ATM II RPG

[Celuien]

Panakeia stood glaring at Anakron, red-faced, furious, humiliated. For the second time today, he had treated her roughly. He had no right to do so, Grand Anakronist, Servant of the Blue Istari, or whatever else he chose to call himself.

But still, she wanted to scream at him. How could he be so incredibly blind to his own heart? They'll find themselves another Anakron, one who will not stave off the worst of the dweomer. He still cared about what happened. He still cared about doing what was right. That, Panakeia thought, was not not the mark of an evil man, nor yet one who wished to become evil, but rather the sign of one struggling against the dark.

He was so infuriating! Determined to stumble along to evil, mistreating her, and refusing to admit any choice in the matter. But not evil. Not yet, as he said. And everything she did went amiss. She was burning. So she did the only thing a lady in her position could do. Panakeia stepped toward Anakron, cheeks still flaming, her right hand outstretched. Anakron glared down at her, defying her, daring her to act on her thought.

Panakeia dared. In a swift motion, she snatched Anakron's staff from the ground and slapped the inert Sylvester silly.

"Stupid Dweomer! I hate you! I hate you!" She shouted it over and over, until, in a last fit of frustrated rage, she hurled the staff into a pile of garbage in the alley.

She then stared back at Anakron, despairing and unhappy. "You showed me something, Anakron. You showed me something important. If only you would see it yourself. You're right. If you walked away, the Istari would merely find a replacement. But consider this too. If you turn evil, the Istari will also dispose of you. They won't risk the possibility of your attempting to set yourself in their place. As they fear you would. If they didn't why would they have told me to keep you in line? So long as you remain in fear of them, serving their will, but not going too far, they'll keep you. But it won't solve the Dweomer problem. The only way for you to save yourself - and to satisfy that part of your conscience demanding that you keep the Istari in check - is to break the Dweomer. I don't know if it's even possible, Anakron. I don't pretend to understand con...konveyances or the power behind them. But I do understand that it's making you something you aren't. And that it's evil. And that Middle-earth would be better off without it. You should destroy it if you can. I was under the influence of the Dweomer when I said it first, but I believe it still.

"There's something else too. I see now that I'm not helping you. I don't understand why. I've tried. Maybe you can't or won't hear me now. Or when you do listen, it only makes things worse. I wish it weren't so, but I'm afraid it is."

Panakeia bit her lip, repressing the tears that threatened to well up again. Why, after everything he'd done today, after her resolutions to leave, did Anakron still have such a hold over her? But she went on, carefully avoiding Anakron's gaze, hoping he would maintain his stony silence, but hoping even more that he would at last understand and turn from this madness. That he would speak kindly to her at last.

"And so, Anakron, I'm taking your advice. I'm going away. Not to Ithilien, at least not yet. But I think it would be better for the both of us if we had some time apart. I'll be here, in Lost Angles, until the morning. Then I don't know where I'll go. I haven't decided. Think of what I've said, and if you find it in yourself to hear me, come! Please, come!" As a sudden wave of tenderness swept over her, Panakeia reached for Anakron's hand. But, almost as if her touch burnt him, he withdrew it. She bit her lip again, and stared at him, both questioning and sorrowful.

"Good-bye, Anakron."

Her head bent, she turned and walked away. Anakron retrieved his staff and started back to Mount Doom.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

“It reminds me,” said The Barrow Wight, “of the time I met the fell worm beast of the sea!” Smilog turned around to look at him, with a slight confused look upon his face. Every time he settled down to sleep, the Wight started telling one of these ridiculous anecdotes about his time on the Downs. “It was on a winter’s night,” he continued, “I was out fishing when a large creature covered in what can only be described as CDs rose out of the sea and asked the way to Numenor. I told the fellow that it hadn’t been around for a jolly long time and he up and left in a flash, by Jove you should have seen that thing swim!”

Once more, Smilog settled down in his sleeping blankets, hidden amongst the rocks to the side of the entrance to the Crack of DOOM. The Wight eventually fell asleep too and Roggie had the first watch. Tollin snored rather loudly, but they were all so worn out that they hardly noticed and sunk soon into a weary, troubled sleep.

It was dark when Roggie awoke them all with a poke from his peg leg, saying, “Now’s our chance!”

“What are you talking about?” whispered Smilog looking around with an odd look in his eyes. “Where are the others?”

“Over they’re,” said Roggie, pointing, “look, something came out of the door only a minuet ago. It was a shadowy figure and I didn’t get a good look at it, it said something about not having enough snacks. Now is our best chance to investigate the Crack of DOOM!”

“We need someone to go in first to make sure its safe,” advised Tollin, “someone dispensable, who we wouldn’t miss if he got killed or mutilated in some strange way.” There was silence for a moment, and then everyone looked at Smilog who sighed and walked to the Door.

“You do realise,” said Smilog, “that you will all rue the day you sent me to Doom!”

“Yes, of course,” said The Barrow Wight, “Now, off with you!” they all pushed the Dwarf though the door and it closed behind him with a click. He tried to open it, but it seemed to be locked with some unseen lock. He picked up a torch from the wall beside him and walked forward, covering his mouth and nose to block the stench. He walked along for a while before he came into the great cavern of DOOM, the place where the Ring of Power had been destroyed. There was a long extended platform stretching over the lava vent, and built in a semicircle at the edge were a series of controls for driving the dreaded thing.

There was a large leather seat in front of a steering wheel; to the side of it was what looked like a gear changer and a hand break. Smilog went up to it and examined the controls closely, stroking his beard, forgetting the stench. There was a large blue button in the centre that had a picture of an eye on it, wondering what it did, Smilog pressed it and was hit on the chin by a rising pseudo television made with palantir technology. It showed the view out of the front of Mount Zoom; the LA beach to the left, and the City to the left.

“I should go back,” said Smilog, “Roggie will know what to do.” He turned away, but stopped and looked back at the controls. The steering wheel looked so inviting, the leather chair looked so comfortable. “NO!” he cried, shaking his head, “Must go back to Roggie and the others, they’ll know what to do.” He tried to leave once again, but only went three steps before looking back and stopping. “Well, maybe I could try a few more buttons, to see what they do.” He sat down in the chair and felt how comfortable it was, he sighed and looked at the controls. There was a big red button. You can probably see where this is going.

He reached out his hand towards the button, sweating and smiling inanely, his breath bated and full of strangeness. He pressed it. The whole mountain shook as the engine started up again. Smilog laughed a long maniacal laugh, “I am Smilog!” he cried, “Master of Zoom! Now, Middle Earth, prepare to meet your horrible DOOM!” He took the gear changer stick and began moving it randomly, causing the gearbox to groan and make unearthly noises.

Halfway down the mountain, the strange shadowy figure stopped and turned to look back up at the crack of DOOM. “My vehicle!” it cried, “My beautiful vehicle! Someone is stealing it! Curse you snacks! CURSE YOU!”

“Now,” said the maniacal Smilog, “to release zooming Mountain of DOOM!” he pulled on the gear stick some more and the engine groaned. He pressed another button on the control panel, which cause a volcanic bomb to shoot out of the volcano and head into the City. He laughed and tried to get the Mountain moving again, but nothing seemed to work, he did not understand the controls and randomly pressed things. “Obey me!” he cried, his eye becoming a great green fire, “I am your master now, Zoom! Hearken to me!” The last button he pressed opened the door to the crack of DOOM and Tollin ran in.

“What is going on?” cried the Minotaur, “Smilog, what are you doing?”

“My victory begins now!” he cried, laughing, “I will drive the mountain to the destruction of Middle Earth!” he laughed some more and then pressed a button that fired a rock at Tollin. He fell back and lay on the floor. “I told you, you would rue the day you sent me to DOOM,” laughed Smilog, “now, begin your rueing! I will sit here… and watch!” Roggie and The Barrow Wight entered looking rather worried.

“Get away from there!” shouted Roggie, “You’ll kill us all! Are you insane?”

“Insane?” said Smilog, “As insane as a moose!”

“I’d call that pretty insane,” said Tollin.

“Silence!” cried Smilog, “I must now wreak terror on the people of Middle Earth!” Tollin rolled his eyes and grabbed the Dwarf by the scruff of the neck and dragged him kicking and screaming from the chamber. “Release me!” demanded Smilog, “Release me or suffer the Wrath of Smilog!” They came out of the crack of DOOM and Smilog was cast upon the floor.

The Dwarf sat up and shook his head, “What happened?” he said, “All I remember was being in the control room and the… something weird.” As they sat there, a shadowy figure passed by and went into the Crack of DOOM, closing the door.

“Bad form, old chap,” said the Barrow Wight, “you went positively mad on us back there. Trying to take over the world. Maybe that’s what Project Zoom does to people. Sends them barking.” He lit a pipe that he seemed to have got from nowhere. “Now, lets deal with this like gentlemen.” He walked up to the door and knocked on it, “Excuse me,” he said, “would you mind awfully, letting us in?”

“Do you have any snacks?” came the reply.

[Lhunardawen]

"Dracomir, wait up!!!" Maika screamed with multiple exclamation marks in spite of herself; she had to express her anger somehow.

"M-m-maika...?"

"What?" Maika blurted with a hint of irritation, swinging to face Lola. "This is all your fault. You shouldn't have done that, no matter how tempting or amusing it was. Now look, we're back to square one. We have to find Dracomir, and together we'll all have to find Roggie. We will convince him to recommence the negotiations. You hear?"

But all Lola could hear was the swishing of the silver robe as Maika gesticulated frantically. This time there was horror marked all over her pretty face.

"I-I can't hear you..." she said, slowly shaking her head.

"What?!"

"What?"

"I said 'what?!' "

"What did you say?"

Maika threw her hands up exasperatedly and turned back to the direction in which Dracomir had disappeared. She wanted to run after him, but somehow she could not move. What had he done? More than anything she wanted Alli to learn of this, and let her do what she will. Surely she would be disappointed with the ambassadors...and Maika shivered at the thought. They would have to solve this on their own.

Quickly yet gently taking off the silver cloak wrapped around her, Maika decided that she would have to catch up with Dracomir in any way. With the cloak haphazardly folded in her hands she took a step forward, hesitated, and turned to Lola.

"If you want, you can stay here. I'll go after him."

Lola gasped, her hand over her mouth. "I can hear you now!"

It did not take any of the brains in Skittles's secret laboratory to work things out: the silver cloak had rendered her inaudible. Maika slowly nodded in enlightenment, and quickly turned her mind to the task at hand, tucking the offense done against her in a deep pocket of her mind. Not waiting for a more relevant response from Lola, she started pacing down the hall. Each step took more breath, she noticed, and soon she could not go any further. She stopped, caught her breath, and looked back.

Lola was not even a step away from her, laughing deliciously. "My poor dear, if only you could have seen yourself. You looked...utterly ridiculous!"

"You are too kind," said Maika, curtsying gracefully. "Now, perhaps there's anything you can say to help me?"

"He brandished a wand. He mounted a flying broomstick. It's hopeless."

"Thanks a lot," said Maika, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Wait...a wand? Hmm..." She grabbed one of the chopsticks perched on her hair and swiftly pulled it out, in a manner worthy of a shampoo commercial. Lola could only chuckle.

"Lola, we're a bit desperate. It might work," Maika said as she waved the wannabe wand awound and abwuptly stopped. At the same time, unknown to her, the Impediment Curse began to wear off. Maika stepped forward tentatively to test, then took another step, then another. She grinned inwardly at her success.

"Come on," she called to Lola behind her while expertly reinserting the chopstick. "Bother Dracomir--let's go straight to Roggie. Audience chamber."

[Anguirel]

Cut, yes, cut that Malfoy character, the Map scribbled in a demented, increasingly Hispanised script, he's only marginal anyway, si, si...

Dracomir scrunched the parchment into a ball and stuck it in the inside pocket of his robe, yet still felt it writhing and pulsating against its heart as it continued to maniacally scribble plot alterations. He slumped against a wall, as characters written by this author tend to do at some stage or another. He felt a great urge to burst into tears, but did not dare in case he was interrupted by some guard. No one could witness a Malfoidacil crying!

Yet his plight was dire, and all, he realised, caused by his own pettiness. He had been in the company of two Mordorian ambassadors...well, that is, one ambassador and one Diva...headed, solidly, for an audience with King Roggie, and had managed to fool at least one of them into falling in with his plans. Some guilt now returned to Tom as he recalled Maika's quivering mouth, undoubtedly screaming as hard as she could at him, but completely Inaudible...now he was lost in the midst of the Castle, the former Mount Doom Palace and Casino, with no idea of his further direction.

He picked himself up and stumbled a little further on. And then he saw something which raised his spirits somewhat. It was a window.

It was glassless, like any decent castle window, and beyond it lay the smog and ashen sky of the Black Land. Yet any air was better than none. With a barely-suppressed whoop Tom leapt astride his Nimbus once again and took off, leaving the Mountain behind him in only a few miutes. However briefly, he was free.

He soon found that the thick smoke was actually hiding an almost oppressively blue sky at the beach paradise of Lost Angles. The intense positive glare of the cloudless weather made his head ache, but he soared off. He saw the decadent city lying obnoxiously below him, and the vast array of azure swimming-pools in its plentiful de luxe hotels. He saw whole deserts of imported sand, occasionally punctuated with mounds of cigarette-ends, broken beer bottles, and used needles. He saw three enormous female Stone-Trolls sunning themselves.

Stone-Trolls sunning themselves? Apparently so. For the rays of Arien, it was revealed, did not slay Stone-Trolls, but merely sent them into an inane but rather pleasant torpor, as their skin changed from pink to a greyish-brown tan. It seemed, Tom realised, that this tan was a sought after asset for Troll-women.

"Ooo, yer've caught it luvverly, Doris," one commented. Somewhat surfeited with Trollological insight, and feeling the heat of the sun himself, Tom wheeled his racing broom about and started elegantly swooping towards Mount Doom's summit...to the very Cracks of Doom themselves.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron made his way back to the mountain, oblivious to anything or anyone else around him. He was disgusted with himself. He had not harmed Panakeia, but he had hurt her yet again. He was no good for her. She should go to Ithilien and escape from the evils or Mordor, past, present and future.

When she had reached her hand toward his, he had wanted with a grievous desire to take her hand, then hold her close and say that all the evil was no more. A fool's pitiful dream. He had tried to take her hand in his, but he knew he mustn't. Or had he known that? Had it been his own choice to draw back his hand? Or had the dweomer overwhelmed his desire and his will, and forced his hand back? He did not know. He had not felt an exterior force, but that did not matter: the dweomer was deep in his bones. Admit it, Anakron, you enjoy the power..

He strode down the mountain corridors, his cloak billowing, caring not a mite for anything that was going on around him, including the insufferably delayed negotiations. Let them deal with it themselves. If they need me, they know where to find me. He both hoped and feared that he would not be needed for the negotiations.

Anakron opened the door to his chambers. The orc corpse had been removed. In its place stood Lûgnût, dressed in pink and lime green, wearing eye shadow and three sets of earrings in each ear. He looked sullen.

"I see you have been freed," murmured Anakron, "from a particularly nasty strain of the dweomer, Lûgnût."

"So it would appear, oh Grand one," the orc sneered. "I would have been most gratified if that particular strain had not been removed, if you must know."

"You liked it?" Anakron moved past the orc to a rich divan covered in sumptuous pillows, and sat down.

Lûgnût rolled his pig's head eyes and raised a his hand in a feminine gesture of dismissal. "Oh, if you must know, I have never, and I mean ne-ever, felt so, so-" he positively wriggled with delight "-manly!" Lûgnût grinned.

"You mean orcish, do you not?"

"Same difference," Lûgnût sighed.

"Make me some tea, will you?"

Panakeia had slapped his cat silly, Anakron considered with a smirk, and thrown it on the ground. If only it were that easy to be rid of. Come to think of it, he had never tried. Maybe he should just leave it somewhere inconspicuous and just stop being the Grand Anakronist. As if it could be that easy. Then again, he had never tried such a thing. Maybe tomorrow.

Lûgnût brought him tea.

"Thank you. Would you like to be orcish again, Lûgnût?"

"We-elllll-" he responded with a swing of his hips, "I did rather like it."

"I'll see what I can do. No promises! Now leave me in peace."

The orc sauntered out of his rooms and closed the door behind him.

Anakron had never considered the possibility of setting himself up in place of the Blue Istari. There was reason. It was impossible. All his power came from them, and it was all he had with which to replace them. They had merely to strip him of his power with a word, and any such attempt would be rendered null. So Panakeia was wrong about that. No, the real danger was to become a mere tool in their hands, doing all the evil they wished, not limiting it one iota. Anakron didn't think that Panakeia understood that part of it. Nor that the dweomer had more and more of his very will in its control. His will was not free; or at least, not as free as it had been, and the longer he remained Grand Anakronist, the less he would have, until he was no better than a ringwraith for them to do with as they would.

Nevertheless, for now his rage had been been deflated. Thanks to Panakeia. That questioning and sorrow in her eyes as she turned from him had doused his ire, and pushed him into remorse. He had half a mind to stay away from her so as not to cause her more harm; and he wondered about just handing in his staff, hat, and cloak and saying he was done. He sipped his tea, refilled his cup, and sipped some more, mulling his choices, aware of the irony that maybe he had no will to choose, regardless of what he desired.

[Roggie of Morgoth]

Roggie wasn't quite sure what was going on any more so he did what any self respecting pirate balrog actor king would do in the situation: decided to leave it and pretend it wasn't happening.

In a way much surprising for a creature of his bulk, he slipped unnoticed away from the others, disappearing through a door that was pretending to be a wall, and making his way down to Alli's office for a private talk.

"Alli," he'd say, sprawled on her floor, "I can't do it any more. I don't want to. I can't even keep track of my advisors, much less my people. I've received no advice in the past few weeks except from my lovely War Advisor MacFarleywen, and I'm not even sure if I can spell her name right. Much though I want to teach Mardil a lesson or two, how can I do it with an army that exists only to march around singing lame songs about not knowing anything but having above average listening skills. They have no battle experience, except to argue with me.

"Mardil's highly trained forces would overcome my pitiful multi-whatever-they-are troops in a matter of a few very sad seconds. Why am I even bothering with this job, Alli?"

And she would answer "Because, Roggie, you are a good king. No king can choose his people and you got stuck with a bum deal, but you're doing so well with it. Here, I found you a copy of Il Principe, translated into the ancient balrogic script that nobody else knows but you and apparently the translator. It ought to help you dictate properly."

And he would jump for joy and things wouldn't fall from the walls. But that was merely a dream.

He found his way to Alli's office and tried turning the doorknob on the overly large doors. No luck. He spotted a note pinned so far down that he had to double over to read it:

"Gone to lunch. Be back in a few days at the latest."

He roared his frustration and a few eyeliner-smearing tears of stress leaked out. Without hesitation, he found a private corner and had himself a good cry before making his ever-serious reappearance to the world.

He sat in his audience chamber, awaiting what would come next.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The door swung heavily on it's hinges as it opened slowly, almost in the same way that the mouth of a blue whale opens, and almost with the same stench of fish. The Barrow Wight lent on the wall for a moment, smoking his pipe triumphantly. Smilog looked at him in utter puzzlement, "How are you doing that?" he asked as more smoke poured out of the Wight's ribcage.

"You don't want to know," replied the Wight, the glow from one eye fading a little, indicating that he was winking. They all entered the Crack of DOOM and looked around, holding their noses, for the stench was unbearable. "Where has that Roggie fellow got himself off to?" asked The Barrow Wight.

"Ah, who cares?" snorted Smilog, "Good riddance to him. He's probably lying dead on a pile of cheese."

"Why cheese?" asked Tollin, examining something on the wall.

"Silence!" shouted Smilog, and everyone punched him in the face. "Well, no matter. He's a stupid little fuuuuuuuuuu...." All of a sudden, a trap door had opened up in the ground below them and they all fell down. Down and Down into deep dark. Such a dark as had never been seen before by any of them, and Tollin had lived in Mordor for a long while. It just seemed to keep going and going until they all stopped screaming and just continued falling normally.

"How long do you think this blighter is?" asked The Barrow Wight, "Can't say I look foward to the end of it, what, what?"

"No idea," replied Tollin, "Butss I can hazard a guesss. We're getttting near thhe Labyrinth. My lisp is coming back."

"Oh, great," grumbled the Dwarf, folding his arms. Eventually, the tunnel they were falling through became almost a slide, zipping downwards and spitting them out into the labyrinth. Tollin and Smilog arose and gathered the scattered parts of the Barrow Wight and assembled him again, although they did put his legs on wrong the first few times.

"Howsss do wess getss outss of heresss?" asked the now dumber Tollin, the Labyrinth seemed to have this adverse affect on him. Smilog laughed a little to himself and then took a deep intake of breath through his nose.

"Follow the stench of Balrog," he said. So they marched on, following the scent of burned fish that Roggie sometimes left when he got angry or annoyed. The labyrinth wound on and on, seemingly endlessly. It was somewhat damaged due to the movement of the Mountain, some walls had fallen down and they managed to make an almost straight road towards the centre of the mountain. They knew that as it began to get warmer. Eventually, they came to a brick wall and stopped.

"Looks like the end of the line, chaps," remarked the Barrow Wight, "We'd better get our thinking caps on for this."

"Not necessarily," said Smilog, Tollin smacked him across the face. "Ow! Well, as I was saying; this must be the secret entrance to Roggie's audience chamber. See, my wine bottle is there on the floor."

"Your wine bottle?" said Tollin.

"Alright, Roggie's. But All the same. All we need do is push open the door. We can then try and get back to the Crack of DOOM from there." So they all pushed and the door slowly opened.

[the guy who be short]

Angawen looked around the room carefully - if talking to inhabitants of Mordor was to be permitted, she had to take this chance of talking to the most normal, most Gondorian of them. Hyarmenwë had been dangerously blunt in his question, but Lady Alli did not seem to notice - or perhaps she, like Angawen, had trained herself not to show her thoughts.

They were sat at a corner of the room. However, the room was of an odd, non-uniform shape - something vaguely like an L. If Angawen could get around the corner, she would be free to speak to citizens of Mordor completely unseen by Alli. A golden opportunity. She would be foolish to waste it.

And she would be equally foolish to be rash. If she were to leave now she would undoubtedly raise suspicions. "It is wonderful," she said to Alli, "that one can obtain food so traditionally Gondorian in nature in Mordor. This loaf is tough, yet homely."

"Not all of our Mordorian food is Mordorian in nature," she replied. "They do some mean smoothies here."

The trio carefully ignored her.

The meal continued uneventfully, as meals are accustomed to do, until about ten minutes later, Angawen stood up suddenly. "Do excuse me, Lady Alli, but I fear I must relieve myself. I hear you have public toilets in Mordor - King Mardil II tells me they are a wonderful, if poorly implemented. I desire to see these myself."

Alli gave her consent, Hyarmenwë carefully avoided looking at Angawen, and Bearugard stuffed some more bread in his mouth.

Angawen wandered off, alone, in what seemed to her quite possibly the safest place in Mordor.