ATM II RPG

[Formendacil]

"Maybe we should head back to the Palace and come up with another plan, before we begin our search again," Maika kindly suggested.

Hyarmenwë sighed. "Maybe you're right."

Elrogorn was not pleased. However anakronistic, improbable, and recklessly good looking he may have been (very, on all counts), he knew a lot about Wereducks.

However, before the handsome half-Elf could berate the two more serious companions with the need to depart post-haste, the sound of webbed feet padding down the tunnel behind them.

"What's that?" said Hyarmenwë, his agéd face aghast with fear. Not fear of Wereducks, so much as fear of the idea of Wereducks. Beside him, Maika stepped slightly closer to the old Gondorian.

"Flee!" hissed Elrogorn, drawing his shining blade. "Leave them to me."

Rather than bravely protesting, or fleeing immediately, Hyarmenwë edged further down the tunnel.

"Faster!" insisted Elrogorn.

Hyarmenwë, terrified and yet fascinated, glanced down the tunnel behind them, and then shuddered in horror. He grabbed Maika's arm to steady himself.

"Come, my dear," he said. "For once I completely agree with him."

Maika looked past Elrogorn, and could only agree. The sight that met her eyes was not pleasant. There were ducks. Hundreds of ducks. But they were more than just mere ducks; they were were-ducks. Their feathers were ruffled and a deep black, their eyes were a blazing red, and their bills a bright orange. And poking out of their bills were long, sharp fangs.

Maika and Hyarmenwë tore down the tunnel as fast as they could. Hyarmenwë had not moved so fast in years. He could feel his heart pounding, and wondered if he might not be wiser to face the mercy of the Wereducks than to keel over with exhaustion, but prudence said otherwise.

"Up there!" Maika shouted at him. Hyarmenwë suspected the young woman was not running as fast as possible, since she stayed close by him, and not far ahead, as she ought to have been capable. Behind them, he could heard the raucous sounds of Elrogorn and the Wereducks battling it out.

Looking up, Hyarmenwë saw that Maika was pointing at a trapdoor closed over a hole in the tunnel. Maika had already started to climb a ladder of metal rungs set in the wall, shoving open the trapdoor. Behind them, Hyarmenwë heard Elrogorn shouting at them.

"Faster! I can't hold them off!"

"It's stuck!" Maika shoved at the trapdoor unsuccessfully.

"Watch out!" shouted Elrogorn. "I'm coming too!"

Maika struggled desperately, and the trapdoor opened upwards. Shoving it out of the way, she climbed out of sight. Behind them, Elrogorn tore into sight. Hyarmenwë started to climb, feeling painfully slow.

Hyarmenwë had just climbed out of sight when Elrogorn grabbed the rungs and started climbing, the Wereducks right behind him. Hyarmenwë gave him and hand, and as soon as he was clear, Maika slammed the trapdoor shut right above the Wereducks, standing solidly on the thick wood.

"Where are we?" asked Hyarmenwë, looking around. They seemed to be outdoors, from the feel of the chill, fresh breeze, but night had fallen and there was nary a star to be seen, nor was the moon visible.

"A graveyard," said Maika, looking around at all the headstones and forboding insciptions of R.I.P (Rots In Pieces). Hyarmenwë, whose idea of a graveyard of Rath Dínen looked around queasily, wondering if this was an anakronistic place to be, but since Tolkien had not gone into detail about graveyards or tombs in The Lord of the Rings, no one offered him an answer to his unspoken question.

"Not just any graveyard," said Elrogorn darkly. "This graveyard has a long history of association with forces of evil."

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Driver glared at the two Dwarves through small and shining eyes, the pupils of which were wide and completely black. Smilog cocked his head on one side and said, "So, what's supposed to be going on then?"

The Driver grinned and pointed to a large palantir on the top of the control panel, "The end is near," it said, "I have seen it. A great battle is coming; you know the sort, the kind that, if this ever gets made into a film, will involve hundreds of pounds worth of computer graphics. The kind that will shake all of Mordor. The kind of battle-"

"Yes," interrupted Khuz, "a big battle. What's that got to do with you or us?" The Driver's face turned to a frown and it sat in the chair with a sigh. Smilog peered at the Palantir, yet all that could be seen within it were swirling clouds and mists. The Driver lifted the Palantir up and presented it to the Dwarves

"See for yourselves," it said. So they lent forward with their eyes on the perfectly rounded seeing stone. The clouds dispersed and the mist cleared. There was a grave yard full of tombstones and a few tombs. The Palantir focused on one in particular; there was a group inside it looking at a body lying on a table.

There was one figure wearing a hood who seemed to have the attention of the rest of the party. A voice, faint and seeming far away, came from beneath the hood, "But of course, it all depends on what he has to live for." the hood was thrown back, this seemed very important for some of the other people there, but meant nothing to Smilog.

A wolf howled. The Area of vision shifted and looked upon a group of figures, standing above a trapdoor that was being forced from beneath; there was a look of dark foreboding upon the face of one in particular. Again, they heard a voice, on the edge of hearing, "This graveyard has a long history of association with forces of evil." Khuz's eyes widened as the Palantir shifted its gaze once again and they stared at an enormous army gathering on the plains to the south of the graveyard. The army went on and on, rank upon rank, battalion upon battalion, stretching off into the horizon like a sea of foes. The sound of a war horn filled the air before the face of Pallando flashed before the Palantir went dark.

The Driver gasped and let the seeing stone fall from her hands. Smilog placed his foot on the stone, his eyes set on The Driver, "Why did you show us this?" he asked.

"Because," The Driver rose from her chair, "what forces are gathered in the graveyard cannot defeat this army. They shall need all the help they can get. The Blue Wizards must be stopped. Why do you think I had to move the mountain? Anakron is dead, and we were so close to bringing him to the side of light. Curse those istari."

A silence fell between them, broken only by the rumblings of the Mountain. Before long, Smilog ventured, "You still havn't answered our question. Why do you need us?"

"You are Dwarves."

"Well spotted."

"Do you know of the clan of Gadol?" The Driver lent forward, casting a shadow over the Dwarves. She peered into their eyes, one by one, perhaps this was some kind of Mordorian tradition that they were both unaware of. The Dwarves shook their respective heads. "The Clan of Gadol dwell in the Ash Mountains. Long they have been there since the fall of Sauron. Secret and safe. A mighty force they are. Perhaps the edge we shall need in this war. That is why we need you two."

"So, you want us to take a message?" asked Smilog hopefully.

"Nay." Laughed The Driver solemnly, "Nay. They will not let you in. They have a Palantir and have seen this army, but they are proud and think it of no consequence to Dwarven kind. If they see one, or even two, Dwarves in the battle, then they shall open their gates and pour into that grave yard like a flood!"

***

Mount Zoom sunk into the distance, though it's stench followed Tollin and The Barrow Wight for many miles. One thing could be said for Roggie's rule of Mordor, there definitely were more road signs. A tall pillar stood in the centre of the cross roads with signs pointing in each direction, including one that simply said, 'Graveyard'. Feeling satisfied, the odd duo followed the path with long steps to save on time.

Tollin suddenly stopped and turned his head to the south. He pointed away with his morning star. "Do you see that?" he asked, pointing at an enormous black shade among the lighter black shades.

"That mass of black things stretching into the horizon?"

"Yes."

"Yes, I do see it. Looks jolly foreboding, doesnt it old boy?"

"Indeed." They marched on, the stench of death becoming more poignant as they neared the graveyard. There was a sound of shouting and banging, like that of an group of angry drunks trying to break down a door. The iron gate of the Graveyard hung open, but not inviting, if anything it told you, 'this is exactly the kind of place your mother told you that you would end up if you didn't stop misbehaving'.

Slowly, they walked into the cemetery with absolutely no feelings of joy about the fact other than, at least they weren't in Mount Zoom. A trio stood above a trap door, the sound of fierce quacking coming from underneath; the thumping continued ominously similar to a heart beat.

"Gosh," said The Barrow Wight, drawing his unnecesarily over decorative Sword.

[Diamond18]

Skittles wandered up to the foreboding gates of the gothic cemetary, sipping on a banana grape slurpie. She had grown bored back at Mount Doom, as everyone seemed to be leaving for more adventures, and explaining the intricacies of Tolkienism to Hissyfit had soon grown boring. It seemed that the mojo Anakron had slapped on her wore off with her multiple shifts in personality, and she had suddenly forgotten exactly what it was she had been going on about.

"Hissyfit," she had said, "where did everyone go?"

"I dunno," Hissyfit had replied. "I fell asleep two hours ago." Here she paused to yawn and scratch herself.

Just then, Skittles' cellphone beeped, alerting her to the fact that a text message was arriving. The message was from Ali, and the important bits were highlighted in red letters, which caught even Skittles' ADD addled attention.

"Let's go to an unnamed graveyard and have some fun, eh wot?" she said to Hissyfit, and Hissyfit, knowing that rats and rabbits and other assorted vermin liked to burrow under crypts, agreed.

Here endeth the flashback.

Skittles looked up at the massive gateway leading into the graveyard. A raven sat perched on one wrought iron finial, croaking out a warning before taking off in a flutter of black wings. Hissyfit, who had been contemplating climbing the fence and eating the bird, sighed.

"So this is the graveyard," said Skittles. "Eh."

She tossed her now empty slurpie cup in the trash bin (ominously marked: please do not litter or you will be chopped up into little bits and used to fertilize the flowers) and pushed the gate open. A chill wind whistled down between the headstones and blew Skittle's jet black hair away from her pale white face. "Thank you, chill wind, for reminding everyone of my basic coloring," she said, cheerfully. "Come along, Hissyfit, let's see what's shaking."

[Celuien]

Mordor had a strange way of bringing about unexpected events in the least expected (and usually least convenient) ways. Phizzick's sudden reappearance out of Panakeia's nearly forgotten days in Harad was the proof to that rule. Phizzick. Panakeia had not even thought of him since she was a lass of seventeen sitting on the veranda at her lost childhood home.

Nearly wed? Surely he exaggerated the entire situation. Panakeia recalled a slightly different scenario in which Phizzick, only a few months older than she, had joking asked for her hand, and she had just as jokingly (and with dazzling teenage coquettish charm) accepted him on the condition that he bring her an ice cream cone. There had been no ice cream, but a silly romance had followed. Just as she had once had so many other flirtations in her earlier days. But it seemed that Phizzick had taken things more seriously, building it into a drama worthy of any soap opera instead of the light-hearted society fluff their former association had been.

Still, Phizzick's story was what it was and now was not the time to have a full argument. Not with Anakron's life hanging in the balance.

Panakeia replied hesitantly. "It's been a long time, Phizzick."

"It has. But you still haven't answered my question. What does your mostly dead friend have to live for?"

From the tomb's center, there came a sound. Low and muffled, but distinct, and in Anakron's voice.

"Trruuueeeeee loooovvvvvveeeeeeeee."

Panakeia gasped. "He spoke! He's alive!" Her spirits soared. "And he wants to live for..."

"Blue gloves." Phizzick broke in to complete the sentence. "Not much to live for, if you ask me. He's obviously talking about those Blue Wizards, and if there's anything I hate, it's the Blue Wizards. Especially since they fired me."

"That's not what he said! He said true love. You all heard him." In nodded. "The wizards fired you?" Panakeia asked.

"They did. Said my magic wasn't quite up to snuff. My cures kept going wrong. Pack of lies. All I needed was a good MLT - mutton, lettuce and tomato. It's great. You ought to have one sometime."

"Maybe. But, Phizzick, please. Help Anakron. You heard him. True love. It's a wonderful thing to have. And he doesn't like the Istari either. That's how he got into this mess to begin with."

Phizzick squinted at her. "You're right. True love is a great thing. I know." He squinted harder, and Panakeia held her breath, terrified that he would accuse her of breaking his heart. "And as much as we're alike with our cures and all, that's why I'm glad we split up. I'd never have found my wife otherwise."

Waves of relief rushed over Panakeia. It was alright between them after all.

Phizzick kept talking. "Yes. What's it been? Almost thirty years now? Must be. But you say it's true love?"

"Yes. It is."

"Well, well. Can't let anything get in the way of that." He began to rummage through his pockets. "Let's see. MLT wrapper. Not that. And another MLT wrapper. Hmm. Where is it? Ah! Here it is!" He held out a shiny golden package in his palm.

"A chocolate?" Panakeia raised an eyebrow, recalling her own dubious cures.

"Not just any chocolate. This has something special. Practically guaranteed to revive the slightly alive part of anyone."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Then he's no worse off than he was before. What have you got to lose?"

That was true. Panakeia unwrapped the candy and put it in Anakron's mouth. Then, unable to bear the suspense, she turned and leant with her forehead against the wall of the crypt.

Startled gasps came from the three watchers. Then footsteps. Footsteps in Panakeia's direction. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a balding, bespectacled man with a huge grin under his beard.

"Hi. Good to see you again. Well, as me. I've been here all long, you know." He winked.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog stomped his way from Mount Zoom in a fierce and frenzied way; in all respects, this was a Dwarf who had had a bad day. He grumbled and moaned, swore and spat until he just frowned as he stomped. "I blame you for this," he muttered, "Roggie! You and your blasted mountain." Khuz hobbled along a little behind his son and eventually had to cough loudly in order to get his attention. Smilog turned swiftly on his heel and then sighed in annoyance as he watched his father hobble closer.

"You do know that there is a huge battle about to start?" queried Smilog, "only, by the time we get there it'll be over and maybe a whole different battle will have started; one that we have nothing to do with."

"Shut up!" shouted the old Dwarf, "my legs aren't what they used to be. Why couldn't that lass take us to the Battle in the Zoom?"

"She said it was too dangerous and quite frankly I'm glad to see the back of it."

They marched on, slowly and angrily; stomping their feet as hard as they could and with great intent of making as much dust fly up as they could. Weather this was to try and make a mysterious effect was was a mild coincidence, no tale tells, but most accept that it was the latter.

Above the black clouds of Mordor the moon was rising, it's great face's light unable to penetrate the rush hour like traffic of the clouds and so the moon felt rather unhappy and left out and so went off to sulk. Birds flew just below the clouds, circling around the grave yard awaiting their feast or, at least, light snack depending on who won. The stench of upturned soil and bellowing geezers filled the air, forcing the Dwarves to cover their noses and make unsavory faces.

There was a disturbance in the air; the silence of the land was broken by a most unearthly sound....

CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMP

Mixed with an eery and haunting;

BOOM... boom-boom-boom... BOOM...boom-boom-boom... BOOM

"War drums," murmured Khuz, "we have little time." forgetting their annoyance, the Dwarves hurried along the path with as swift a pace as they could. Leaping over rocks and roots that lay in their way and panting like fat children in a cross country marathon. Within a few swift minutes they came to the gate of the grave yard, yet as they stood beneath the arc of the gate, an eery voice trailed over their heads...

"Trruuueeeeee loooovvvvvveeeeeeeee."

"Blue gloves?" said Smilog, "who's going on about blue gloves at a time like this?"

***

Tollin's eyes fixed on where the sound of relentless quacking was coming; wereducks were something one didn't forget in a hurry. The Barrow Wight's golden hilted sword some how managed to glisten in the dim light of the Mordorian night. A red gem glowed in the guard and the pommel bore words in the Numenorian language. Not that The Barrow Wight had ever read them, that Sword had spent most of its life on a shelf above his fire place, he wasn't even sure if it was sharp.

"Looks like a terrible business, old chap," said the Wight, "they say were ducks can bight your face right off!"

"Who says?"

"Erm..." The Barrow Wight looked upwards and rolled his eyes around, "I'm not sure. But I'm sure whoever it is that said it, did indeed say it."

"I've never heard that," mused Tollin, "in fact, you're the only one I've heard say it. For all I know, the 'they' you speak of might be you. You don't have schizophrenia by any chance?"

"QUACK!" from behind them, the ghastly noise rose like... well... a rising sound. Almost instinctively, Tollin lifted his Morning Star and sung it down in the direction of the sound. There was an almighty 'splat' and a fading 'quack'. They lowered their heads and there, beneath the spikes and ball of the Morning star, lay the body of a wereduck; splattered.

"By Jingo," said The Barrow Wight, "looks like the blighter died instantly."

"You!" came an oddly familiar and probably bearded voice, "I thought you were surly dead!" Smilog trotted up to the Minotaur and the dead man and remarked, "you look right at home here, Mr Wight."

"Gosh." said The Barrow Wight.

[Kath]

Igor stood alone in the corridors of Mount Doom, having watched as Smilog and crew, Anakron and finally Skittles all ran off in different directions and in varying degrees of madness. He had the strangest feeling, as though he was supposed to be somewhere else, but as he didn't have any idea where this other place was he headed down to the now unoccupied chambers that had housed the Gondorian negotiators and fetched his ear instead of worrying about it. After all, these things generally seemed to sort themselves out in the end.

Even with both ears now attached the mountain was eerily quiet. Igor had got used to the antics of the other diplomats, as well as the steady noise of the orcs and guards that constantly moved around, but now there was no one in sight. Walking past an open door he saw a chair lying on the floor with papers scattered around it. In the great hall a goblet was slowly spinning in circles on the table, as though it had just been dropped there. He heard a cry from the hallway outside the room and darted out to see what was happening, watching in astonishment as an orc vanished into thin air with a quiet 'pop', his uneaten dinner falling to the floor with a crash.

The Dweomer? Igor wondered to himself as he crept towards the site where the orc had disappeared, but he dismissed the idea. He hadn't seen Anakron or heard his maniacal laughter in too long for it to be him doing this, and since the thing was stuck on ISMs at the moment it seemed unlikely to be the cause of all these strange events, unless there really was such a thing as a vanishISM.

Still musing to himself the sudden appearance of two tall men clothed all in blue caused Igor to emit a very undignified shriek and fall backwards, wincing as he felt himself land in the peas and gravy the orc had been about to eat. Glaring up at the culprits of this embarrassing incident Igor opened his mouth to give them a piece of his mind (not literally of course, he could unpick a few stitches, remove a bit of brain and give it to someone but he'd found he didn't tend to get it back very often and so rarely did it these days) but as his eyes travelled up he realised that perhaps that was not such a good idea.

"You're the Blue Wizards." He told them, and then rolled his eyes at himself. 'Way to be Captain Obvious.' He thought, before cursing at the valley girl language he'd just used. "What are you doing here?"

"Quack." Was the initial confusing answer, or so Igor thought. But as his mind caught up with his ears he realised that it had not been a person that had said that. Fear gripped him.

"Getting that." Came a grim reply, this time from above him.

Dreading what they were about to see after that noise Igor's eyes followed the extended finger of the Wizard closest to him, one moving somewhat faster than the other. Eventually though both eyes found themselves staring at the same horrifying sight. Leaping up out of the mess and behind the Wizards Igor peeked round their robes in shock.

"A - a - a Wereduck? In Mount Doom? Why? How?"

"It does not matter. It is in the wrong place and it will be moved. As will you."

Igor opened his mouth again to protest but found himself interrupted by the same small pop he had heard before. The noise echoed, getting louder all the time, and a blue light surrounded him as the corridors faded away. Suddenly the noise stopped and Igor lurched forward, landing on his hands and knees in what looked very much like a graveyard, facing a very disgruntled looking Wereduck.

Petrified Igor didn't so much as wait for the creature to blink (if indeed Wereducks do). A sprint start from his position on the ground had him heading away from certain death and into uncertain possible harm, as well as towards the voices that were, thankfully, coming from somewhere the Wereduck was not.

[littlemanpoet]

The balding, bespectacled, and grinning man who had tapped on Panakeia's shoulder, watched Panakeia as her face twisted from blankness to surprise to consternation to .... well, to something he couldn't quite make out: wonder? curiosity? the need to find a restroom? Unsure which it might be, he shrugged.

"You know, you really do look prettier without all that glop on your face."

She was still staring at him as if she had not been able to get her mind quite in gear.

"Say," he asked, "do you remember the last time we had words? Do you even know who I am?"