no cameras on him. And as he began to impersonate Alli's mood swings Sai found herself sliding down the wall, barely able to breath for laughing.

Aimé stopped to give her time to recover, and stood there grinning as she tried to regain her breath.

"Thanks Aimé. I needed that. Now what do you say we get back to the others and find out just what's going on?"

They walked back, and found pretty much everyone waiting quietly for the outcome of the days events.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron walked into the village square; which wasn't really square but you had to call it something that didn't sound overly latinate. Without preamble he started right in on the issues of greatest import.

"All of the Offending Party have passed this test. Not one of you have cast a vote today."

Mardil was walking into the square and overheard this last comment. "But you told us that we had to lynch two people each day."

"Not so. I never said that you had to lynch anyone. Rather, I told you, after one of your number said 'we must lynch them', that in Mordor, because of the Dweomer, all lynchings in Mordor must be multiple. Never did I say that you must do so. Blame the moderator of this rpg if you like, but not me."

Mardil rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Technicalities."

Anakron smirked, then held up his staff. "Let the Dweomer be conveyed!" Suddenly, the ground swelled and rumbled wherever they had buried a fangirl, a nightly death, or a lynch victim. Fingers clawed at the air from beneath the ground. Girls screamed. Fléin retched rats. Arms pulled their own bodies out from beneath the soil until a host of fangirls, lynchees, and nightly victims were standing around, dusting their clothes of excess dirt. Even a beaver that had been two halves, became whole ... and stared evilly at Fléin.

"Juth waith thill a thlan geth heya, Thwoff! Th'a wonther thnow dothn't follow you!"

"Shut up you little orc," Fléin retorted.

"How's everybody feeling?" Anakron asked.

"Alive and well, no thanks to you!" cried Elempí.

"Tut tut, I merely convey."

"But how-" started Alli, "-how did they die if there aren't any werewolves, and how did they all come back to life again?"

"Through the secrets of the Dweomer. But this much I may reveal. The Dweomer functions as a conveyor of entities and items from another time in the future; but not just one single microsecond of time. Rather, the conveyance can be from any of a few million million seconds of time. Two nights ago, for example, the Dweomer conveyed a time when these fangirls were all no longer alive; and this morning, the Dweomer conveyed an earlier time, when they were alive."

Panakeia said, "So ... this village is real? This game?"

"Yes. But it was a very creative solution to the problem, even if it was not quite right."

Nilpaurion, here, was a special case, as he always seems to be, and even though he voted for himself, game's over. Sorry, too bad. Why do you want to be lynched, anyway, Nilp?"

"To be rid of my obnoxious alter ego once and for all, Sir Dweomer."

"Don't call me that. I only convey it. What makes you think being killed a second time will achieve this?"

"You mean it won't?"

"'Twould be far simpler for me to convey the Dweomer from a point in time when you and your alter ego are separate."

"You can do that?!?" Nilp asked, wide eyed.

Anakron held forth his staff. "Dweomer be conv- .... Oh." Anakron lowered his staff. "There is not point in time when your alter ego is completely separated from you. Sorry about that.

"And now to the point totals," Anakron continued. "Ten points for surviving; but subtract one for each individual you voted for that was lynched. Panakeia add one point for moral development. That is all.

"Oh, not quite all. These points do make a difference. Do not doubt it. That is all.

"Well, not quite all. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, meet here to be conveyed to Urukapolis for the final test. Good night all. Sleep tight. Don't let the CoDs, beavers, and betrayers bite. Elempí! Get over here!"

Elempí hurried after his master into the dusk.