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.

[littlemanpoet]

Panakeia sauntered up to Anakron, with some bit of fight in her she had apparently saved up for him. "Hello, Anakron. What was that about? The Wizards, I mean."

So he had been wrong. He had been hoping that maybe she could keep him from becoming the evil that raged within; instead she seemed to have a score to settle. He was not prepared for this. Far from it.

"Don't. Make. Me. Hurt. You."

There. That had released just enough to take the edge off. He hoped she would not say something that would send him over the brink.

Panakeia's exasperation showed only in a brief sigh. Make him hurt her? How ridiculous.

She told him so, though not in those words. "I can't make you hurt me, Anakron. No one can make you do anything. Only you can choose whether or not to hurt me." She sighed again, this time more pitying than annoyed. "If you don't want to talk about what the Wizards said, then don't. I was just curious. It's not every day that the Blue Istari decide to grant Panakeia of Harad their attention. I wondered why.

"But I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you. Really. Not this 'doomed to evil' business. You're not. You just took back the anakronism, didn't you? I'm not a Trekkie anymore. You must have. And that's encouraging."

Why did Anakron seem so enraged?

She didn't understand. I can't make you do anything, only you can choose. An anakronism from that awful future being spouted at him from her own lips! So glib. So self assured. So in danger. Her prattling was sending him back to the edge. Not evil.

Between clenched teeth he let out an inarticulate scream. Panakeia's eyes widened and she took a step back. Just one.

"Was that supposed to be how you'd hur-"

He threw down the staff and closed the distance between them in two quick strides. Her shoulders rose and she grimaced as he grabbed her by the back of the neck, forcing her head up so that their eyes met: he glared into hers.

"Yes, Panakeia of Harad, I am not evil .... yet," he bit. "The dweomer is!" He inhaled with a hiss. "Poor little Elempi hasn't much left to stave off Anakron and the dweomer. And you're not helping!" He let go of a sudden, the force snapping her head back.

The seething within seemed to drink from his action rather than release anything from him. He turned from her and paced back and forth like a big dog in a too small cage. He was ashamed of his use of force, especially on her, but he could not help it. He turned on her again.

"I do not have a choice in the matter! You have seen for yourself I am at their beck! They care not whether I win or fail, they'll find themselves another Anakron, one who will not stave off the worst of the dweomer. Do you think the false religions were bad? You have not seen forced relocation or scorched earth or genocide. Do you not see? They are not happy with me! They want me to bring destruction down on Mordor!"

He resumed his pacing, afraid to leave the alley, allowing Panakeia to serve as his jailer of sorts.

[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.

[Celuien]

Time washed over Panakeia like the sands of Mâl-in-Bû washing over a beach bum's feet. Filled with angst over her troubled romance, she drifted along the beaches of the Pathetic Ocean, not knowing or caring where she headed. That is, until she tripped over a beach-bum's beach towel and careened head long into a fence. She was then forced to care (well, not really care – she didn't care about anything other than her troubles with Anakron just then) about her location by the angry sunbather whose towel she had disturbed and an Orc guarding the carefully fenced private beach she nearly stumbled onto without proper authorization.

She answered the complaints of neither. Ignoring them, Panakeia turned coolly to a small vacant patch of beach near the tide line and sat on the sand, too absorbed in her unhappiness over Anakron to care that sand was working its way into her gown and making a mess of her shoes. She traced letters into the wet beach with her finger. A-N-A-K-R-O-N. She stopped and looked at her handiwork, even as a wave came up from the ocean and washed it away.

Panakeia broke down. Anakron had been washed away from her, just like his name was washed off the beach. Several passers by stared at the formally dressed, crying woman on the beach, wondering what she was doing there (other than sitting around and sniffling), but she didn't care if they stared or not. If they did, it was a reflection of their ill-breeding, not any error on her part. Let them stare. I hope they enjoy the watching me fall apart. Panakeia felt bitter.

What was she going to do? Anakron was lost to her. The Dweomer - the Wizards, had claimed him at last, despite her best efforts to stop them. There was nothing she could do about it. Poor Anakron was dooming himself and she couldn't stop him. All of her words only served to accelerate his decline. And now he was on his way back to Mount Doom. Back to the evil of the Dweomer. She had asked him to come to her. But though she still hoped he would, she felt certain that he never would. Never.

The only thing she could do, Panakeia decided, was to forget him. Her heart revolted at the idea. Forget Anakron? She could never do that. His image – the hair, the flowing robes, the lines around his eyes and mouth – were burned indelibly into her memory. She would never forget him. But if he truly was lost to her, she had to move on. She couldn't live in self-pity forever. At the same time, she wanted to wait for him to come around – against her better judgment, which still pessimistically insisted that he wouldn't.

So she decided to strike for the middle ground and ignore her problem for the moment in the hope that everything would work itself out eventually. It wasn't in her hands anymore. Only Anakron could decide whether or not to heed her advice and abandon the Istari. Though she would always regret being without him, she couldn't let Anakron's resolve to destroy himself, if indeed, he chose to continue down that path, destroy her too. Panakeia slowly realized that she couldn't force him to save himself, however much she wanted to help.

But where to go? Where to go… Panakeia had friends in Lost Angles. Associates from her cosmetics business who found Lost Angles, as the center of Mordor's entertainment industry, the perfect place to sell their goods. They lived, she seemed to recall, in Beaverly Hills. She would stay with them for a bit. And drown her sorrow with a shopping spree or two along Rode-o Drive.

She walked off the beach, leaving a trail of footprints in the sand. Coming to a road that roared with traffic, Panakeia waved down a passing taxi, and, shaking as much sand from her dress as she could, seated herself behind the driver.

"Where to, lady?"

Ignoring the Orc's faulty grammar, Panakeia replied, "Beaverly Hills, 90210." The taxi whizzed off, passing Mount Doom, at which Panakeia gazed mournfully, and heading into the depths of the City of the Lost Angles.

[JennyHallu]

Lola followed Maika for a few steps before collapsing against a wall, breathless with giggles. "You're *gasp* waving that *gasp* little stick around..." another giggle... "just like *gasp* that silly *gasp* boy!" More giggling. Maika turned around and glared at her in exasperation.

Eventually Lola regained her self control and pointed at the wall at the end of this corridor. A sign posted there read clearly:

<--- Audience Chamber

Restrooms --->

Secret Labyrinth --->

<--- Somewhere Else --->

"Come on!" and she took Maika by the sleeve and started running down the lefthand corridor.

[Anguirel]

Poised in the very midst of the smog of Doom, high, high above the resort of Lost Angles, Tom suddenly felt slightly queasy. Were he to slacken on his broom seat for an instant he would be very dead indeed. It was time to get stone beneath his feet again. Even with the negotiations looming. Especially with the negotiations looming, he corrected himself tersely.

Looking towards the impressive line of the Castle's fortifications, Tom scanned them for a window of suitable size for an elegant Quidditch dive to gain entry to it. There seemed, on reflection, only one suitable option. It had a vast, wide ledge and was of great height. The room within seemed to be ill-lit, and he could only see the dim radiance of flames amid its shadows. Shadow and flame. In retrospect, he really should have been a tad more cautious.

Dracomir leant forward in intense preparation and swooped with leisurely elan into the tower room.

It was then that he became aware of two things. One, some vast, vulgarly golden letters proclaiming the words AUDIENCE CHAMBER. The other, a large throne on which a Balrog, looking simultaneously very weary and very angry, was positioned.

The Lord Malfoidacil's most prudent first action was obvious enough. He fell on his knees and bowed his head before the King of Mordor.

"Melifluous greetings to Your Most Admirable, Balrogic, Courageous, Dashing, Energetic, Famous, Gracious, Honourable, Intelligent, Jocular, Kingly, Liberal, Magnificent, Notable, Omniscient, Powerful, Questioning, Righteous, Serene, Terrific, Universal, Valiant, Wise, Xenial, Ying-Yang-balanced and Zygological Majesty," he said, all in one breath. He dearly hoped the Balrog would hesitate before atomising him, trying to figure out what all the epithets meant...

[Diamond18]

Skittles MacFarlewyn was not happy. She had realized two things simultaneously.

1) She was worshipping a robot.
2) Someone else had forced her to.

These two things were rather upsetting, since:

1) Skittles worships nothing and no one.
2) Not even if it looks like her.
3) Skittles obeys no one nor allows them to control her.
4) Unless they have candy.

In a rage, she fetched a steam roller from the steam roller closet and proceeded to run down the robot while cackling madly and screaming, "Who's the divine one now?"

After RoboSkitt 2000™ had been reduced to a plastic smear on the linolium Skittles turned to thoughts of Anakron Skywalker, the rather whiney Sith Lord in the making who was responsible for her bout of subservient thinking. Gor, he even had the whole billowing cloak and grabbing the neck of his significant other thing down pat! He must be stopped before his eyes glowed red and he slaughtered younglings!

She stomped down the hall in search of Roggie, all the while muttering things about "fixing his little red wagon."

She burst through the door just in time to see Dracomir do a faceplant and begin mumuring a litany of superlatives.

By tinkerbell! she thought in horror, Anakron has gotten ahold of whatisname's mind too, and has brainwashed him into worshipping Roggie!

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli sat up straight, but not unnervingly so. Her posture had improved with her new job: she spent several hours a day playing with weapons and another hour or so learning to dance appropriately in all settings. She was not crazy about the actual diplomatic aspect that her job sometimes entailed, but being able to sit and learn interesting things about human nature was worth a few formal events. And the dance lessons had quickly molded her body into well-toned muscle that didn't slouch in a way that not even her strict schedule of weapons practice and other exercise could.

She looked around consideringly. She would give Angawen five minutes before finding her again. She trusted neither the denizens of Mordor nor the lady's intentions and too long of a time spent away could allow for any number of things occuring.

Bearugard merely ate, ignoring the rest of the world.

Hyarmenwë seemed reluctant, now that he had received permission, to talk with locals. Alli cocked her head slightly and studied him. She waved to a young couple that looked to be newly married. They waved back and she beckoned them over.

"My apologies for bothering you, but my companion is rather new to these parts. He is curious about many things and I can only answer some of his questions. Could you help us?"

[Formendacil]

Hyarmenwë WAS reluctant to up and engage some of the local "Gondmordorians" in conversation. For one thing, he didn't want Alli to read too much into his desire to speak with them. However, when Alli went so far as to invite a young couple over, he was rather left with no choice.

"My apologies for bothering you, but my companion is rather new to these parts. He is curious about many things and I can only answer some of his questions. Could you help us?"

The young Gondmordorians were polite, and willing, and thoroughly as pleasant as any farmer of the Pelennor.

"My lord," said the lad, "it is has been far too long since we have been able to pay respects to a Lord of the Realm. I am Aleksandur, and this is my betrothed, Fíriel."

Hyarmenwë nodded. "It is a comfort to find those so far from home who remind one so much of it."

"Is it?" said Aleksandur. "That is comforting, Lord Hyarmenwë. For I have not set foot in Gondor. I was Assigned hither at the tender age of ten hours for my apparently anakronistic name. I believe it was then said "Alexander". Consequently, I know not if I am truly Gondorian in my mannerisms, or merely a parody thereof."

"I keep telling him that he's as Gondorian as old Bargon, who was only Assigned for having 'alzheimers'," said Fíriel, gesturing at an old man at the far end of the tavern, staring into space.

"May I ask why the desire to appear Gondorian is so intense?" asked Hyarmenwë. "Surely, since it was the Law of Gondor that saw you sentenced here, it is strange that you desire to be one of its people?"

"Mordor is a strange land, a dangerous land," said Aleksandur slowly. "It is not consistent or coherent. It is no place to raise a family- and such is our intent." He gazed fondly at Fíriel. "And comparing the exiled Gondorians who raised me, and who held as they could to Gondor's culture, to those Mordorians otherwise here, I can say with conviction which I prefer."

"These exiled Gondorians who raised you..." Hyarmenwë's eyes darted ever so slightly to look at Alli as he drew near this subject. "Do they take in many babes? One of the most cruel reasons for Assignment is surely the anakronistic naming of infants. Do many get Assigned?"

"More than you'd think," said Fíriel. "Aleksandur was only one of many 'Alexander's Assigned that we've met. And there are 'Mike's and 'Tom's and 'Dave's, and I haven't a thought how many others."

"You're a diplomat for the King, aren't you?" said Aleksandur. "The newspapers, and thus the rumours, are full of little else. You're here, then, to deal with the illegal emigrations. Tell me, is there a hope that it will someday be possible for people to return to Gondor? Can we purge the anakronistic elements of our being and someday go home? Already I have dropped the hateful name which I was given, and have started to assume a more Númenorean sobriquet. I'm not ready yet to be Gondorian, whatever Fíriel says, but someday, by help of the Valar, maybe I will be. Can I ever go home?"

Hyarmenwë lowered his head somewhat, looking rather torn. He was painfully aware that the tavern had gone silent. The patrons seemed to be hanging on his answer.

"I... don't know..." he said. "Lord Mardil, of all people, should be sympathetic, but in the realm of politics, perversity is oft King. I can only hope that it is a possibility."

The tavern seemed to slump back in its seat. Clearly, this was not the answer that the Gondor-leaning patrons had wanted to hear.

"I can only say that I am also sympathetic to your wishes," Hyarmenwë continued. "I once lost a child, much as you were lost, Aleksandur."

"Did you?" Aleksandur's eyes shone with a glimmer of unmistakeable hope that maybe.... "What name....?"

"I don't know," said Hyarmenwë. "I was on campaign. My wife never spoke of the matter again. I know only that somewhere in this land I have -or once did, for as you say, it is perilous- a daughter."

Alli raised an eyebrow, unseen as no one watched her, then rose.

"As much as I wish I could remain here in this oasis of tranquility, we have a mission to fulfill, and I think we're about done eating now. Bearugard, would you round up Angawen, that we might leave?"

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Door opened with a creak and Smilog fell forwards into the Audience chamber, his helm fell off and rolled off under a table. He crawled after it and bumped his head on the table; he cursed the table and its entire family. Funnily enough, at that moment, the two trees closes to the tree this table had come from that were becoming entish, won the Fangorn Lottery. They later became great landowners in the west fold and lived in a giant house made of meat.

"Who are you?" said Roggie, looking at the dwarf as he rubbed his head and mumbled curses at the table, to no avail. Skittles stood nearby, ignoring all of this madness, which was odd, one would expect Skittles to revel in the Madness. Smilog put it down to Tollin's lack of showers in the last four hundred years.

"What do you mean?" grumbled Smilog, sitting on the floor, "We were just on a little mis adventure together. To the Crack of DOOM!" Roggie looked blankly at him, "I'm Smilog!" No reaction, "I passed you the salt that one time." he conceded and Roggie smiled.

"Oh, I remember you," he said, "Well, you'd better be leaving now. I don't need any salt. Tollin, take him away would you?"

"You miserable little-" shouted Smilog before a strange fellow on a broomstick flew in and whacked Smilog on the head, smashing him against the wall and knocking him unconscious.

"Melifluous greetings to Your Most Admirable, Balrogic, Courageous, Dashing, Energetic, Famous, Gracious, Honourable, Intelligent, Jocular, Kingly, Liberal, Magnificent, Notable, Omniscient, Powerful, Questioning, Righteous, Serene, Terrific, Universal, Valiant, Wise, Xenial, Ying-Yang-balanced and Zygological Majesty," said the mysterious person who had opened the door. Roggie stood a little bemused, then a little amused, and then bemused again.

The Barrow Wight lent against the wall, puffing on his pipe and humming a little tune, to company himself. To many of you, it may have sounded like 'Rule Britania' but it was in actual fact the theme tune to a popular Barrow Downs Palantirvision talk show hosted by Wormtong. The Wight walked over to Roggie and lit his pipe again, using a flame from the Balrog's back. "Tally ho," he said, "I say I think that dwarf fellow is out cold, poor blighter."

"I'd sssay itss hard too getss cold in a volcanosss," said Tollin, "wakesss up missster Sssssmilog! Itsss breakfassst timess!" The Dwarf rose and wobbled around for a minuet.

"What about these negotiations, then?" stuttered the Dwarf.

[Kath]

Igör was by now completely confused. Parts of his body were still unattached and his body itself seemed to have developed the ability to be in three places at once, something he hadn't known it could do. Skittles, Maika and even that strange Lola lady had all seemed to be talking to him at the same time, although they were in completely different parts of the mountain. Fortunately it appeared that there was something called an edit, but unfortunately Igör had an eidetic brain, and couldn't forget the strange turns of time. Still, they seemed to be mostly ironed out now, and Igör had finally been left alone while everyone else ran off on some bizarre adventure.

Feeling tired of all the ways to get out of going to see Roggie, Igör limped back to the negotiation room and rummaged around in the coat he'd left there. Pulling his hand back out triumphantly he reached back to get the fingers he'd left behind, and then unfolded the map that came out with them. This place changed quite frequently, with new tunnels being built and, apparently, an engine room, but Roggie's chamber was still where it had always been.

Quickly ensuring that he wouldn't fall down any holes that might lead to more strange and mysterious lands than the one he was already in, Igör set off, purposefully ignoring any other negotiators and/or their new-found friends, and actually managed to make it to Roggie's audience room without anything distracting or potentially life-threatening befalling him, though that was probably because Skittles was still at the other end of the place. Or so he thought. Just as he went to push open the door a stomping blur appeared before him and marched right into Roggie's chambers. The knives, switchblades and other sharp objects hanging obtrusively from the blur identified it as Skittles.

As watched the door open and shut he heard a crash from within, followed by some very frantic babbling. Quietly opening the disappointing uncreaky door, Igör slipped inside, and saw Dracomir prostrate on the floor in front of the Balrog, flattering him for all he was worth, with Skittles watching from the doorway. Deciding to wait until he knew what mood Roggie was in before making his presence known Igör sank back into the shadows to watch.

Before Dracomir had had a chance to say anything however, Smilog appeared, along with another of those nasty cross-posts that gave Igör a headache. Still, he mused quietly, holding his head to stop the throbbing, at least there are three of us here now, and Skittles is never far from something interesting. As soon as Alli gets back with the Gondorians we should be good to go. Well, so long as Roggie hasn't roasted us all by then. Sighing he moved further back into the shadows to avoid the night-eyes of the Dwarf, and again settled down to observe the proceedings.

[Lhunardawen]

"Let go," snapped Maika, simultaneously snapping her sleeve off Lola's perfectly manicured fingers. It took her some effort not to continue with "you've got some cheek, after giggling at me like a maniac!" Instead she chose to run ahead; her smaller, lighter frame made it possible for her to pass Lola in a matter of milliseconds.

"Hey! Slow down! Is this your idea of a grand entrance?" Lola called behind her, slightly out of breath, but Maika ignored her and kept on running as if she was not wearing stilettos.

Roggie's audience chamber soon loomed in view, and Maika reduced her pace to a stride, straightening her clothes as she went. She heard Lola's footsteps slow down quite a long way behind her as well, doubtless mimicking her preparations. Maika sighed in relief as she reached up and felt her hair, which she thought was probably in an unfamiliar state of disarray after her antics with the chopstick, still smooth and in place.

Maika did not even have time for her usual pre-meeting with Roggie dramatics: the door leading to the audience chamber suddenly popped out to her right like a mischievous kid out to give her a heart attack. She stepped right in and found Dracomir kneeling, his head bowed, before the Balrog King. She felt like placing a well-deserved, well-aimed kick on his behind, but settled with clearing her throat as loudly as she could. Dracomir did not move, nor did he even seem to hear.

She walked slowly towards Roggie, looking contemptuously at Dracomir for just one more moment. As she came near enough to feel the heat emanating from the King's massive body, she gently tugged back a sleeve of her black cardigan. Her eyes momentarily widened at what she saw beneath it, but she shrugged it off and replaced the sleeve.

"Looking hot as ever, are you, your Highness?" she said flatly, looking back at Roggie, and took her place beside a conveniently placed window. She looked around for the first time. Everyone Alli had called to stay earlier that day was there, plus a few extras.

"Greetings, your Hotness!" chirped Lola's voice suddenly as she glided into the chamber, her glittering eyes fixed on Roggie. Maika rolled hers. That's your idea of a grand entrance?

[Roggie of Morgoth]

It was now, glaring improbably at every person in the chamber at once, that Roggie sat up straight, bared a frightening grimace of displeasure, and started laughing.

"Tom, get off of my floor." he chuckled, using the name with which he had, so long ago, been introduced to Malfoidacil. "And stop calling me all of those lovely names. I haven't forgotten our old friendship. You have need neither to gesticulate nor genuflect in my presence. A good old fashioned "Hey Roggie, how's it goin'?" would be fine with me."

Malfoidacil stood and bowed casually, basking in his special treatment. Smilog stepped forward slightly and said, tentatively, "Hello Roggie. How is it going?"

"Hush, midget. Your voice makes my eardrums feel as though I ought to kill you for speaking." Smilog hushed without pause. "Everybody line up so that I can glare without having to turn my head to accomodate for the fact that the lot of you are spread out. I want easy glaring!"

They shifted, hiding grins, to accomodate the king. He glared at them happily.

"Now," he began, looking imposing. It was a stature and tone that he had slaved long hours to master when he first entered the acting world. "Why do I have my Chief War Advisor, my dear Lola, my old friend Tom, a Shelley-esque creation that I vaguely remember Alli telling me she liked, Maika, my favorite minotaur, and some dwarf that claims that he once passed me the salt standing in front of me looking as though they want to talk to me about something as important as the fate of my country?"

[Celuien]

Somewhere in Lost Angles, a taxi pulled up to a large, elegant house on a tall hill. The passenger stepped out and was greeted cheerfully by a couple in oh-so-fashionable dress. Laughing, the three walked into the house.

Panakeia was not that visitor. Her cab pulled up to a Beaverly Hills address - the home of Panakeia's business associates. Or so she thought. She gaped.

"Driver, you must have made a mistake," she said. Where her friends' house once stood, Panakeia saw only a rubble strewn gouge.

The driver growled back, "No mistake. It's that mountain. It blew through here worse than an action movie about natural disasters destroying LA and knocked down the whole block."

Panakeia sighed. There just had to be something to make her day worse than it already was.

"Any idea where the people went?" she queried hopefully.

"What do I look like? A psychic?"

"Never mind, then. I'll get out here." Panakeia paid her fare. The cab sped away, and Panakeia pondered the senseless destruction of the neighborhood before walking in the direction of Rode-o Drive.

[JennyHallu]

Lola laughed easily at the king, sauntering cheerfully to his side. "Roggie, darling, please don't class me with this set. I love Mordor, you know. I think you're doing such a terribly good job. And as ever, my love, you just look fabulous. I don't know how you do it. With your stress level I could never keep such a figure." She stood on the step to his dais and looked up at him, actually batting her eyelashes at him, every bit the flirt, a long expanse of pale leg visible through the high cut slit in her skirt.

"And..." she continued, with a suggestive giggle, "I haven't had the chance to tell you how hot you are in simply the longest time."

It was almost disgusting, how obvious she was. But Roggie beamed at her. It was clear to the others that this was not a new topic of conversation for the unlikely duo.

[the guy who be short]

Angawen rounded the corner of the tavern, and halted in her tracks. Speech with the locals here would not be difficult - to preserve their Gondorian mannerisms, the people spoke Westron rather than the official English. But while she could theoretically converse with any of them, she did not much desire conversation with a lot of the crowd. Many of them looked like what would be simpleton peasants in Gondor. She saw only one table in this section of the inn where a presentable-looking man, clothed in respectable Gondorian clothes, though pink, sat by himself.

She walked towards the table, and slid in opposite him, smiling all the time. "Hello," she said, deciding to adopt Sindarin rather than Westron simply to exclude the rest of the inn from the conversation.

"Hail, Lady," said the man, looking up into her eyes. She noticed suddenly that he appeared to be one of the Haradrim. This should not have been shocking; one sporadically saw the shawled Haradwaith wandering the streets of Gondor, but she did not remember seeing any in Mordor.

"You much resemble the noblemen of Gondor in costume," she said to him, conscious of her limited time. "Tell me what brings you to this accursed land."

"Ah, 'tis a great muddle, I assure you, Lady. But allow me to introduce myself. I am Tugwubs."

Angawen was sure she had misheard. Not even the Haradrim had such odd names. "Sorry?" she inquired.

"Tugwubs."

"How does one spell that?"

"Tee, jee, dubbleyoo, bee, ess. Tugwubs, my Lady."

[littlemanpoet]

He hated his name. Anakron. "Against time." What kind of name was that? In a language that didn't even exist yet! His old name was little better. Elempi. It meant nothing! He wanted a new name. No, that wasn't enough. He wanted a new life. But ehre was this gods forsaken staff. And fool hat. And mawkish cloak. He threw the hat across the room, frisbee style. It hit the wall and fell to the floor. How appropriate, he thought. He rose and unclasped the cloak and let it fall to the floor behind him. He grabbed the staff, leaning against the wall by the door, on his way out.

Some time later he stepped out on the Sammath Naur. He walked to the edge and saw the fire below. He held out the staff and let it fall. It was still in his grasp. He willed his fingers to loosen their grip on the staff. They did not obey. His arm shook with the effort to let go the staff. His hand would not open. Finally he drew the staff back and leaned on it in exhaustion. It could not be destroyed in this direct manner.

He walked back to his rooms, disgusted. Panakeia, how am I going to get free of this? Can you tell me? But she was not there. Of course. She and this life he led did not go together. He had to leave one or the other. He did not want to lose her. How, then? He did not know.

[Celuien]

Grimly determined to have a good time if it killed her, Panakeia sauntered onto Rode-o Drive. Her friends were gone, their block razed to the ground by an out-of-control mountain. Anakron was teetering on the brink of destruction. Love. Despair. Folly. Those words brought a melody from an anakronistic musical work to give her earworm. All, of course, in an equally anakronistic language that would not exist for many thousands of years, but Panakeia's mind translated automatically and easily into the Westron. Or English. Whichever seemed more convenient to her at the moment.

It's madness! It's empty delirium!
A poor, lonely woman
Abandoned in this teeming desert
They call Lost Angles!
What can I hope? What should I do?

Enjoy myself! Plurge into the vortex
Of pleasure and drown there!
Enjoy myself!

Free and aimless I must flutter
From pleasure to pleasure,
Skimming the surface
Of life's primrose path.
As each day dawns,
As each day dies,
Gaily I turn to the new delights
That make my spirit soar.

For indeed, Panakeia left her life empty without Anakron. And the only way around that emptiness, she decided, was to find as many superficial things as she could to force herself into cheerful forgetfulness. Panakeia knew that the endeavor would be as fruitless for her as for the heroine who originally sang the mellifluous (and capriciously difficult) melody in her head, but she went forward with the idea, nevertheless. She browsed the display in the window, and gasped at the image of a ghostly Anakron (or was it Elempi - the hat, cloak, and staff were gone) on the street outside. Oddly enough, he was singing the same melody that resounded in the concert hall of her mind.

Love is the pulse

Oh! (Panakeia joined him in a duet)

... of the whole world ...

Yes! Love!

Mysterious, unattainable,
The torment and delight of my heart.

And the image wispily curled off into nothingness.

Madness! Follie! Anakron was gone, and certainly not an anakronistic tenor. But she had seen him all the same. It must have been a delusion. All it meant was that Panakeia missed him terribly. If only he did care more for love than the Dweomer. It would have been so much better for the both of them.

"Can I help you?" Panakeia whirled to face a saleswoman. Before she could reply, the store-employee went on to say, "I don't think we can." She looked Panakeia up and down from head to toe. "We only sell designer items here. They're quite pricey." The saleswoman brushed at the sand clinging to Panakeia's gown. "I don't think we'd have anything in your way."

"What are you trying to say to me?" Panakeia thought the woman was quite obnoxious and ignoring the first rule of selling – never turn away a customer.

"What I'm trying to say is that we don't take beach-bums here."

"Do you have any idea who I am?" Pankeia yelled.

The saleswoman smiled a falsely sweet smile. "I don't believe I do. And that's just the point. Only people who are known are welcome here. Anyone else spoils our image. I'm sure you can find your way to the door. Good-day!"

Too tired, frustrated, and unhappy to argue, Panakeia left.

A bus ride or two later, Panakeia finally found a place where no one would bother her. She sat in the food court at the Fallen Arch Mall and drowned her sorrows in an orange smoothie as teenaged valley-girls strolled past. Violetta was not her style. But what had the vision meant? Taking another sip of orange slush, Panakeia tried to puzzle it out.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

That knock on the head had scrambled Smilog's brain a little and he staggered around the room as it slowly got more crowded. "Now," he stuttered, "listen here Reginald,"

"Roggie," said the King,

"That’s it!" Smilog fell over, "we're getting nowhere fast. This mountain here wont be moving until whoever is driving it has some snacks. I say that we re-start those negotiations, seeing as we have little better to do." Tollin sat on a table, but it collapsed under his weight and everyone stared at him, he smiled meekly and slunk into the corner and curled up into a ball.

The Barrow Wight blew a smoke ring over Roggie's head; Skittles stole the pipe and blew a cloud in the shape of a great monster that devoured the Wight's ring. Scowling, The Barrow Wight took the pipe back and blew a cloud that looked like sword that chopped the monster in two. Just as Skittles was about to retaliate, Roggie took the pipe off them and said, "You'll get it back at the end."

"I say," said the Wight, "bad form old chap. can’t a fellow have a lark now and again?" Roggie shook his head; he was too busy to be dealing with the antics of the un-dead, no matter how well spoken they were. "Dash and blast it," moaned The Barrow Wight, "that pipe belonged to my father until I stole it from him."

Smilog sat on a chair and rubbed his head, Tollin was rocking back and forth in the corner of the room singing a little tune. "Look, whoever you are," said Roggie to Smilog, "you're not the only one here, what do the others have to say about this?"

"Not a lot," observed the Barrow Wight, producing another pipe from a pocket in his cloak, "I can't say I know allot about what young Smilog is talking about-"

"Who?" said Roggie,

"Smilog, the Dwarf." The Wight blew another smoke ring, "but it seems to me, that the best thing to do would be to-" The Barrow Wight was stopped as Skittles knocked his head off. "Oh confounded children’s games! You won't be laughing much longer! Not when I bite you're jolly legs off!"

[Kath]

Originally amazed and annoyed that Roggie had noticed him hiding in the shadows, Igör couldn't help but smile at the description the Balrog used for him: 'a Shelley-esque creation that I vaguely remember Alli telling me she liked'. After watching the distate with which Roggie dealt with the Dwarf, he hoped that the positive recommendation from Alli would stand him in good stead as he attempted to talk to the Balrog.

Stepping forward, he put himself right in Roggie's line of sight and, he thought with a shiver of fear, in his line of fire. The Balrogs eyes swivelled from the scene going on between Smilog and Skittles to fix hs gaze on Igör.

"What?" He barked, perhaps annoyed at the distraction from the entertainment before him.

"My name ith Igör, thir -"

He stopped as the Balrog increased the strength of his glare and readjusted his mouth to stop the lisp before speaking again.

"Roggie, sir, we need to stop the war and re-start the negotiations. The mountains sudden ability to move shocked us all and so we haven't been doing our jobs very well, not least because the Gondorian diplomats aren't even here at the moment."

The Balrog snorted, causing Igör to duck to avoid the flame that erupted as he did.

"Why should I stop the war? Mardil is stealing my subjects, and my chief war advisor tells me this is the way to get them back."

Igör followed the finger Roggie was pointing, and found Skittles at the end of it. He had to admit putting her in charge of a war was good thinking, the enemy would never know what was coming! But then, neither would anyone else.

"Well Roggie, it isn't the only way, it might even make it worse. A war leads to refugees, which means that people will be getting out of Mordor any way they can, and all that is doing is helping Mardil. If, though, you allow us to try and negotiate, we might be able to sort things so that fewer people leave than they will if you continue with this war."

Stepping back again in case Roggie decided to take offence at this, Igör waited for either an answer, or someone else to try their hand at convincing Roggie.

[Celuien]

After her third frozen treat, Panakeia learned one thing, and only one thing. Orange smoothies were not the way to enlightenment. Make that two things. She also learned that excessive quantities of sweet drinks made her feel ill. Panakeia rose from her seat a bit unsteadily and moved on through the mall.

She found very little there of interest. The entire complex seemed filled with giggling valley girls. That was only to be expected, of course, since Panakeia had chosen to enter the heart of the valley itself when she went to the Fallen Arch mall in Fallen Foot. But she'd hoped to at least find some decent shopping. There was nothing.

Tanning Salon. That looked interesting. Panakeia went in and paid for a half-hour session. As she settled into her booth, a mask over her eyes, she fell asleep. And had a dream about (who else?) Anakron.

~*~

Anakron stood on the Sammath Naur dangling his staff over the fires below. He released his grip on the staff, but it put out tentacles and grew into his arm. He cried out in pain as the tendrils merged with his flesh. Sylvester, now a ghastly cartoon appendage to his hand, came to life and gave Anakron a raspberry. "Help me," he cried pitifully. "Show me the way to be free of the Dweomer."

~*~

Panakeia awoke with a tear-drenched mask and a terrific sunburn. If only Anakron truly did want her help. She wondered. Her dreams in Mordor had frequently been more than dreams. And where Anakron was concerned, they often held real meaning, though whether by some trick of the Dweomer or by some other connection between them, she did not know. Perhaps both. If her dreams did hold truth, she needed to return to help Anakron stand by his resolve.

Should she return to Mount Doom and search for him? Panakeia was uncertain. The memory of their last encounter was fresh in her mind. In the morning, after another evening of dreams (if the dreams returned to her), after some rest from her troubles, she would decide.

[Diamond18]

Skittles picked the Barrow-Wight's head up off the floor and re-affixed it onto his neck. "Er, sorry," she said, "I didn't realize it would come off like that. Freak."

"Oh confounded children’s games! You won't be laughing much longer! Not when I bite you're jolly legs off!" hissed the Barrow-Wight, disregarding her apology.

"Cranky a bit?" Skittles said, and turned away from him. She approached Roggie:

"I've been rethinking the whole war thing," she preambled. "I mean, it would be a fun time, knocking down the Gondorians like toy soldiers in a row, but we've got a bigger problem on our hands right now. Namely, Anakron Ist Konveyor. He needs a good slapping around to get the staff out of his hindquarters, if you know what I mean. I'd like to move that we get the thing with the Gondorians out of the way and then join forces to march against him and whoever's unhinging his door (and not in the fun, itching powder way, in the "I am so evil and the world is ending" sort of way). I mean, really, I don't want to wake up tomorrow and realize I've been worshipping toenail fungus compliements of Anakron and the Dweomer. What do you think?"

[littlemanpoet]

"Anakron! Anakron!" A sniveling voice called him from behind. It was Lûgnût, sporting a Bee Gees hairdo, complete with part down the middle, but his hair was too sparse and coarse for the look.

"Lûgnût, if I were to put an apple in your mouth and hold you face down on a banqueting table, you'd look the part."

The orc pouted. "Anakwon ith being mean. He in a vewy bad mood."

"What do you want, Lûgnût?" He wrinkled his nose. "And what is that smell?" He pulled a face. "Is that coming from you?" The orc's lime green pants-suit with "matching" lavender dress shirt complete with discoteque wide collar, seemed to indicate his favorite color, not to mention is hopes and dreams.

"It's cologne, you silly Jee Ay!" Lûgnût grinned, his haletosis momentarily overpowering the cologne, which explained the nose-wrinkling combination.

Anakron waited tight lipped, nostrils flaring (in virtual pain). "You called me to tell me about cologne? Or that you're John Travolta turned inside out?"

The orc pouted again. "Anakwon ith being vewy, vewy mean."

"Orc, if you do not tell me why you stopped me right now, I will konvey-"

"The ambassadors! They're all with Roggie! You told me to tell you!" Lûgnût finished in a wounded tone.

Anakron sagged. He wanted little if anything to do with the negotiations, but Roggie had permitted his observations, and expected him. "Thank you. Now find some mouthwash and use it. And get rid of that outfit before you start a new religion."

Anakron made his way to Roggie's Audience Chamber and let himself in quietly, just in time to hear Skittles saying, "-needs a good slapping around to get the staff out of his hindquarters, if you know what I mean. I'd like to move that we get the thing with the Gondorians out of the way and then join forces to march against him and whoever's unhinging his door (and not in the fun, itching powder way, in the "I am so evil and the world is ending" sort of way). I mean, really, I don't want to wake up tomorrow and realize I've been worshipping toenail fungus compliments of Anakron and the Dweomer. What do you think?"

Anakron walked forward. "I think, Skittles, that you can have this staff yourself and become the new Grand Anakronist for all I care. Want it?"

[Diamond18]

Most people would be embarressed to be caught talking about someone behind his back (though, actually, Anakron caught her talking behind her back rather than his back since her back was to the door when he came in, but that is neither here nor there). To repeat, most people would be embarressed in such a situation, but Skittles was shameless ergo felt no shame (to continue the habit of gross redundancy).

"Seriously?" she asked, skeptical.

"Of course," Anakron replied, and extended the staff with an odd twinkle in his eyes. Skittles did not notice the odd twinkle since she herself was perpetually odd and twinkly.

Still, she hesitated. If it were her holding out a staff to someone, she would no doubt be planning to smack them with said staff or beat them about the head till they lay unconscious upon the ground. And she certainly didn't trust Anakron. But, the idea of being able to herself weild the staff and Konvey whatever madness she pleased was a tempting proposition.

She reached for the staff.

As soon as her fingertips touched the wood, Sylvestor spluttered to life and reached out to slash at her wrist. He hissed and yoewled and spat, "Sufferin' Succotash!"

Skittles recoiled, the artery in her wrist spurting blood in a most nauseating fashion. Hard to believe, but she actually went a shade paler than her usual snowy white. "Stupid cat!" she cried, and slumped to the floor.

[Anguirel]

Dracomir had barely recovered from the Balrog King's courtesy (especially surprising after his last reception) when Anakron's entrance and offer to Skittles further contorted the situation, culminating in Skittle's collapse, apparently felled by Sylvester, the Feline of Anakronism.

"It is highly irregular," he ventured, "for the Grand Anakronist to attempt to pass on his duties, as far as I know. Shatters all diplomatic protocol. I say we take this as a sigh that the job is yours and yours alone, Lord Anakron, and move on to the original question, that is, the threatened breakdown in Gondor-Mordor relations."

Tom paused and looked curiously at Skittles. "Incidentally, I wonder if she's dead?" he asked with mild concern. "Corpses can be very unhygienic."

Determined upon a simple way to test, he took out his wand and pointed at Skittles' longest, shiniest, sharpest flick-knife. "Accio Flick-Knife," he remarked coldly. The weapon's hilt flew into his outstretched hand.

At once the Mordorian War Advisor's eyes opened with a jerk and she attempted to pull herself upwards. "Knife...missing...stolen...will...kill..."

"Well, apparently there's life in the Prevailing Spirit of Chaos yet," the Lord Malfoidacil concluded. "Can somebody ring Accident and Emergency?"

[Lhunardawen]

Maika felt grateful that her obsessive-compulsiveness had not flared up too powerfully; she was on the verge of correcting Skittles that it was Anakron Istkon Vayor, not Anakron Ist Konveyor. She gazed at the poor woman lying on the floor, with her blood spurting all over from her wrist, narrowly missing her own pale feet.

"If only Panakeia were here..." she began quietly. "She might know where Nichole is, and surely that lovely med student can do something about this."

They all swung towards her, looking at her as if she had just spoken Wookie. All, that is, except Anakron, who seemed lost in thought.

"Oh, ring Accident and Emergency," Maika said suddenly. "I'll do it."

She whipped out her cellphone from some unseen, convenient pocket in her black slacks and speed-dialed a number. After a moment of silence she broke out in a slow and clear chant:

Doctor, doctor, she is sick;
Call your mummy very quick.

"There you go," she said as she placed the phone back in her pocket. And before anyone can say anything else, Maika rounded on Roggie.

"This might mean suspending your talk with us, but you will not play hide-and-seek with us again! You will stay here, wait along with the rest of us for Skittles to get well, and welcome us again when we return! Then you will listen carefully to all we say and agree to restart the negotiations! Is that underst-- OW!"

She took three steps back towards the window she did not notice she had stepped away from, rubbing her now-reddened forearms.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"I say," whispered the Barrow Wight to Smilog, "what do you say to us popping out for a swift drink?" He opened his cloak to reveal that several bottles of Roggie's finest wine and champagne were in concealed pockets sown into the under of his cloak. Smilog grinned and tip towed out with The Barrow Wight, grabbing Tollin by the ear and dragging him out swiftly.

"Bloody people," grunted the Dwarf,

"Watch you're language, old bean," the Barrow Wight slapped him.

"I mean it literally," Smilog explained, "that Skittles is bleeding. Good riddance, I say. Roggie won't re-start those negotiations as far as I can see. Pass me a bottle, would you?" They all sat in the corridor drinking Roggie's champagne and singing quiet songs about sleeping in a river.

Two doctors ran past the audience chamber, one of them was covered in blood; the other was covered in mud. "It's still alive!" cried one, "what are we going to do?" Smilog stumbled to his feet and bowed, but he was sick on the floor as he did so. Tollin laughed and hiccupped as Smilog tried to clean it up with the Barrow Wight's cloak. One of the doctors had a call on his cell phone; they could all hear the words;

Doctor, doctor, she is sick;
Call your mummy very quick

Yet the Doctor shut the phone and drew a large spear from the wall where it was used as decoration. "We've got bigger fish to fry!" he said, "Or, to put it more precisely, bigger worms!" At that moment a huge brown writhing creature burst through the wall behind Smilog and spread disgusting purple slime everywhere. It rose itself up and let forth a great bellow that sounded like 'Blllarrrgeeerrraaaatt!'

"What the Angband is that?" cried Smilog, being frightened sober, "and what is a Blargeat?" The Doctors hurled spears at it, but the creature seemed to absorb them into its flesh and then it belched. The Doctors ran and Smilog turned to look at the creature as it slithered towards them with a menacing stench. Tollin rose and lifted his great morning star and swung it around his head, but the creature wouldn’t stop coming, belching and roaring.

Smilog and the others ran away down the corridor, turned a corner and then found the Doctors hiding in a small wicker basket. "What on Arda is going on?" asked Smilog, the worm passed them down the corridor, seeming not to notice them.

"We were performing an operation," explained the one, "a standard Euphoniumectuary, as specified by the legendary Dr Hookbill of Mordor, but we found this thing embedded in the Orc's stomach. It started eating and eating until it was... huge!" The Doctors shivered and stood up. "I'll answer this call to Roggie's audience chamber. He must have set fire to one of his subjects again. You three help my associate find the worm beast!"

"You want us to find that monstrosity?" asked Smilog, "Have you the brain worms?" but the doctor was gone, The Barrow Wight sat on the floor, draining another bottle of wine. It went right through him, literally. The Dwarf then picked up the Wight and walked back to Roggie's chamber, followed by Tollin.

"Wait!" cried the other Doctor, "What about the worm?"

"Not my problem," scowled Smilog, "I've got a Balrog to talk to about some negotiations. Although, I don't know why I'm bothering."

"Your head smells like a puppy!" cried the Barrow Wight as he drank more wine, "Lets make biscuits!"