Assigned to Mordor RPG

[the guy who be short]

Night fell. Usually, Fléin would spend the dying hours of the day to write in his diary. Today, he could not concentrate for thoughts of A Slan. What was this locationless, dateless thing? It was moving, that much he knew. It was moving. And the world was stirring because of it.

Darkness blanketed the little village, and still Fléin could not rest his mind. His thoughts mulled over the dryad and beaver again and again. Beavers, he should say - he had tried to chase up the one he has accidentally slain, but it seemed to bear a grudge against him. Furthermore - and this was strange - it now followed the Anakronist wherever he went. The other beaver had been afraid of Anakron - and both of them, along with the dryad, were working together, he knew, sent by the same person. Anakron had done something to that beaver. The others laughed at the little rodent tailing him, but only Alli and Fléin shared dark glances.

The Dwarf made up his mind. Casting off the bedcovers, he wrapped himself in the warmest cloak possible and departed his hut. Though his vision was impaired, he whistled and shreiked in the tongue of the nightbirds, and they aided him until he had grown accustomed to the dark. He dared not risk a torch.

Something was wrong. He felt it. In a few minutes, he knew the clearing would emerge - but would there be anything of significance there? He stepped forward.

The clearing was gone.

The Dwarf mused. Gone was not, perhaps, the best word. It had been... cleared. Apparently by a nuclear bomb. The ground was scorched and black. The stream was dry. Nothing stirred, and not even the night creatures made any noise. Silence reigned supreme, silence and expectation. Fléin stepped forward.

The bareness of the land immediately worried him. But he consoled himself. While the destruction of the countryside was certainly Anakron's doing, he could not be here now. Even he needed sleep.

Fléin's stump was gone, blasted into oblivion. He had nowhere to sit, and stood around, lost. He had come here on impulse, not knowing what to find. The new landscape left him with a sense of dread and no enlightenment.

Several minutes passed in the silence.

Fléin turned to leave. He started moving off into the woods and eventually back to the village. Just then, a voice called out.

"Fléin son of Fréin?" it rumbled. It was low, harsh and gutteral, and somehow had an implacably odd character to it. It was perhaps too low - that was it, that was why it was odd.

Fléin turned. "Who is there?" he called into the denser treeline opposite to the direction the village lay in, whence he judged the voice to have come.

"I was bid to find Fléin Fréinson. Are you he?" Again, a gutteral quality to the voice that Fléin could not place.

"I am. Reveal yourself."

"Let go of your axe, Master Dwarf," was the only reply. Fléin only gripped all the tighter as a darkness detached itself from the general shadow and moved forwards. As it move, Fléin judged it to be the size of a small bear - and it moved on all fours.

It moved into the clearing, opposite Fléin, offering him a clear view, as far as he could see in the dark. It did indeed appear to be a bear - but with a most curious patchwork coat, like a Frisian cow. Fléin frowned.

"Who are you? Why do you seek me?"

"I am Pánða. I come to tell you A Slan-"

"-Is on the move. Yes, I know. But what is A Slan? Who is he?"

The bear appeared to think. "He is," he replied simply.

"That's Tom Bombadil!"

The bear did not reply.

"Why were you bid seek me in particular? There are many people in Mordor."

"You are one of the Naugrim. You have a choice: to join A Slan, or to stand against him."

Fléin frowned. "But I don't know anything about A Slan!"

"The world is changing, Master Dwarf. A Slan is on the move. And with him, the world shifts, the balance of the old order falls. You would do well to join A Slan."

The Dwarf was getting more and more confused. "Why do you not approach anybody else in Mordor?"

"They are sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. They are not involved in the conflicts of Nurnia. But you, Master Naugrim, are graced with that choice."

"Who is A Slan? What does he fight for? What forces does he have? Who are his enemies? What has this to do with Nurnia? Why do you not involve Men?"

Once more, the bear paused. "Well, you see, that's a toughie. You're really asking six questions there. I have told you about A Slan. He fights for justice, trust, peace. His forces are magnificant, and composed of all the good creatures in Nurnia. His enemies are the Fallen. Nurnia is A Slan's land. Men are not native to Nurnia."

The bear stopped, and Fléin tried vainly to absorb all of this. But the bear continued regardless.

"Though Men are becoming involved... You have heard of the wars in Mordor?"

"Wars? Yes, but the parents and teenagers struck a truce fifteen years ago. Though there are the incarnations of Depp."

"The parent-teen truce has come to an end. Those who were teens are now parents. The tide shifts. And yes, the good Depps are battling with us. The parents have pledged their support. There are a myriad other conflicts, of course. And some even say war is spilling into Gondor..."

"Impossible!" the Dwarf cried. "War has been sent to Mordor!"

"The eyes of A Slan do not lie. Men have been massing, preparing for war Without. Perhaps by this, the Dweomer may be broken."

Fléin started phrasing a question, but the bear turned its back on him and shuffled off. "Wait! I need to ask you-"

But it had reached the treeline. It turned its head back, and called "Go back to your hut, son of the Earth. Already we have spoken too long. Anakron will awake."