Yeah, so this is up later than I said it would be; am I ever on time? Thing is, I got disabled. Again. The musical wasn't even a script anymore, dangit! Ah well. Less than a week and the story was off: is that a record?
FYI, usually I use dub names for things with the Digimon characters but I refer to Lucemon's second stage as "Falldown Mode" as per Japan, not the American "Chaos Mode," as that label is actually the polar opposite of what he was attempting to enforce and thus I have a major problem with it. Cuz I'm a stickler like that. (I also screw up a lot so I'm a hypocritical stickler like that).
I own nothing, never have, doo dah, doo dah….(oh come on, surely you all know Camptown Racers?)
Anyway, before I freak myself out even more, here's Chapter Two. Hope everyone enjoys it….
Oh. One more thing. In my original Word draft, all of Feanor's lines were in those little brackety things you get when you hit shift-comma and shift-period, but they vanished when I posted. So now his thought-quotations are all in bold.
All I Want, Chapter Two: Every Motley Group of Adventurers Gets Kicked Out Of An Inn At Some Point Or Another In Their Journeying
"How many times is it gonna take/Till someone around you hears what you say?"-The Offspring, "All I Want"
"Let me get this straight, Reject," Lucemon began, switching out of Falldown Mode—a form he had only recently been allowed to reinhabit, some sort of gift, the cloaked figure had said—as he followed the three sets of footprints leading down the beach.
"Roger," the tall, bearded man interrupted him, a flash of ire in his blue eyes though his smile remained firmly in place. "My name is Roger."
"I know," the angel told him sullenly; he had said "reject," and he had meant it. To say he was in a bad mood would be putting it mildly. Heaving a heavy sigh as an expression of his extreme discontent, he continued his sentence. "Just let me get this straight. We have to track these three guys, who abandoned us, while they track some other guy for no apparent reason at all. And we are doing this…why?" Next to him, Darth Vader nodded his helmeted head in agreement; the ability to become plain Anakin Skywalker once more had been Namo's gift to the Dark Lord, but something about this Duke Roger of Conte made him want to appear as threatening as possible. Vader didn't trust Roger. Lucemon didn't either.
So why, both of them wondered, were they following him?
The subject of their discontent seemed to have no perception of this unspoken animosity at all. If anything, the more nervous they became, the calmer he appeared, absentmindedly toying with a blue jeweled pendant around his neck; the light glanced off its surface in a million directions, distracting Vader and giving Lucemon a headache he wouldn't wish even on the Legendary Warriors. Smiling, Roger explained with ease the purpose of their quest, and despite himself Lucemon relaxed, believing every word.
"Our task is, as you say, a simple one. The three whom we track were sent to find this Maglor as punishment; it is an impossible task. Unfortunately a dangerous criminal has infiltrated their ranks, seeking the treasure their quarry possesses. That is why we were given the gifts, to aid in our assault upon them. All of us have gained in power, or stealth, or both."
"So what did you get?" Lucemon demanded. "Besides the ability to be a stuffy know-it-all?"
Despite this jibe, Roger still didn't tell, lost in his own thoughts. His Gift had been enhanced, imbued with a power he did not understand yet reveled secretly in possessing. His two companions thus far were resisting his attempts to control them, but there was still time. Contrary to what he had said, Roger did not believe Maedhros's quest to be futile. He intended to be there when Maglor was found, when the great treasure—supposedly containing semi-divine properties—was uncovered. And he intended to take it for his own. Crystals were always useful in spellcasting, could be enchanted and occasionally used as enhancers. Roger needed more power for his great plan, the plan he'd died attempting to implement. Already his Gift had been strengthened. It was almost as if the gods themselves were goading him into action…
This thought depsressing him strongly, Roger quickened his pace, causing Lucemon to stumble over his own toga in an effort to catch up. Irritated, Vader reached down a black-gloved hand and swung Lucemon up over one massive shoulder. Not bothering to say "thank you," the angel, resenting being treated like a sack of flour, watched the back of the wizard in front of him, but could not figure out for the life of him what was really going on.
"Remarkable," Raistlin commented, sipping at a cup of foul-smelling tea. "That is without a doubt the most idiotic rubbish I have ever read." Casually tossing onto the table the Fell Deeds handbook, he returned to the red-bound text discovered by his side upon waking, a spellbook he suspected as having once belonged to the same owner as his staff.
I suppose next some undead spirit will arrive bearing this Magius's undergarments as a gift for your sickly friend, Feanor remarked as Maedhros protectively snatched the handbook back. He seems to own many of the man's personal possessions already.
"As you are not supposed to be here, would you kindly pretend you aren't and be silent, Father?" Maedhros growled, his bad mood deepened by Raistlin's casual dismissal of his recovery guide. Frowning, he sipped his wine and grimaced; elven senses are tuned to appreciate quality, and the fare at this particular inn was anything but.
Ken had found the place, a lonely outpost on the shores of the Sea, and they had stopped to gather information both about the world in general and about the gifts mysteriously bequeathed to them. Maedhros had his hand, the sword, and a pack literally stuffed with pamphlets, books, flyers, and various other paraphernalia detailing the regulations, mission, and steps of the "Basic Recovery From Fell Deeds Program." Already he was totally immersed in the guide, having read about Phase One ("Form A Counseling Group") and just beginning the second, "Do A Good Deed For A Friend," all the while ignoring the rather cynical running commentary provided by the Noldo who happened to be residing in his head.
Raistlin in turn had his own book, and it looked as if nothing short of an apocalypse could tear him away from its pages. Like a miner burrows through the earth in search of a gem, the mage dug hungrily into the texts, seeking the magic he knew it contained, the powers that soon would be his. As he read, he afforded Maedhros a glance out of the corner of his eye. If the Valar—or whatever those strange other gods were called—expected these spells to be of use…He wondered if the elf knew how much danger they possibly were in, but said nothing, returning to his mining.
Unlike Raistlin's eager zealousness, Ken viewed his own gift with equal parts confusion, dread, and guilt. Angry and scared, he handled the yellow goggles with purple lenses gingerly, as if afraid just touching them would revive the Emperor lurking somewhere within him. Granted, they weren't the same pair he'd worn back then; they were blockier, with a Crest of the Kindness on the nosepiece and an elastic strap. Nonetheless, the memories they brought back were so shameful he hadn't even tried them on to see what powers they might possess.
Forcing himself to swallow a cup of brackish water (the only non-alcoholic drink at the inn; Raistlin had brought his own tea herbs), Ken finally forced himself to pick the goggles up and, hands shaking, slowly placed them in front of his eyes. The strap snapped into place. Maedhros looked up, noticing the boy was trying his gift at last.
Nothing happened.
Ken managed a weak, embarrassed smile. "That's a relief," he mumbled feebly, not knowing exactly what he'd expected, gulping water down his suddenly dry throat and wishing fervently for a glass of cleaner water. A big, clear, sparkling glass of…
Crackle! Fzzt!
With a sound like buzzing electricity, a glass of water appeared in Ken's hand. Both he and Maedhros stared, astounded at the sight; a few other patrons at their table, with whom Ken had overheard Maedhros discussing someone named "Elros Tar-Minyatur" from some place called "Numenor" edged away from Ken nervously, forcing Raistlin to slide further down the wooden bench he reluctantly shared with them.
"How'd you do that?" one asked.
"Magic?" asked the other, a bit fearful; Raistlin smirked, as the man was sitting directly next to him.
"I…don't know," Ken stammered, just as bewildered. "It just…created it." He knew he wasn't being completely coherent, but he didn't care.
Feanor, however, cared a great deal. The spectacles enable creation? I must see this. As it had before, Maedhros's arm moved without his willing it to, wrenching the goggles off Ken's head before the boy had a chance to react.
"Father!" Maedhros scolded aloud, appalled. "You said you wouldn't do that anymore!" The elf's strange action coupled with this sentence caused Raistlin to look up from his studies, hourglass eyes glinting in the depths of his black velvet hood. "An interesting exclamation," he whispered, "one which you perhaps would care to explain?"
Maedhros wouldn't have cared to explain even if Raistlin had been the only one to notice, but unfortunately everyone in the general vicinity had heard his annoyed exclamation. One of the men fingered the hilt of a sword. "He's not…crazed, is he?" the man asked.
Pulling his hood even lower, Raistlin stepped to Maedhros's side and gently pried the goggles free. "He has these spasms from time to time," the mage replied smoothly, pocketing the goggles and guiding Maedhros's hand back to the tabletop, "a result of the horrific experience in the recent war. But the madness does pass…eventually."
"BLAST YOU, MAGE!" Feanor screamed with Maedhros's voice as the elf to whom the body actually belonged scrabbled to regain control. Grabbing Raistlin harshly, Feanor spun him around to face the men and pushed him forward, yanking the hood off in the process. White hair spilled over golden skin, but it was not enough to hide it. The men shrank back in horror.
Feanor crowed in triumph. "And he dares call me crazed!"
Ken stood and moved defensively to Raistlin's side, where the men were muttering about "demons of Morgoth." "He's not a demon!" he told them hotly.
"That's absolutely right!" Maedhros shouted loudly; he was in control once more. "My pardons!"
"I do not accept," said Raistlin coldly, calculations clicking in the hourglass eyes. "Such conduct in public is inexcusable. You must learn to temper your…spirit of fire."
So Raistlin knew, or at least suspected; they'd discussed names and language earlier in the morning. Ken…Ken would not know unless he was told; for someone so intelligent it took him a while to grasp certain concepts. Maedhros looked around, summing up the situation, and groaned: the innkeeper was heading over.
Well done, said Feanor.
"Was that directed at me or you?" Maedhros muttered through clenched teeth as he went to calm the frantic man down.
Now the entire common room was staring at Raistlin, who instead of replacing his hood stood proudly erect with his hair thrown back, surveying the side with wide-eyed, unfathomable intent. Maedhros intercepted the innkeeper en route to the golden-skinned archmage.
"My very sincerest apologies, respectable sir," he told him, bowing slightly, "for any disruption we may have caused. I can assure you that no further instances—"
"KILL THE DEMON!" screamed a man, weapon out and flashing in the firelight.
"Please excuse me."
You, my son, are the very pinnacle of diplomatic excellence. However do you manage it? Feanor's voice, though inaudible, was most definitely smug.
"I follow your example," Maedhros responded as he elbowed his way to the table and snatched up his recovery guide, ignoring for a moment the chaos erupting around him as Raistlin was beset on all sides. The mage, he knew, could take perfectly good care of himself.
In fact, that was exactly what he was afraid of.
Flipping frantically through the pages, Maedhros found the section of his book he wanted and called aloud. "Raistlin! Please! Remember the steps!"
"What steps?" the mage asked calmly; he'd erected an invisible barrier around himself for the time being, but based on the sweat shining on his golden skin, that was weakening.
"The steps outlined within these pages! I know you think less than highly of them, but please, listen to me! I merely want to keep you from doing something less than conducive to your recovery process!"
"I am listening, though I will cease to do so if you do not arrive soon at your point."
Sighing, Maedhros began to read aloud, his voice barely audible over the door. "How To Prevent Yourself From Doing Something Evil…And I Mean Really Evil, Not Just Mildly Naughty…In Five Easy Steps. Step One…"
Are you quite certain that is a credible source of information?
"Be QUIET, Father! Step One…"
I've not uttered a word!
"STEP ONE," Maedhros bellowed, trying to drown his father's sarcasm in his head.
Yes, you've said that already. They're waiting with bated breath. Your mage is weakening. Shouldn't you get on with it? What's keeping you?
"FATHER," Maedhros screamed, tears welling in his eyes, "IN THE NAME OF THE SILMARILS YOU YOURSELF FORGED, AND THAT MORGOTH BAUGLIR SO CRUELLY STOLE, AND THAT I GAVE MY VERY LIFE TO RECLAIM IN VAIN, BE SILENT!"
Everyone instantly stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at Maedhros. Raistlin's shield broke. The innkeeper trundled over and clapped a hand on Maedhros's shoulder.
"Thank you for stopping that," he said, "but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to vacate the premises. Disturbing the peace, you see; I can't afford a reputation as operating a rowdy establishment…"
"What?" Ken's voice broke.
"You heard me."
And thus it was that the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, the hand-picked champions of the Lord of Mandos on a Vala-dictated mission, were rather unceremoniously dumped out the back of a backwater inn on the shores of the Sea.
They continued on their way for about an hour when Maedhros realized something.
"Does anyone have my pack?"
a/n: And so that's that. Feanor's getting a Raistish streak, like I said, but as Raist himself was otherwise engaged in that scene, somebody had to do his heckling.
Hope this chapter was lively and engaging…or something. I'd say "funny," but "funny" seems to be on indefinite hiatus with me and we are all eagerly anticipating its return home.
Review replies:
Romancebookworm4ever: Yay, I got your penname right…I emailed you about the list thing. As for your confusion, sorry; hopefully soon I'll post everyone's backstory on my blog so people can visit that as more and more references become crucial to the plot. I'll let you know when that's up.
Dalamar Nightson: Thanks so much for pointing out my Feanor-speaking thing wasn't coming through. Hopefully this bolding thing works. As for the duel…just keep reading…I would love to give my opinion of who would win but that would spoil the next few chapters…btw, is Raist in character, or is he too silent and not sarcastic enough? I'm having trouble with figuring out when he would insult people and when he would do his blend-into-the-shadows-and-store-valuable-info-away-for-further-use thing.
Mirowood: Haven't started researching the people on the list yet but that's only because I got handed another list…one of, ah, chores…but I did get Lyon 101: The Continuing Saga (ie even more info) from my brother. Don't be surprised if he shows up at some point; he'd mingle well with these guys…besides, with all the hotheads, we need a passive guy around here.
FROM THE QUILL OF FIDEL: Sorry, but it's staying. If you don't like it, don't read it, or tell me what you don't like so I can take a look at it.
That's it. Fin. Whatever. Chapter 3 is inordinately long (at least it looks it handwritten), so please be patient with me. Thank you ever so much!
Coming up: Maedhros has a flashback, Feanor has difficulty controlling his temper, and Ken gets blasted into the air by some angry wizards.