ATM II RPG

[Anguirel]

The moment the noble Lord Dracomir Malfoidacil of Gondor sighted the woman who had just entered the room, he dropped his Diabolo. The yellow hour-glass-thingy rolled and bounced off, giving out irritating plasticky noises. Some of the newer, less hardened Mordorians milling about shrank out of its way, for its escape had evoked a mental picture of a certain bouncing Ring of Power...

Tom, in the meantime, had quickly-well, quite quickly-got his breath back and his jaw had not dropped-well, not that much. He produced his wand with an irritated flourish, and muttered "Accio Diabolo!" The plastic object whooshed back towards him and he disposed of it with a cool "Evanesco," before putting away his wand again.

With a great deal of care, he turned slowly and bowed courteously towards...Lola.

"You must be the Lady Lola I have just been talking about with Skittles here," he remarked. "They call me the Lord Dracomir Malfoidacil. But actually, the name's Felton...Tom Felton."

Looking back towards Skittles and Maika, who had returned a short time ago with a rather dubious looking tube clutched in her hand, he remarked, "Well. Looks like it's time for us to face the music and drop in on His Mordorian Majesty. Let's be off."

He swept forward confidently, and held out his hand to Lola as though quite convinced it would be taken.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Fury mixed with pride was always dangerous, especially in the small confines of a Dwarf's head, and especially this Dwarf. "All these corridors look the same,” he muttered angrily" and he decided finally to sit down. He found a bench (coincidently, the same on that he passed earlier) and began pondering many things: not least why a garden bench was in a corridor.

Orcs, men and other things walked by, ignoring Smilog as he sat with his legs swinging over the edge of the bench. He took out his axe and whetstone and began sharpening it, muttering and mumbling to himself. It wasn't long before someone sat next to him and began to eat some strange meat. "Pork," he said and offered some to Smilog.

"Nay," retorted the aggravated Dwarf, "I have business at hand." The one who sat by was a short man, not short enough to be a Dwarf, and he had no beard anyway. On his fingers were many golden rings and about his neck was a fine necklace with a great gem hung from it. His orange tunic and brown cloak, coupled with his green boots made him look almost comical. But Smilog was not in the mood for jests and wanted to get to that Roggie fellow as soon as possible. He hadn’t come all this way to get lost in some confounded corridors!

"May I introduce myself?" asked the man extending a hand for Smilog to shake.

"No," replied Smilog as he leaped off the bench, "I need to find that Roggie fellow. I hear he's around here somewhere."

"He'll probably be in his office." said the man, "up stairs, I believe. First on the left."

"I know!" lied Smilog, "now, if you will excuse me..." the Dwarf turned away and stomped off to see if he could find some stairs. The man began to follow him, but Smilog tried to ignore him and walk on all the same, grumbling curses in Dwarvish.

"I heard that!" cried the man, clapping Smilog on the shoulder, "that was not a nice thing to say."

"Oh, be off with you!" cried the now fully irritated Dwarf, "Can't you see I'm busy? I have important business to attend to."

"Andvarri," said the man.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Andvarrri, that is my name."

"Is it?" Smilog walked away, one step, two steps, and three. Andvarri? That name meant something to him. Yes, he had heard the name. "What did you say?"

"My name is Andvarri." he replied, bowing, "I see that you have heard of me. Well, Smilog the Dwarf, I had heard you were an ill-tempered little runt, but stay your axe. I have need of your services."

"That is what they told me to get me to come here on this ridiculous errand. I want no more pointless quests, thank you very much."

"That is sad, you have heard the legends, I take it?" Smilog stopped his stomping and listened, "the gold. The endless mountain of Gold?"

"The Gold of Andvarri, it is said, is cursed," retorted Smilog, "and how can you be he? The legend is thousands of years old!"

"Ah, it was my great grand father to the ninth degree that first established the Gold. The eldest son of our blood line who bares the birthmark of Andvarri is given this name." he lifted his hair from his brow to reveal a mark that looked alike to an anvil. "I assure you, that gold belongs to me. Wherever it lies."

"And I suppose you want me to find it?" said Smilog, "Sorry, as much as I wish to find a mountain of Gold, every Dwarf since the legend was born has sought it and found it not. Unless you had Andvarri's map, the finding is... is... impo... impossible..." the man was holding a small scroll of paper. He smiled widely.

"What say you now?" asked Andvarrri.

"Well, let me finish my business here and I shall help ye."

"Ah, this business here concerns the treasure. Roggie, I believe holds an artefact that will aid us, though he may know it not."

"Let us not speak of this in public. Come, show me to his chamber..."

[littlemanpoet]

Lola fled with, apparently, the most cutting rejoinder she could think of: "dense". Two possible meanings could adhere to the comment, neither of which were to the point. So Anakron cast them from his mind. He was worried about Panakeia. Where had she gone? Was she in trouble? He considered leaving the negotiations to go find her; but he was, after all, the Grand Anakronist, and he had a job to do .... even if the anakronisms were not conveying as he wished. Regardless of his personal inclinations, he must see to the negotiations. Gondor and Mordor were at odds. Anarkon's power came from the Blue Istari, and so his allegiance was to them and their purposes, even if he disagreed with them.

He looked up for a moment, halting his ponderings, to see that he was alone in the room. Apparently the negotiations were not happening here after all. The ambassadors had left him without a word. Something deep inside the Grand Anakronist lost its moorings. How dare they leave him without a word. How dare the Blue Istari interrupt his happy life in Umbar and force him into the thankless task. Misunderstood. Accused of corruption. Of evil. Of turning things to his own ends for his own narcissistic pleasure. How dare they think such things about him. How dare this negotiation interrupt the one bright thing in his sorry life!

He rose. His teeth were bared. His hand clutched the staff as if it were a neck he could choke.

"They do not know whom they are ignoring at their peril," he grated. He had held back from conveyance of late because it had been going wrong. Things were coming mixed. Fantasy and reality combined in macabre ways. Mixed technologies from incongruant future times destroyed each other before onlookers. People were getting killed and not coming back to life.

"I care not." Anakron knew that the potential for evil had always been there, and he saw that it was now rising from its formerly dormant seed. He felt it within. He knew that this would most likely be the end of any joy he had envisioned with Panakeia, and somewhere deep inside, a lonely little man wailed at the inevitable loss. He would spare her. It would be the only promise toward civility he would make. "Let them weep."

He walked out of the room and down the corridor that led to Roggie's depths. He raised the staff.

"Convey."

The Siamese Cat howled.

A car appeared suddenly before him and skidded into the wall, crashing. It burst into flames; its horn blared. A man covered in steel, riding a horse, a long pointed shaft held in his arm, hurtled down the corridor past Anakron. A man wearing a mask, tanks on his back, pointed a black shiny thing at the horse and rider. A trigger was pulled and held. Bullets rained and tore through the armored man and his horse and they went down.

"Too simple. Too brash. I need something more subtle."

Anakron continued down the corridor and searched the darkness of his rage.

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë's chest was pounding. They had slipped past the guards. They were still in the palace, it was true, but they were technically out of bounds, and the rule-abiding noble in Hyarmenwë was terrified at the thought that they were technically in a legitimate position to be Assigned to Mordor- or soon would be.

Speaking properly, giving the guards the slip merely meant that they were breaking the rules set by Aluminé Umfuil, which was certainly a breach of proprietry in and of itself, but it was not automatic Assignment, any more than opposition to Mardil meant Assignment to Mordor. No, Assignment to Mordor, basically boiled down to association with an anakronism. Being an anakronism, accepting anakronisms as normal, or making, producing, or perpetrating anakronism: these were what Assigned one to Mordor- not disobediance to the Mordorian spymaster.

Based on that theory, one should presumably be able to move about in Mordor if one continued to act as a true Gondorian, didn't condone the anakronisms about oneself, and didn't absorb any of their anakronistic ways.

A difficult enough task by itself, Hyarmenwë reflected. He had once come very near to Assignment himself, nearly twenty years before, and had lost one of his own family to Assignment. Mordor and Assignments thereto were not to be taken lightly.

But neither were negotiations with Mordor, Hyarmenwë had managed to convince himself. He was here for the love of Gondor and the benefit thereof. And with negotiations stalled and potentially trapped in Mordor for life, it made logical sense to do some scouting- so long as one was careful not to contaminate oneself.

"Which way, do you think?" he asked Angawen, who was the most eager to venture out of their proscribed domain, when they came to a meeting of corridors.

"Left," said she. "The air smells differently- more stuffy and less wholesome. In other words, the smell of normal Mordor."

They turned left, away from the centre of the palace, and towards the smell of what they did not necessarily realize was smog. Soon they found themselves at the end of the corridor, where a small door opened onto a zig-zagging staircase that led to the street below. Angawen and her bodyguards leading the way, they descended the fire escape.

What a horrible land! Hyarmenwë thought in horror as he moved his aging feet down the many stairs. There was no fear of him condoning or accepting the anakronisms. Every strange thing about the land sent shivers down his spine.

"Look! Some of the locals," Angawen pointed at a group of disillusioned teenagers slouching against the building across the street from them. "Let us go question them as to where we can find the best source of the local gossip."

"If we must, let us get this distasteful task over with," said Bearugard with a sniff, and he stepped courageously forward into the street. He was very nearly run over by a yellow PT Cruiser.

"Hey mate!" shouted the ork driving through his open window. "Use the bloomin' crosswalk, alright!"

"Crosswalk?" a shaken Bearugard turned to Angawen and Hyarmenwë.

"An anakronism," said Hyarmenwë with a shake of his hand. "Best not dwell on the thought."

"All right, all together!" Angawen ordered, as soon as the coast was clear. Before any more automobiles could materialize to run them over, they dashed across the pavement.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Roggie's been here," grunted Smilog.

"How-sss can you tell-sss?" asked Tollin scratching his head.

"Because it smells of fish!" the Dwarf trotted along, following the illuminated signs, there was even one that said, 'don't forget to wash your hands, Roggie!' Smilog snorted and chuckled over this. "Did his mother build this place?"

"I ttthhhink sss-so," mused Tollin as he picked up a large morning star up off the floor, "I was-sss wondering where that had got to." Smilog looked at the black head of the weapon covered in steel spikes that would easily cleave through solid rock. Smilog may not have been a good mining Dwarf, but he knew a thing or two about steel weaponry.

"What's that for?" he asked, "Do you get many intruders in this place?"

"Only that-ss Roggie," sneered Tollin, "him and his-sss fishhh!" He hummed to himself while examining the chain and handle of the morning star. "I don't know why I ussse thissss," he continued, "theresss notss enough room to swing a cat in here. Believe me I've tried!"

"What, swinging a cat?"

"No!" bellowed Tollin, "usssing this thing."

"It's a morning star," corrected Smilog as the passed a small door marked 'food', "Wait a moment!" cried the dwarf turning and staring at this. "Food? Have you ever seen this?"

"A few timessss," said Tollin, "It'ssss locked."

"I see." hummed Smilog, "wait a moment! You're a Minotaur, yes?" Tollin nodded, "well, you should have unusually great strength. Can't you knock it down?" the Minotaur thought for a moment and then shrugged.

"I'll give it a go," he said and hurled himself full pelt at the door. The rotten wood frame crumbled as soon as he touched it and the rest of the thing fell forwards onto the dusty floor.

"Good grief!" cried Smilog as a stench of rotting fish poured out of the room, "Ack!" he screamed, "what's in there?" there was no answer from Tollin so Smilog held his nose and went in to search for him. He found the Minotaur stuffing his face full of rotten fish and smiling like an imbecile. "What are you doing?"

"Eating fish!" cried Tollin, "Want some?"

"No thank you," Smilog was nearly sick, "I think we should keep moving. Roggie can't be far away. If we find him, maybe we can get out of this dreadful place." reluctantly, Tollin rose and plodded along behind Smilog with his head drooping down. "I just hope there is a bath at the end of this labyrinth."

They journeyed on for a little while before coming to some spiralling stairs that wound high up into the mountain. Smilog looked at the steps and could see fresh footprints there, he also heard someone breathing heavily somewhere up the stairs. "Roggie, is that you?" cried the Dwarf, "I want to talk to you!"

"Go away!" came the reply, "we're closed!"

"This isn't a shop!" Smilog was getting angry and so he began to ascend the stairs. "Now stop messing around and listen to what I have to say!" There was no reply. He called out Roggies name many times angrily but no answer came.

"Maybe he's dead," said Tollin, "especially after all that silly shouting!"

"Don't be-" began Smilog, "wait, what happened to your lisp?"

"It comes and goes," Tollin stated with firm affirmation. As Smilog rolled his eyes they heard something coming down the stairs. At first thy thought it might be Roggie, but the sound was different, less like someone walking down the stairs, more like something flowing down them. Three seconds later a huge flow of stinking green liquid game gushing towards them and knocked them right off their feet and sent them to the bottom. "What is this stuff?" wept Tollin.

"Sour milk!" cried Roggie from above, "now leave me alone!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Of a sudden, the air began to shake, the ground grew heavy, and the world seemed to mix clichès with all the glee of an ancient and shrivelled creative writing teacher on medication for a misdiagnosed disorder.
The Gondorian Ambassadors froze in their steps, looking behind them to the looming Mount Doom Palace and Casino. Those inside, including the hopelessly lost Tollin and Smilog, the gleefully plotting Roggie and Skittles, and the woefully incapable-of-finding-the-monarch-and-his-crazed-companion other Ambassadors, shivered, previously convinced that Mount Doom was dormant, now slightly concerned.

Alli, seated in an armchair by the fire, staring broodingly into it and missing Aimè while pretending to do the paperwork laying lonely on her lap, looked up.

Anakron Istkon Vayor froze in his very long and wrathful steps, looking suddenly at the staff in his hand. Without hesitation he ran back toward where he had come from, hiking his abnormally flowing - but in a good way - robes high, his pale legs covering ground quickly. He found a balcony with the ease that could only come from a writer wanting him to quickly find it without worry over split infinitives or actual story-based reasonings for it being conveniently there and he looked down at the road far below, his nose wrinkling artistocratically as the fumes from the city rose toward him.

His imperious eyes scanned the ground for the source of the world's shaking, occasionally glaring at the staff in his grasp and finally found it.

The Gondorian Ambassadors spotted him from afar and seemed to diminish in size as the Mount Doom Palace and Casino grew.

"May the Valar take pity upon us..." murmered Hyarmenwë, his eyes growing round. "We must return!"

Before another word could be spoken, another character hijacked, another run-on sentence composed, Mount Doom Casino and Resort, due to an anomoly in the Dweomer/Reality continuum, sprouted wheels and drove away.

Alli had risen with the first of the shudderings and ran, spotting Anakron and stopping.

"What is happening and why are the Gondorians standing in the road that SHOULD be outside of this palace!?!?!?" Anakron glared at her superfluous use of punctuation and capitalization and held onto a railing for balance.

Already in the distance, Angawen, Hyarmenwë, and Bearugard stared in disbelief as the mountain they had only just left zoomed away.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"No, no, no!" cried Smilog, "Not again! Not again!" the mountain shook violently as it drove over the plains of Gorgoroth with insane speed. The Dwarf struggled to his feet and began climbing the stairs, even though they shook like Aragorn on bath night. Tollin swiftly followed on, trying desperately to keep on his feet, though the g-force was beginning to press them against the sides of the staircase.

"What is going on?" cried Tollin, "This is an unusual Mountain indeed! But this has never happened before!"

"Yes it has!" cried Smilog as he hung on to the banister and climbed desperately up the stairs, "and its my fault, I think!" Tollin was about to ask what he meant, but just then they saw Roggie crawling through a door at the top of the stairs. "Oi!" cried Smilog, "will you help us?"

"No!" Cried Roggie as he vanished behind the door and seemed to lock it behind him, "you're not coming out till I've stopped this Mountain!"

"But I can help you stop it!" The dwarf desperately hung on as the violent rumbling of the engine began to shake the chamber. "I know what's going on!"

"Shut up!" cried Roggie, who then left. Tollin moved up the stairs with determination, he was stronger than Smilog, so he was able to carry his newfound friend up the stairs. When they came to the door at the top, it wasn't long before the shaking of the mountain caused the door to fall apart as well as the stairs beneath them. Smilog and Tollin almost fell to their deaths, but the Minotaur hung on to the edge for all he was worth and climbed back up.

Eventually, the shaking seemed to dye down and become smoother. They must have come to a flat plain and be cruising along quite nicely. "What did you mean?" asked Tollin, "you know what’s going on?"

"Sort of," grumbled Smilog, "its a long story. Basically, my father was involved with Sauron quite deeply." Tollin gasped and looked strongly at the Dwarf, "I wasn't, by the way. I was too young at the time. He was involved in some super secret mission that Sauron gave him and all the Dwarves he had on his side. It was called..." Smilog paused and drew breath, "Project Zoom!"

"You know about that?" cried Roggie from behind a corner, "you little traitor! I'll kill you!" He dashed at the Dwarf, but Tollin stood in his way.

"Listen to me!" cried Smilog, "I am no traitor! I hated my father's work, and he repented fully of his deeds after he saw what damage the project could do. The plan was to make Mount Doom mobile, just in case anyone tried to destroy the One Ring, also to just wreak havoc in Middle Earth. The project was abandoned when Sauron decided that his victory was guaranteed, he threw all the Dwarves out of Mordor. My father told me all about it, he said they'd done enough that if anyone found the secret, they could resurrect it easily. I was assigned to Mordor to find the Zoom project and destroy it!"

Roggie huffed and puffed unhappily, small fires busted out all over him as he tried to process all of this information. Tollin strode forwards and looked around, he saw that there were on the first floor of the Casino. "We should try and get to the control room," he said, "i assume there is one?"

"Yes," said Smilog miserably, "the Crack of Doom! I suppose asking you to re-start negotiations is folly now, Roggie?"

[Roggie of Morgoth]

Roggie moped. His kingdom was falling into despair and he could do nothing about it, based upon the fact that a lot of his subjects were there against their will. He really needed to read Il Principe to get a grasp on how to control a potentially uproarious principality, but would you know it, he couldn't find a copy anywhere and he was woefully ignorant of Italian.

He sat on his throne in his audience chamber, looking at tapestries that were gifts from the mafia. Khamul had presented Roggie with those decorations that had hung in Dol Goldur before Galadriel and Celeborn had destroyed the place. Kammy had had them dry cleaned and sent the bill to Lothlorien before finding them a safe new home at Mount Doom. Elendil dead upon the ground, Isildur cringing like the worm he was, holding a broken blade, ready to take a cheap shot and stab Sauron's foot. Who injures lower extremities? What sort of a fair fight is that? Oh yeah, he thought angrily, Mardil.

Roggie rubbed his sore half-leg through his flame retardant breeches, cursing the King of Gondor and the cold virus that had frozen and shattered his leg. Mardil... Mardil that stole my leg. Mardil that stole my citizens. Mardil that plans to steal my kingdom.

Roggie stood, stretching, roaring his frustration and watching the tapestry go up in flames, burning into a small pile of ash on the floor. He glared into the large fireplace. He looked out the window and tried to spot the stranger he had so recently thrown out of it. No luck. The dwarf was also missing. Perhaps he'd taken the hint.

Perhaps he'd gone for reinforcements.

No... no, that will never do. War! Mardil will pay, and he will pay dearly.

With that thought, Roggie stalked to the back of his chamber, pressing a hidden stone into the wall and watching an entire wall shift to let him pass. It closed silently behind him and he was gone, having disappeared into the unending labyrinth of secret passageways through the volcano. They'll never find me here, he thought bitterly, making his way to his top military adviser. He wondered if he'd told her yet that she was... no matter. She would learn her new government position soon enough. And then... War.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé woke up. He was lying on his back and he could barely see. "Where am I?" he groaned. Wow, did that sound hackneyed he thought to himself. "Fell clichés, will I ever avoid ye?" he said.

"Probably not" answered the girl standing over him. Aimé stared quizzically, wondering who she was, then smirked. She looked wonderful, and not just in contrast to the dank surroundings.

"And what do you have to smile at, mister?" she said. "You can't possibly be proud of yourself. What kind of man would treat me the way you did?" Seeing the completely oblivious look on the young man's face, the girl elaborated. "Those thugs? Those thugs last night, who tried to rob me? There were three of them and I still tried to fight them off, and what did you do?" Aimé tried to think. Probably tried to resolve the situation with the magic of his verbiage.

"I resolved it with my magical verbiage, didn't I?" he asked. The response was not quite what he expected; it was a glass bottle flung at his head. He ducked with all the skill of a professional dodger.

"You ran away and left me!" she screamed. "Now, I'm leaving this horrible place and I hope to never see you or anyone like you ever again."

"Sweetheart! Angel!" he shouted. "I got us here didn't I? And you're safe and well, and no harm came of it, right? And didn't we have a wonderful night?" He smiled his trademark killer smile.

It did not work (to Aimé's considerable puzzlement). "It was wonderful to the extent that I can be physically harrassed by bandits and be manipulated by a fraud under the influence of intoxication. Don't worry, I'll get home alright. I sold those little trinkets of yours to the Orc downstairs. I told him they were precious jewels from the tomb of Elrond Halfelven. Dear Eru! Your associates are dumb. Next time, if you want to impress a girl, show some courage."

"But I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"Pah!" she almost choked with laughter, and walked out the doorway.

Aimé, not noticing this attack on his 'skills', turned instead to his own problems (and by turning to his own problems, we must understand this as his focusing harder on his own problems than he had been previously, for he is extremely self-centred and prone to never thinking about anything other than his own problems). First of all, he was still in hiding; and while laying low was, at times, rollicking and fun, it was often cruel and hazardous. Second, he had a feeling that he had been drinking in order to forget something troubling. Something particularly worrisome. And what's more, he had a feeling that this forgotten thing was something really important. He'd had this feeling for the best part of a year. What did it all mean?

"Where am I?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

As Smilog stood panting outside Roggies chamber, his back against the door, his eyes were as wide as the walls of Minas Tirith. There was only one possible explanation for Roggie's erratic and, quite frankly, irrational behaviour. It is this very reason that Smilog not only guesses, but loudly states to the nearest passing being...

"He's totally mad, isn't he?" he said to a rather large and seemingly friendly Orc who was dressed as a clown.

"Don't talk to me about him!" cried the clown Orc, "He calls this 'comedy Tuesday' and so my sector has to come here dressed as clowns."

"Its not Tuesday," Smilog pointed out, and almost immediately wished he hadn’t as the Orc then stormed off blurting out all kinds of insults and swearwords and some words that no one had ever heard before. Holding his breath, Smilog realised that he had better get back in there and convince Roggie to restart negotiations. If I can't handle him, he thought, what chance do the rest have?

He pushed open the door and rolled behind a table and cowered down, listening for Roggie. Yet he heard no sound. Smilog thought this terribly odd, so he peered over the edge of the table and saw that he was the only being in the room. Then he saw a rat dash across the floor and had to re think his status as 'only living thing in the room'. This revelation led Smilog to Roggie's desk to investigate. Indeed, his investigations brought him to the drinks cupboard and to Roggies stash of Gondor's finest Ale and wine.

What was more, he found a good store of pipe weed and a small bag of gold, all these things Smilog soon placed in his pockets. Except for the wine, he drank some of that and hid the rest in his pack. Now, the issue of Roggie, he thought, where has he got to?

[Anguirel]

Decisively spurned by the luscious Lola, Dracomir simply pretended he had never initiated a conversation, like an agile white cat who has failed to make a jump, and licks its lips, pretending nothing has happened.

(Tom had received a modicum of Classical education at his Kensington day school, and Dracomir rather more at Hogwarts. In any case, he was familiar with the application of the Virgilian simile.)

"We're wasting our time, wasting our presence here, momentarily disobeying Alli, and procrastinating. No wonder we're all in Mordor." Maika stated. Dracomir was annoyed. Disdainful lines like that belonged, as of right, to him, and besides, he wasn't in Mordor, officially, and anyway Mordor was a state of mind, as the most cursory reading of Doctor Faustus showed. But before he could so much as start mouthing, Maika shut him up again with yet another curt utterance, tacitly backed by Lola. Really, this was too much.

Finally getting the opportunity to riposte, he unusually concluded that actions speak louder than words. Skittles had hared off again and for some bizarre reason, she was the only one currently being remotely amenable towards him, so, having enough of the current boorish company, as he convinced himself, he non-verbally established her location with the Four-Point Charm and apparated after her, arriving beside her with a loud crack.

"Couldn't be bothered to wait for that lot," he explained, affecting once more his faux-proletarian tones in order to sound hard. "C'mon-let's go and find Roggie."

[JennyHallu]

JennyHallu's post

Lola sighed in agitation, throwing Anakron an exasperated glance. "Really," she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. "That was incredibly dense." Then she hustled forward quickly enough to direct Maika towards the most circuitous route to Roggie's throne room she could think of. All her attempts to delay the proceedings were going to naught, due to Maika's impatience and Dracomir's ridiculous pride. Now she must resort to tricksier methods, and hope Alli (whom she considered a true friend) didn't get wind of it.

Frankly, Lola Martinet couldn't care less about the results of the 'negotiations'. She loved Mordor's chaos and impracticality fiercely, and would do anything to protect it, and in her mind, protection meant all those fools who didn't recognize the beauty of neon lights and triplicate forms were rightly the first to go. What was really the harm in them wandering off? Those who stayed away weren't assets to begin with, and the rest of the emigrants returned, chagrined, sick of being defensive of their glasses and manicures and hairdye and similes, and all the other things that made Mordor so unique among all the countries of Middle Earth.

And Roggie? Roggie was a silly fool, caught up in dreams and delusions of grandeur, unaware that his true grandeur was revealed in his towering, imposing form, and the noble flicker in his flaming eyes. He was, however, easily manipulated, and therefore useful. His current snit was the best method she could see for preserving the status quo. After all, it wasn't as though Mardil wanted any piece of Mordor for himself...

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Lhunardawen's post

Maika quietly sighed in relief when she heard Lola's footsteps following behind her. Even without turning around to actually look, she noticed that Dracomir chose not to come with them. It bothered her a little, but he will go where he will. In any case she was glad that finally something was being done.

Only now that she was on her way to Roggie's throne room did the real significance of their mission occur to her. The fate of Gondor and Mordor and the poor unknown or little known or known-but-no-one-really-cares lands between them, if any, because having been in Mordor practically all her life she had no way of knowing, are in their hands. And she barely knew what to say once she was before His Hotness - what could they say to convince him? And speaking of hotness, there was her skin to worry about. With all these concerns slowly weighing on her mind she did not notice that she had fallen behind Lola, who was now leading the way. Maika did not mind. She concentrated on her aforementioned concerns which were enough to confuse her and thanked Eru (if she could - did Mordorians do that?) that Lola was there to worry about the directions. Maika blindly followed her, lost in her own thoughts. A foreboding silence fell on the two ladies.

Soon Maika returned from her seeming out-of-body experience, which kind of sounded cooler and more mysterious than saying what she actually thought about, surprised to see that they were still walking down the hallway - a hallway that looked vaguely familiar. A fleeting glance at Lola's confidently swaying hips told her that she knew exactly where they were. But Maika did not.

"Lola, where are we? Aren't we supposed to be--"

"Oh there you are, my dear," Lola exclaimed, flicking her hair over her shoulder as if her hair was all Maika was worth talking to. "I thought I've lost you."

"I think you intend to," Maika muttered dryly at her hair. It swayed mischievously in response.

"Don't worry," the lady in front of the hair assured her, none too effectively. "We'll be there in no time."

No time indeed, Maika shuddered. Not wanting to let her rising fear shine through for Lola to take advantage of, she again summoned the silence, which willingly fell on them again. (In case your morbid imagination shows them being squished flatter than pancakes and leaves you wondering how they can still manage to walk, you should be informed that silence, though can be heavy, is not concrete.) She felt panic rising within her, as well as the fear that Skittles or Dracomir or both of them have already reached Roggie's office and finished speaking to him and reached a diplomatic solution and informed Alli of her absence in the proceedings and suggested dismissing her for lack of professionalism. Overwhelmed and paralyzed, the only thing Maika could do was send a mental distress call to Dracomir - whom she hoped had telepathic abilities though she herself did not - to rescue her from Lola. The line was busy.

[Diamond18]

Skittles had grown tired of doing backflips and reverted to sitting cross-legged on the stone-tiled floor, playing jumping jacks, when all of a sudden with a loud crack Dracomir appeared beside her.

Oy, she thought enviously, how does he do that?

"Couldn't be bothered to wait for that lot. C'mon-let's go and find Roggie."

Skittles untangled her legs, pocketed her jacks and bouncy rubber ball, and leapt to her feet. "Can we appear in front of him with a loud, sudden crack and give him a fright?" she asked eagerly. When startled, Roggie tended to expell flames in a most entertaining, if dangerous, manner.

"Er, well..." Dracomir's bravado faded just a bit. "Roggie's further away and a being of more power. I could tell what direction he was in (North, South etc), but nothing more."

Skittles was unfazed. "So. What direction is he in?"

"Let me see." With a flourish Dracomir pulled out his wand and invoked a locator spell. "Ah. North. Definitely North, with a dash of downwards." He turned slowly, holding his wand out like the needle of a compass.

I could describe to you in detail the many adventures and mishaps they encountered as they travelled the length and the breadth of the Palace/Casino, following the ever changing directions of the wand. But that would take a long time and a lot of narration. Instead, I offer you this:

"Watch out for that wall."

"Are you sure that's the right way?"

"Maybe it's broken."

"Do you like cats? I like cats."

"That orc just looked at us funny. I'll be right back."

"You know, the nice thing about black leather is that orc blood doesn't show up."

"Well you can't go there, obviously there can't be a secret, hidden entryway behind that majestic tapestry depicting the Battle of TiG XV."

"I told you so."

"Maybe we should stop and ask directions?"

And so on, until Dracomir invoked a Good God will that woman never shut up? muting spell.

They wandered for an even more intensely boring length of time in silence (or, at least, Dracomir didn't hear what Skittles was saying) until finally a merciful end was put to the madness. "We are getting close, now, quite close," said Dracomir with excitement, as the wand began to beep and its tip blinked red. (Or maybe it only did that in Skittles' warped perception.)

"Yes, yes, I can almost pinpoint his exact location now, he's...." Dracomir spun around and, in the process, poked Roggie in the stomach.

Roggie let out a roar, singing Dracomir's pale locks and marring his porcelain complexion. Then he seized the wand between his thumb and forefinger and snapped it in two. Then he crumbled each section into a fine powder and sprinkled it over the stunned Dracomir.

Then he gave the pseudo-Gondorian ambassador not a second glance nor another moment's thought, turning to Skittles instead. "There you are," he roared. "I've been looking all over for you. Come with me!"

They departed for the undoubtedly complex and deeply cavernous labyrinth once more, in a cloud of fire and ash.

At that moment, or actually, a couple moments before, a rift in the space-time continuum occurred. Such things happened quite a lot after those daft Wizards created the Dweomer, and at any moment strange things such as this were prone to happen. Quite simply put, at the moment Roggie seized Dracomir's wand, the current reality split into two separate entities, and went their separate ways, totally unbeknownst to each other.

In one reality, Roggie snapped Dracomir's wand in two. In the second reality, all he did was forcefully poke Dracomir in the stomach and then rap him on the head. In both realities, he then gave the pseudo-Gondorian ambassador not a second glance nor another moment's thought, turning to Skittles instead. "There you are," he roared. "I've been looking all over for you. Come with me!"

What happened to these two realities, separated at birth? Well, in the first reality, the one in which Dracomir lost his wand, Dracomir quit both wizarding and ambassadoring, (devastated by the loss of his wand) and took up hair-styling in Hollywood. The negotiations continued without him. Eventually the negotiations failed (when the remaining Gondorians were slaughtered by Roggie and his warlordess) and so Gondor and Mordor went to war. The casualties were high. Eventually flames engulfed Middle-earth, and the world ended.

So, let's follow the second reality, the one in which Dracomir got a poke in the tummy and a rap on the head, then was left standing in the hall with his wand and his bruises, while Roggie and Skittles departed for the undoubtedly complex and deeply cavernous labyrinth once more, (once more), in a cloud of fire and ash.