ATM II RPG

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë eased his old bones onto a bench, soaking in the Gondorian feel of the building... The owners may have been Assigned to Mordor, but their establishment felt thoroughly Gondorian. It could easily have passed for an inn in Minas Tirith, or Emyn Arnen, or somewhere in rural Anórien. Even the clientele seemed mostly Gondorian in nature. It seemed that the eatery was a bit of a haven for those Mordorians who attempted to retain their pre-Assignment identities.

While Bearugard sniffed at the peasant-like quality of the food offerings (no pheasant or spit-roasted wild boar, such as he was accustomed to), and Angawen loudly requested drinks, Hyarmenwë's mind was not on food at all- it was on the patrons around him.

So thoroughly Gondorian in nature!

The thought was starting to haunt Hyarmenwë. These people were, or had been, ordinary, common people of Gondor. What unwitting or slight anakronisms had they been involved with to Assign them to Mordor? On the surface, at least, they LOOKED quite normal.

Not that Hyarmenwë had any plan of dwelling too long on thoughts of why people had been Assigned. That came too close to Assigning oneself. But the thought did occur to him that these people were mostly victims on the anakronisms- people who ought to have been good and loyal citizens of Gondor, and it occurred to him that as Keeper of the Keys of Minas Tirith, Ambassador of Gondor, and representative of the King, it was a part of his duty to ascertain that none of these Gondorians had been falsely Assigned. After all, they looked so normal...

But Hyarmenwë had no intention of being Assigned to Mordor himself, so he turned to the expert on all things Mordor.

"Milady Umfuil," he addressed Alli, "if I may ask, does speaking with those Assigned to Mordor- even those who are themselves anakronisms itself constitute grounds for Assignment?"

Angawen looked up from her just-received drink, a look of calculating curiosity on her face. Bearugard seemed not to have noticed.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli basked in being surrounded by people much like those she had known in her former days. Though she'd been hidden away by her parents for most of her life, she'd made friends easily with those few she met. It was a wonder that she was not more antisocial than she was, given her warped childhood. She ordered hot spiced cider and was well pleased with the sweet zing of it as she pondered Hyarmenwë's question.

"I should think that it would not..." she began, looking around. "My lord, I cannot be certain, but..."

A voice spoke in her ear and she smiled, feeling a peace fall over her in its presence. She continued, now sure.

"My lord, it will not harm you in any way, excepting that occasionally too much knowledge acts as a catalyst for self-harm. But I do not forsee that happening... You should not fear conversing with the locals... at least not those in this establishment. Others... well... they will not get you Assigned, but they might actually harm you. There are many people in Mordor of an unsavory nature, if you catch my meaning."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Wait a moment," said Smilog as he placed the so called 'paros shoot' on his back. "whe you say you 'got rid of' the other zoom projects, what do you mean? Did you detroy Minas Tirith?" They had been walking from the tower to the wall while they spoke.

"Of course not!" laughed the Barrow Wight, "that would be completely unnecessary! We merely removed its engine and axel, filled in the holes it left with concrete, all under cover of darkness, obviously. But Mount Zoom... Well, that’s another story."

Roggie was about to leap towards his casino, when he suddenly got interested and turned to the large, rotting corpse and said, "What do you mean?" his suspicions had grown concerning the ulterior motives of this creature.

"Well," said the Wight with a little cough, "you see, old spice, Mount Zoom was the original! It works differently to the others. Besides, the knowledge and roumer of it go far back and deep into the memories of all evil things. If just one had the will, they could turn it to evil once again."

Tollin and Smilog stood on the high wall, looking down at the ominous mountain on wheels that had left a lot of LA in ruins as it had driven in. The crowd was getting a little too curious and some began to climb the mountain, but they soon stopped, as the engine would 'rev' every time one tried. Roggie looked worried and began to sweat, not a good thing for a creature of fire to do, you might think, and you'd be right. "Project Zoom," said the Wight, "must be destroyed! Mountain and all!"

"I cannot allow that," said Roggie, almost with tears, "I built that casino from nothing! It's my pride and joy! I won't let you destroy it! I'm going to find out who is driving it and stop them! Then," he paused for effect, "then I am going to take the mountain back to where it belongs and deal with Mardil!"

"You are a fool, Rogggie," said another Wight, "a reckless fool!" Several Wights took Roggie by the arms and tried to take him away, "We can't allow Project Zoom to continue, and you are a threat to our mission!" Then, slowly and solemnly, the Wights began to sing...

Cold be hand and heart and bone,
And cold be sleep under stone:
Never more to wake on stony bed,
Never, till the sun fails and the moon is dead.
In the black wind the stairs shall die
And still on gold here let him lie,
Till the Wight Lord lifts his hand
Over peaceful sea and zoom-less land

WHAK! Went Smilog's axe as it took off the head of a Wight. Tollin followed suet and swung his morning star with all his might. They released Roggie and dashed to the wall. Then Roggie had and idea, he took Smilog's axe and ran to the nearest fell beast wire and began to hack away. More and more Wights began to come, crying, "Don't do it! Are you insane?" yet he hacked still more. Eventually, the beast was freed and it flew away. The others got scared and dragged the city, lopsidedly over the sea. Before it got too far, Smilog, Tollin and Roggie all leaped off, releasing their paros shoots and gliding towards the Mountain of Zoom.

The dwarf turned around to see the terrible city sinking into the horizon, yet the calls of the Wights could still be heard. Roggie landed first and removed the 'paros shoot' gladly and threw it away. They were quite near the top of the mountain, and could see the crack of doom below them, no more than a hundred yards away. Tollin landed last and cast off his 'paros shoot', he looked into the horizon and could not see the city of the Wights.

Slowly, they began to climb down once again, trying to get to the fabled crack of DOOM and so put an end to this moving mountain. Yet, none of them saw the skeletal figure that rose out of one of the paros shoots and began following them in a Gollum-like manner. If dramatic music could be included, such a time as now would be appropriate.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron was stalking the streets looking for a likely fanatic when out of an alley came two diminutive blue-robed men. Anakron stopped in his tracks.

"Good day, Anakron," intoned the shorter of the two.

"Good day," Anakron responded brusquely. "How may I serve you?" Anakron's tone was not that of one who wished to serve, but to tear limb from limb.

"Come into this alley where we can talk in private."

Anakron exhaled. He followed them, his shoulders suddenly stooped. Just before they reached the end of the alley, the two men parted ways and stood to either side of the alley, their backs to the walls.

"After you," the taller one gestured toward a blank brick wall.

Anakron wordlessly passed between them and turned, his back to the wall. He waited, glowering. The two men closed in side by side and faced him, their faces impassive.

"You have been conveying religions from the future." It was stated as fact rather than query.

"Yes," Anakron said on a wearisome breath. Just then he saw Panakeia in the road; she had stopped short at the end of the alley and seen him. He looked away from her and back at the Blue Istari before they could notice - - he hoped.

"These will conveyances have nothing to do with our purpose for Mordor and the Gondorian Empire. They must stop."

"And if they don't?"

"Then it will go ill with you. We have undone your damage. That is the end of it, or else. Understood?"

Anakron opened his mouth in a grimace. "And if the evil of your dweomer overcomes me? What then?"

"See that it does not."

They turned away from him and saw Panakeia before she could hide.

"This girl," said the taller one, "she is cured. Make use of her to maintain control of your conveyances."

The two men walked by her, the smaller one stopping a moment to say before he passed, "He is upon a knife edge. Do not fail."

Then they turned into the street.

Anakron felt red hot rage within him. It would be easy to konvey something blisteringly damaging to those two, but they would merely flick it away as an afterthought. Anakron took a deep, unsmiling breath, and willed himself to stay standing where he was, to not lash out, to stand and wait before doing anything at all; for if he did anything, there was no telling what uncontrolled impulse might burst from him. He waited, watching Panakeia to see what she would do, hoping that she would flee from him in a sudden unlikely moment of better judgement, knowing that she would come to him and do all that she could, the little that was in her power, to try to talk him into some semblance, some modicum of self-control. If only words could do anything other than chafe against his nerves.

[Celuien]

Panakeia continued to follow the din of the street fight, her heart sinking with every step. She had only just been separated from Anakron, and already (she assumed), he was responsible for more mischief. She should never have left him alone.

But what could she have done? Her duty to the Captain was clear. She needed to teach Skittles a thing or two about that robot of hers. A slow grin reappeared. Panakeia was rather pleased with herself for her solution to RoboSkitt. It was illogical for an illogical being to care about logic. Therefore, for the illogical robot to remain illogical, she would need to be logical. Perfect, brilliant, nonsense. But highly...logical.

Suddenly, Panakeia found herself dizzy. As the world spun and grew dim, she stumbled, clutching a silk palm tree rooted in Astroturf. She thought she heard muffled, fell voices mumbling in a strange tongue. The feeling passed, and Panakeia recovered. What had happened?

She straightened herself and listened for the fight. That too seemed to have ceased. Puzzled, she headed to the spot where she formerly heard the fight, and saw a group of equally puzzled people, seemingly unable to remember why they were ready to tear each other to shreds a moment before. For a fraction of a moment, Panakeia wondered if the Captain's intervention was responsible. Almost in the same moment, she chided herself for the stupidity of thinking that an actor in a TeeVee show could possibly have such an impact.

Then it dawned on her. The obsession with the Captainfor which Panakeia had been willing to risk life and limb less than an hour before was gone. A confused jumble of emotions ran through her.

It must have been the Dweomer.

Of course it was. What else would make you -- and everyone else -- so silly?

Anakron owes me an apology. He owes everyone an apology. Doesn't he realize the trouble he could have - that he did create?

Think of it this way. You're back to normal. He must have un-conveyed the anakronism. He must be sorry. Even if he doesn't say so. Is that apology enough?

Panakeia continued to mull it over. No. The mere undoing wasn't enough. He needed to apologize, if only to prove that he knew he was wrong. The reversal of his conveyance was a good start, but she needed to hear him acknowledge his error.

Panakeia continued her search. At last she spotted Anakron in an alley, flanked by the Blue Istari. Her heart skipped. What were they doing here? Up to no good, she was certain. Panakeia tried to duck into a doorway where she could eavesdrop without being seen, but to no avail.

"This girl, she is cured. Make use of her to maintain control of your conveyances."

Panakeia groaned. They had seen her. No use hiding. And what did they mean? Were the Wizards on her side? That was rather puzzling.

Anakron did not reply, and the Wizards headed back to the main street. As they passed Panakeia at the entrance to the alley, one spoke to her.

"He is upon a knife edge. Do not fail."

And with that, the Istari melted into the crowd.

What did it mean? Had Anakron withdrawn the anakronistic religions of his own accord, or had the Wizards forced him to do so? She had to know. Panakeia was still willing to help him if he had not come to his senses yet, despite irritation with him for involving her in the fruits of his foolish temper tantrum.

"Hello, Anakron. What was that about? The Wizards, I mean." Her voice was somewhat terse.

[Anguirel]

Tom briefly thought that perhaps being a cutie or a baby sounded rather up his street, but the Malfoy nature soon asserted itself. He marched ahead of Lola without a single backward glance, then, quite suddenly, whipped around, drawing his wand.

"Impedimenta," he intoned swiftly. Both Lola and the unfortunate Maika would feel the air congeal and pulsate in front of them, becoming a stodgy, heavy mess and bringing their progress to a stop. With a mental effort they could advance slowly, but it was an exhausting process. Yet there was no apparent barrier, and the two Mordorians could still see the obnoxious blond boy ahead giving them a cheerful wave.

"See you later," the Gondorian ambassador remarked. "I've had enough of this. I'm going on alone. I suppose you'll have to find a way to catch up, Mudbloods..." This gloatery accomplished, Dracomir mounted the Nimbus Two Thousand And One Racing Broom he carried on his person, zipping down the corridor, occasionally running down hapless Guard-Orcs and knocking them over when he was feeling vindictive. The last his two former companions glimpsed was a splodge of rapidly receding green and silver.

"Now that," he thought maturely, swirling around, up to the ceiling and down again purely in order to show off, "will teach that chorus-girl to call me a cutie."

He paused and took brief stock of his surroundings. He had not the faintest clue where, in his exuberant flight, he had managed to bring himself to. Best, he supposed, to consult the Mordorers' Map.

"I solemnly swear to fill in my SAVE within 48 hours," he reeled off boredly.

Words spiralled rapidly across the parchment.

Now, now, that's not good enough. Put some feeling into it, some passion, come on!

Tom grit his teeth. "I solemnly swear to fill in my SAVE within 48 hours."

Actually, is this scene necessary, vamos, venga, chico, es necessario? Perhaps we cut and replace with arty vision of shrunken heads, no?

"Noooo!" Tom exclaimed. The Map had evidently been possessed recently by none other than Alfonso Cuaron, the Director-Fiend of Mexico! What was he to do now...?

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!" Came a voice from just above Smilog's head. He stopped and looked around, yet all he saw was the volcanic rock of the now infamous Mount Zoom palace and casino (and, more recently, racing vehicle). Tollin was also looking for the origin of this sound. "Blasted rigamortis!" said the same voice, "I'll give it what for!"

Roggie rolled his eyes and leaped up on the rock behind Smilog and lifted out from behind it, the Barrow Wight who had been following them. One of its legs was dangling off and he wore a rather ghastly (and, unfortunately, permanent) grin on his face. "What are you doing here?" asked the Balrog, setting the Wight down.

"Well, you see," he coughed, "my dear old thing, I'm sorry about the other chaps. They get a bit carried away some times and when I said Project zoom needed to be destroyed 'at all costs' they took it a little too seriously." Smilog climbed up and drew his axe, but Roggie signal that he should put it away. "Listen," continued the Wight, "perhaps I can help you fellows out? I may be just rotten flesh and bones, but I can be quite the tuff customer. I once kept a line held up in the post office for ten minuets!"

Smilog sniggered, "Yes, terrifying."

"I thought so," the Wight clicked his leg back into place and looked, blurry eyed at his surroundings. "Is the crack of DOOM far?" he asked. Roggie pointed with his peg leg down towards it. No more than fifty yards away, but the going looked rugged and difficult all the same. They slowly resumed climbing down, carefully stepping on each foothold as it came, with Tollin leading the way, Roggie next, Smilog and the Wight last.

At some points the mountain would rumble and the engine would start up and then die down again. They all grew quite nervous with anticipation, this had been a hard day's work and it looked as if it was about to get harder. When Tollin, Roggie and Smilog had got to the bottom and to the small ledge before the Crack of DOOM, they looked up to see the Wight falling down. He hit the ground with a crack and his head rolled off. "Ah," he said, "you couldn't give me a hand, chaps?"

Reluctantly, they scanned the surroundings and picked up the random bones and ligaments lying around the area and put the Wight back together. Roggie put the head on and, just for fun, put it on backwards. They all laughed, except the Wight who stumbled around before tripping up and losing his head (literally) he picked it up and put it on himself. "Oh, childish games," he said angrily, "playground stuff!"

They looked at the crack of DOOM, standing ominous and strange, with the path winding back behind them. In front of the Crack was placed a large metal door, terrible to look upon, wrote of black metal with horrid faces depicted on it. Orc writing could be read saying, 'Go home Roggie' which was strange, seeing as Mordor was Roggie's home. "I don't like this place," said Smilog gripping his axe as he examined the door. The horror of it was somewhat lessened by the small 'Do not disturb' sign placed on the doorknob.

Slowly and silently, the Dwarf opened the door and stepped through, the light of the magma could be seen, dim and faint in the distance. The stenches of the volcanic gasses oozed forth and set all the hair on Tollin’s face and back straight. Even Roggie seemed a little nervous, not knowing what dark forces may await them inside the crack of DOOM.

"LEAVE THIS PLACE!" came a voice from within.

"Right you are!" said the Wight, pulling everyone out and slamming the door shut. He puffed and panted far too much for someone without lungs. Smilog sat with his back to the door and began to think to himself. Roggie paced up and down, his peg leg kicking rocks here and there. Tollin sat on a rock and looked towards the sun as it slowly began to sink. "Maybe we should jolly well get some sleep?" said The Barrow Wight.