ATM II RPG

[Formendacil]

"Hyarmenwë! Lord Hyarmenwë!"

The old Gondorian heard his name being called, and stumbled slightly in his flight. Elrogorn grabbed his arm, and hauled him back to his feet before he could even begin hitting the ground.

"Do not listen!" said Elrogorn in a hiss, "it is a siren!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" said Maika, "that sounded nothing like a police car or ambulance."

"No, it sounded like Angawen," said Hyarmenwë.

"The snotty lady Gondorian?" said Maika.

"The same," said Hyarmenwë with a half-frown. "Angawen!" he shouted into the ever-darkening graveyard, "is that you?"

"Lord Hyarmenwë," pressed Elrogorn, "we really shouldn't pause."

"Right," said Maika. "If we're going to go through with foolishly making for the gates, let's get it over with."

[the phantom]

Mardil II looked up from his desk as his father, Denethor IV, entered the room. "We've been expecting you to join us for some time, son," said Denethor. "Are you almost finished? The entire household is ready to join the holiday throng."

"Yes, yes... I'm just finishing my instructions to Bregor and Gundor. They'll be leaving in the morning." Mardil dipped his quill into a bottle of ink and continued writing.

Denethor sighed and sat down across from Mardil. "So, you still think you can work with him?"

"Yes."

Denethor shook his head. "He's a balrog, Mardil. A BALROG! Nothing good has ever come from his kind. He can't be trusted. You ought- "

"We've been through this before," interjected Mardil. "My mind hasn't changed."

"You say he's not wholly evil, Mardil, but the fact remains that he is moody, aggressive, unreasonable, and is easily upset," argued Denethor. "I'm telling you, you can't deal with someone like that."

Mardil laid his quill aside, pushed his chair back, and rose to his feet. "You forgot one thing, father- Alli. She can deal with Roggie, and talk sense into him when no one else can. All I have to do is make her see the benefits of cooperation, and she will see that Roggie complies for his own good as well as hers."

"Oh, sure, Alli will be great help until the day that, in a fit of rage, Roggie squashes her and fries her to a crisp," retorted Denethor.

"That's never going to happen!" returned Mardil. "I've seen them together. Roggie would never hurt her. Maybe others, but not her."

Denethor stood, walked around the table, and placed his hands on his son's shoulders. "So, you truly believe in Alli's ability to influence Roggie enough to risk the lives of your two most loyal servants?"

"Yes," answered Mardil without hesitation. "And surely my willingness to entrust Roggie with the lives of my men will convince him further that I wish to work with him, and not against him."

Denethor squeezed Mardil's shoulders and smiled. "You are firm in your beliefs- just the way a King should be."

**********

All across the kingdom, in town after town, the residents of Gondor gazed in wonder at drawings and descriptions of anachronisms of all shapes and sizes. The collection of anachronisms was huge- the result of many many smuggling runs by Bergil and company. The rest of the collection was furnished by King Mardil himself, who had spent countless days and nights writing about the various anachronisms he saw during his stay in Mordor.

Slowly and surely, the entire population of Gondor was being vaccinated against the weakening dweomer. For, as Anakron had told Mardil behind closed doors, once an anachronism becomes commonly known in the real and present world, it loses its anachronistic power.

New assignments to Mordor fell to almost nothing overnight. The evil curse of the Blue Wizards was being undone. Roggie's realm was no longer growing.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Smilog shivered and cowered below a tombstone. He looked at his blooded hands, shaking uncontrollably. He fought the tears that were welling in his eyes but he could not stop it. A thin hand gripped his shoulder and he yelped.

"Come along, old bean," said a kindly voice, "what's the matter with you?" it was The Barrow Wight and his sword was now deep red. Smilog avoided the Dead man's eyes and picked up his axe again.

"I've never killed anything before," he said slowly, "I felt so horrid." At that moment a great snarling werewolf leaped at them and Smilog immediately swung his axe wildly, not seeming to care that he was inches away from decapitating The Barrow Wight. The beast fell to the ground and made no further sound. Smilog fell to his knees, "What am I doing?" he cried.

"Courage," said The Wight, "you must have courage. There is nothing for it." he gripped the Dwarf by the arm and lifted him up. The whole graveyard was filled with the enemy and all seemed to be going wrong. The screams of the Mordorians as they were slaughtered filled Smilog's ears and he looked towards the south where he saw his father doing battle with a Wereduck. At last his nerves gave way to a feeling of duty. He leaped into the battle and did great deeds... so he said.

Tollin, with a fit of rage upon him, swung his morning scar left and right. He had come to the very end of the Were army. Behind him only the blackness of Mordor, before him the sea of foes. Sweeping were creatures aside like dead leaves on the forest floor. Even the very largest could not stand before him, his eyes were like fire and his face was terrible to behold. The Barrow Wight saw him as he decapitated a Werewolf. Thinking that next to Tollin would probably be the best bet for safest, he made his way towards the Minotaur, slashing as he went.

Pallando's face was set like stone. He could see that all was going well. If they could defeat this minotaur resistance before the dwarves arrived, then his victory would be assured. But he looked to where Tollin was, and saw that he would to great damage to his plans if not dealt with. None could get close to him. With a wide grin, Pallando poked Alatar and then pointed at the Minotaur. The Brown Wizard nodded and took out his bow.

With a suddenness that made some Were creatures step back, Tollin stopped his slaughter. The Barrow Wight rushed over to see what was happening, but two Mordorians stopped him. A long blue arrow stuck out from Tollin's chest. It burned him and was buried deep. He raised his Morning Star and swooped it across the line of foes that now approached, but another arrow soon hit him. Falling to his knees, Tollin cried aloud. The Were Creatures stepped back and whimpered slightly as he took up his weapon and killed three more.

A third and a fourth arrow soon followed. Tollin fell to the ground at the last and did no more. Satisfied, Allatar gave no more thought to him and turned his attentions to the rest of the battle. The Barrow Wight, on the other hand, dashed to Tollin's side and saw that he yet lived.

"Come on, old chap," he sniffed, "stiff upper lip, wot-wot?" Tollin smiled vaguely and looked up at the sky.

"Alas," he said, "this is my end, I fear."

"Don't say that," mumbled The Barrow Wight, "Let me get rid of those arrows and perhaps I'll find that Elempi chap."

"It's too late," Tollin sighed, "the arrows are poisoned anyway. My mind is going, I can feel it. Farewell, you old Wight. Do not vanish in the sunlight. Be sure to haunt your old barrow for many years. As for me, I go to a long rest. At the least, I have not spent my last moments in that blasted labyrinttthhhh. If only that Dwarf were here, I could thank him properly. Farewell, my friend, farewell"

Tollin smiled and breathed his last.

[Celuien]

The winds of change continued to blow, aided by the very large fans some of the Were-creatures had chosen to bring to the battle. Panakeia found the winds most annoying, as no matter which way she turned, her hair ended up in her eyes, sending her arrows (conveniently abandoned by an unnamed archer, who, mid-battle, had been recruited for the Mordorian Ollimpic Archery Team and so left the fighting behind) wild.

"Oww!" Luggie cried. Panakeia's arrow whizzed through his/her handkerchief and dragged the fabric betwixt its/their fingers. "You gave me a hankie-burn."

"Sorry." She shot another arrow in the air, but where it landed, she knew not where. Up and up it went into the sky, until it could be seen no longer. Most likely, it did not land in the side of an enemy.*

The Were-creatures pressed in from all sides. Panakeia was nearly out of arrows. What did it matter anyway? Outnumbered as they were, they were doomed. She ducked behind a tombstone with Elempí.

"What can we do? We're trapped and practically unarmed. Is this really the end?"

*It was later determined by the use of highly sophisticated and anakronistic physics equations that Panakeia's arrow was launched at an angle of exactly 72.6583 degrees from the graveyard surface with an initial velocity of 23.6 meters per second. Therefore, it should have followed the usual laws of projectile motion and landed 32.8 meters away from its starting point in Panakeia's borrowed bow after 4.658 seconds of travel. This, of course, does not account for air resistance, which was greater than usual on this day due to the effect of the winds of change.

No arrow was found in that location, but it is said that a mysterious arrow landed that day in a tiny Mordorian village far from the battle, and became the inspiration for a collection of love poetry. Was it the same arrow? To this day, the answer is not known.

[littlemanpoet]

Elempi knew that he no longer had the powers of Anakron, yet he had healed Smilog. It didn't make sense. How could it have happened? Had Smilog somehow healed himself? Did he have perhaps an accelerated recontitution of which he himself was unaware? Or did this have something to do with Illamatar? The moment the thought of Illamatar came into his mind, his hair folicles (those that remained) started tingling. Maybe it really was Illamatar!

Well, it was good information, if it were true, to keep in his hip pocket, as it were, for later. In the meantime, there were missiles of various kinds flying hither and yon, Panakeia loved him, and Luggie was being an ayessess yet again, and the blue wizards were brown, or was it purple? And planes flying high in the sky were sending out flares spelling strange words in the sky: "Mardil's Anti-Anakronism Innoculations - Free for the Taking" It felt like Arm-a-gettin'. So Elempi whipped out his #2 pencil - and flourished it in the air all around him as if it were a real sword. Too bad it didn't do him any good. Instead, it caught the attention of one of the Wizards, and a skein of power came at him just as his pencil was beginning a four beat measure to the tune of The Eighteen Twelve Overture playing in his mind. The skein made contact with the pencil, and .....

..... the skein scattered. Elempi stared at the pencil, unchanged.

"Hmm, do you suppose lead or graphite is proof against spells cast by rebellious Istari?"

"Duck!" cried Panakeia from not far away, and Elempi did so.

"No!" cried Panakeia again. "Duck at 3 o'clock!"

"Oh, that kind of duck," Elempi commented, but was tackled to the ground by said Duck before he could do a thing. Duck proceeded to beat on Elempi with its bill, armed as it was with rather long, dripping canines. Elempi's face screwed up in disgust at the thought of a teeth-equipped duck even as the stuffing was being beaten out of him.

"Watch out for the glasses!" Elempi cried.

"Oh, sorry," said the duck, and proceeded to smash up his face but studiously avoiding his glasses.

"Much thanks," said Elempi through puffing lips. He wondered if Luggie might get his manhood back in time to save him. Then he passed out.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The dead body of Tollin lay, as most dead bodies do, still. Most dead bodies, mind you. One dead body was stood up besides him with a sword drawn, beating off the approaches of several were creatures. The Barrow Wight swung his golden sword this way and that, slicing heads, arms and faces wherever he saw them. But as he laughed in the midst of battle, he heard the neighing of a horse. To his horror, a great purple rider drew up before him, holding aloft a mighty sword.

The Farsegul laughed and pulled back its hood, yet there was no head, only a small potato floating where a brain should probably have been. Above the potato was a crown seemingly made of lettuce. It laughed again and said in a voice cold and terrible, "Old fool! Do you not know death when you see it?"

"Well, actually-" began the wight,

"Die now and curse in vain! This is my hour!" The sword of the Farsegul burst into flame and its horse let forth a bellow. The flames stopped and the Purple Rider coughed, "Sorry about that," he admitted, "the horse has been eating too many peas. It's got a bit of wind, you see. But anyway, you will die!"

The Pink horse was spurred at the Barrow Wight, but he leaped aside just in time and sliced the head from the hideously dressed creature. Up from the ruin rose the purple figure, its sword in hand and its potato a flame. "You!" he cried, "You have killed my steed!"

"I know," answered the Barrow Wight, "cutting off heads usually does the trick."

"Don't be fascias," snapped the Farsegul, "I am the lord of the purple Riders. The Wizard Emperor, I am. Witch King had been taken apparently." Thus their swords met in battle and for a time, the Barrow Wight was beaten back, and forced to his knees by the strength of the creature. The sword was pointed at the neck of The Barrow Wight, "Dead man," cried the Rider, "Only by a dead sword canst thou die. So Die now, be you living or dead." He raised the blade to strike, but he stopped.

Horns! Horns on the hills! The Dwarves had arrived!

***

The skies were filled with strange signs and messages and it was not long before Smilog's head began to swim. Khuz was laughing in the heat of battle, hewing off feet and heads when they came low enough. Smilog felt sick. So much blood. So many screams. He had got into diplomacy to avoid this sort of thing and now he was in the thick of the thing he had most feared. Chopping another Werewolf in half he cried aloud, "How long will this night endure?"

"About five hours," said a voice, "Fear not, oh Smilog, son of Khuz, the time is coming when you must face great perils."

"No thanks," he replied, "great pearls, now that's another matter."

"Listen to me," the voice grew louder, "not for nought didst thou find thy way to being assigned to Mordor. Indeed, hast thou not seen the signs in the sky? The Wizard's fall is near."

"Now, do you mean 'wizard's' plural or singular?" asked Smilog as another Were duck fell to his axe, "because there are a bleeding lot of wizards around and I for one would-" He stopped and listened. The horns were heard on the winds. The Dwarves were near! The Dwarven host was here!

[Diamond18]

Upon entering the graveyard, Skittles tripped and fell into an open grave.

She landed facedown upon a fresh corpse, which was somewhat unnerving. The body was wrapped in cloth, but a stench still clung to the obscured figure. She struggled free and stood up, panting. "Hissyfit!" she cried. "Hissyfit! I've fallen!"

In a few minutes, the triangular face of her trusty friend appeared at the edge of the rectangular patch of sky. "Apparently," Hissyfit remarked dryly.

"The grave is too deep to climb out," Skittle complained. "I need help."

Hissyfit yawned. "I don't have opposable thumbs, I don't see what you expect me to do."

"Find someone who does!"

"Oh very well," Hissyfit sighed, looking very put out. Her face disappeared, and Skittles settled down to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

For a time, Skittles amused herself by forming shapes out of the damp, freshly churned earth. Then that became boring, and she peeked inside the wrapping to look at the corpse, which looked about as good as it smelled. She let her imagination wander, envisioning various ways to kill Hissyfit. The stench became more and more overwhelming, and darkness took her. The stars wheeled overhead, and every minute was as long as a life age of the earth.

Eventually, she began to see the folly in waiting. For a cat. So she mustered all the strength in her pale arms and dug her hands into the loamy walls of her prison. For a moment or two it seemed as if she would be able to scale said walls, but then it came loose in her hands and she fell back. Cursing, she stood and brushed herself off.

A wereduck flew overheard, blood dripping from its beak, and Skittles gaped upwards. New resolve struck her, and she screamed like a madwoman (fittingly) as she again attempted to claw her way to freedom.

Several more times she flung herself at the walls, only for the dirt to tumble down around her. This gave Skittle an idea, for she was both insane and resourceful. She unwrapped the body and wrenched one arm from its decaying socket. It made a rather disgusting squelchy noise, but Skittles had no time to waste on squeamishness. She began to hack away at the dirt with the exposed humerus, causing a cascade of falling earth to accumulate around her.

Eventually, after an immeasureable time spent digging with her macabre tool, Skittles succeeded in widening the grave and knocking down enough dirt to raise her towards the surface. She dropped the arm and scrambled out of the grave.

Hissyfit lay nearby, curled up on a fleece blanket, purring in her sleep.

Skittles said something to her, which I cannot repeat, but roughly translated, meant, "What are you doing?"

Hissyfit awoke and yawned. "Oh, so sorry," she said. "Someone just happened to leave that blanket lying there and I was done for."

"Argh!" Skittles cried, but made no move to act on her previous fantasies. She could not harm her somewhat-faithful companion, as much as she might wish to.

She spat mud out of her mouth and wiped her face, then, drawing forth a switchblade, went to look for someone to punish.

She came across an army of Orcs, and slaughtered them. Then she lay waste to a flock of wereducks. A pack of werewolves sought to eat her, and she left them in various stages of bloodied ruin. She met a terrifying creature with a bouquet of flowers for a head, and sprayed it with industrial strength weedkiller. Insert whatever other foes were lurking about the graveyard, and imagine a suitable fate for them [here].

Eventually, exhausted, she lay down her weapons, and fell asleep underneath a tombstone in the likeness of the Eiffel Tower. She had many dreams as she slumbered there; one in which she floated on a sea of poppies, one in which Tom Felton professed his undying love for her whilst juggling flaming accordians, and one in which a wheel of cheese came to life and tried to eat her.