ATM II RPG

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë son of Hyarmendil had entered Mordor determined not to like it. Well, more accurately, he had entered Mordor knowing that he would not like it. When you are as old and experienced as the Keeper of the Keys of Minas Tirith was, some things were predictable.

As it was, Hyarmenwë would have preferred to have avoided Mordor altogether, but one must face certain unpleasantries in one's life. In Hyarmenwë's case, travelling to Mordor as a part of a rather odd group of diplomats to deal with the rejects of civilized society was one of them.

Were the truth to be told, Mordor had not disappointed Hyarmenwë in the slightest. He loathed the place, and the many anakronisms that it contained. It wasn't hard in the slightest to pretend that the horrid things didn't exist, because he found them extremely distasteful. The sooner this particular task was over, and he could retire to the safety and peace of Minas Tirith, the better. Hyarmenwë was an old man, if hale, and cared little for adventures of any kind.

So it was that he had grumbled and fussed and done his best to act the perfect Gondorian nobleman and gentleman, and now found himself somewhere in the heart of Mordor, sitting around, and participating in... something... known as an "icebreaker".

Currently, it was Bearugard's turn to tell two truths and one lie about himself. Hyarmenwë, realizing that his turn must come soon enough, was paying but little heed to his fellow Gondorian's questions, and was concentrating on what his truths and lie ought to be. One must follow the rules of the game, of course. One must follow them rigidly. Whatever Angawen might seem to think, it was the part of a true Gondorian diplomat to show by his very example precisely how a real diplomat acts.

The lie, Hyarmenwë thought to himself, in Bearugard's trio, was undoubtedly that he had chicken for lunch. Not bothering to say that aloud, he began to ponder what he should say of himself. His clues ought to be trifles, of course, for one does not give his opponents valuable information without cause. By the same token, they must be related to him personally, so as to obey the rules. They ought also, and here Hyarmenwë cast a baleful glare at Bearugard, not disparage the negotiations. As worthy of being disparaged as the Mordorians were, the negotiations were also condoned by Gondor, and disparagement thereof meant disparagement of Gondor- and of its King.

Therein lay his problem, Hyarmenwë realised. All his life he had loyally and faithfully served the House of Telcontar, the Heirs of Elessar Aragorn. And he had remained loyal to it's right and eldest line through thick and thin. Alas, but these days were the days of thin, and not of thick.

Mardil II, of the noble House of Húrin though he may have been, and a great Steward history may have been destined to remember him as, was, in Hyarmenwë's book, an usurper. Unfortunately, he was a usurper with a great deal of power and influence. And, with his marriage to the Princess Morwen, likely to someday be the rightful Lord of Gondor. A troubling situation indeed, since Hyarmenwë would then be his loyal retainer- but a loyal retainer that Mardil would probably remember best as having opposed him.

It was a mess of a situation, and was likely responsible for his being sent on this mission, Hyarmenwë thought. Mardil would likely not be saddened at all were he to slip on an anakronism and land himself a permanent assignment to Mordor. On the other hand, Mardil trusted his loyalty to Gondor- even above his loyalty to his King- to see that a good job was done. And, Hyarmenwë had to grudgingly admit, he would do as best a job as he might, and so aid Gondor as best he could.

It would be an easier task had he been given some decent companions, Hyarmenwë sniffed to himself. Bearugard, currently at the centre of the group's talking, was a self-centred spoiled child. Hyarmenwë wished it were otherwise, but so many of Gondor's younger noblemen were that way. They did not have the backbone and moral fortitude that had been the hallmarks of past generations- including his own.

The Lady Angawen was somewhat better. She was not, it was true, someone he needed to worry about being lazy. She would, at least, keep focussed on the discussions. Nevertheless, she seemed exceedingly blunt for a diplomat- and a woman at that!- and she had a history that troubled Hyarmenwë ever so slightly. Rumour had it that she had killed her husband, and the bodyguards who accompanied her did nothing to dispel the myth. She might have been harder, more focussed than Bearugard, Hyarmenwë thought, but she did not seem a true servant of the Realm.

And then there was Malfoidacil... Hyarmenwë did not know what to think of him. He seemed very nearly a Mordorian in some respects- though what those respects were Hyarmenwë couldn't quite place his finger on. At the same time, though, he seemed very much what he seemed to be: an arrogant, blue-blooded son of Gondor. Hyarmenwë had hopes that he could be moulded into a fine Man of Gondor, but in the meantime he was so... YOUNG!

Which simply hammered back to Hyarmenwë the point that he had long since decided was correct: if this mission was to succeed for the greater good of Gondor, then it was going to fall to him to see it through.

With this encouraging though, Hyarmenwë's mind snapped back to the "icebreaker" game. Possibly half a minute had passed, thought being faster than sound, and Bearugard was still the one being questioned. Everything had gone somewhat silent. Apparently one of the Mordorian diplomats (Scitls, was it?) had just made a rather out-of-place comment.

[Anguirel]

The Lord Dracomir Malfoidacil, of all the Gondorian envoys, seemed the most at his ease. He knew this place and reacted to it with mild disdain, not psychological bafflement. He was here to carry out his mission to slay Dumbledore...er...get that Potter boy expelled...er, deal with this amusing diplomacy, and he intended to see it through as Malfoy...a Malfoidacil, rather...should, effortlessly and contemptuously.

The moment the ambassadorial party was within Mordor, he had begun to annoy his fellow counsellors by showing off his perfect knowledge of Modern English-as well as the Royal Dispensation he had received to speak it. He made a habit of muttering snide jokes about the other Gondorians to passing Mordorians in a faux-proletarian British Public School accent. He relished the situation to the full-the others, forbidden to consider the language of English, could not lift a finger to stop him lest terrible punishments fall upon them. So he grinned maliciously and swept a hand through his immaculate curtains of white-blond hair as he remarked:

"The old man won't last long, of course. Father always says the King should introduce a policy of euthanasia."

Or:

"Look at that ridiculous Mudblood woman with her bodyguards. Why, at home Crabbe and Goyle would waste them..."

Or:

"That Beauregard thinks he's awfully haute-classe, doesn't he? I'd like to see how he'd react to a quick Confundus Charm..."

...always capping his mot-juste with a glance at the Gondorian in question. However, he was shrewd enough to cultivate the Gondorians too, regarding a mutual loathing of the Mordorians.

"Reeerrly, I say," he said to Beauregard in fine court Sindarin, "is that woman pretending to be some kind of plant? If you ask me, she looks like a gallows."

"Lady Angawen," he'd murmured, with deep concern in his voice, "what is that frightful mish-mash over there? It looks like the leftovers from the last Regal Banquet."

Ah, this was the way the House of Malfoy worked. Sans fois, sans lois. And the Lord Dracomir enjoyed every second of it. He only wished his proud parents, the Lord Luciamir and the Lady Narcissowen could see him at work...

As for the admittedly rather intimidating Ms Martinet, the Lord Dracomir was rather impressed that such an efficient and obstacle-creating civil servant could be born out of the chaotic slum of Mordor that he knew so well. Draco Malfoy quite liked authority figures. And somewhere the repressed soul of Tom Felton developed a small crush.

***

But this aside, there was a challenge to be taken on. Two truths and a lie-a game Tom Felton remembered from his Kensington prep school, and Draco Malfoy from the larks in the Slytherin common room. But he assumed a cold, serious Gondorian exterior to the topic, listening to the other Mordorians and Gondorians, largely in dignified taciturnity, occasionally breaking in to inquisit.

It was Beauregard's turn and he had just stated his three, anodyne choices. The Lord Dracomir decided the most fun course of action would be to completely upstage him. So he coughed, quietly but prominently, and recited, as if it were a solemn poem about broken swords and halflings from some wack dream:

I am the Scion of a Pure Line.
I am the most dangerous entity here.
My hair and my skin are pale.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Lord Dracomir turned paler than normal quite suddenly when a quietly disembodied voice spoke into his ear. No others showed any form of notice.

"Dangerous indeed. Baa."

As suddenly as it had come, it was gone. Within seconds Malfoidacil had convinced himself that it was his imagination acting up again.