On the Rocks III - Sweltering Summer {Pub}

[Moriel]

Nestled in a spur of rock near the base of Mount Doom lay the infamous pub of Mordor. Long has the pub lain in disrepair, but recently crews of snagas have been seen swarming over the place, uncharacteristically workmanlike and productive as they refurbished the place under the watchful eye of Írimë, the whip-wielding Pub Mistress. The outside of the pub has been scrubbed and scraped the remove the excess and compacted layers of ash, changing the color of the pub and setting it apart from the rest of the mountain. A new sign has been erected over the entrance, shiny vermillion on hard black wood, reading: On the Rocks.

Inside, the pub consists of a low rectangular hall, the craggen rock which forms part of the roof above criss-crossed with thick beams that both support the remainder of the roof and from which hang a series of glowing braziers. Their light is supplemented by many strategically placed candles, and the two torches which burn in the wall on either side of the bar. The bar itself is an L-shaped structure, connecting to the wall on one side, with the other open to allow the staff to pass behind it. It is made, suitably, of obsidian from Orodruin itself, and along its length are stools for those who wish to sit at the bar itself as opposed to one of the many round tables scattered throughout the pub. Bowls of crispy elven ear chips are scattered about all the surfaces, free bar snacks to entice the thirsty and their purses.

Above the braziers, in the shadow depths of the pub's roof beams, lurk the Georges. These creatures chatter, hiss, or are utterly silent in equal measure; no one knows quite what they are, somewhere between a ferret and a squirrel, they skitter about the beams that are their domain, staring at the occupants below with glowing, hungry red eyes. Bony with either emaciation or age, they drip malice, and destroy utterly any small creature that dares cross their path. Should the Georges choose to swarm you, you fate would be sealed. And no matter how hard you may try to keep track of them, you can only ever seem to count Six of Seven...

A new addition to the pub is a sign on the back wall that reads “All Fights, This Way” with an arrow pointing to an open doorway, through which can be found a sunken pit and a well-dressed goblin named Bagronk the Bookie, ready to take your bets on those who find it necessary to settle their disagreements in On the Rocks.

All the pub needs now are some patrons…

Pub Staff
Pub Mistress: Írimë (Moriel)
Bartender: Frost
Server:
Cook:
Other??:
Bookie: Bagronk (Moriel)
Random snagas you are free to godmode

Want to work at On the Rocks? Make your case IC to Írimë, or talk to Moriel in the Mordor OOC/on discord!


Drink Chart
BLOOD - Chilled blood of the following races, Hobbit, Man, Dwarf and Elf.
BLOODY MORDOR - The fresh blood of a Hobbit mixed with the strongest liqueur Mordor has to offer makes this chilled drink an excellent choice. Hobbit eye to garnish.
TELPERION MIST - A drink not for mere mortals, containing a splendid mix of several liqueurs and a little something secret.
SOTBON (Sex on the Beach of Nurnen) - Awesome ice breaker, dark, powerful - excellent start to any party, served with red or black umbrella.
FIRESIDE CHEBLEY - A concoction of Elvish wine and blood combined with the very best ash that Mt. Doom has to offer
MORDOR MUSH - A collection of alcohol from across the world splashed over a generous amount of crushed ice, a Mordor smoothie.
ORQUILLA SUNSET - 99% alcohol, 1% fruit juice - a shot to end all. (Served in a Shot glass)
SCREAMING RINGWRAITH – Pure Nazgûl Essence, enough said. (Served in a Shot glass)
SILMARIL WINE - A delightful infusion of the grapes of the Silver Tree of Gondor spiced with a hint of Silmaril essence.


House Rules
-This is a minion pub so bad behavior is expected, but Godmoding is right out (except the snagas).
If you godmode, expect to be godmoded back by Írimë
-All races welcome, but remember, it's the minions' home turf...
-OOC comments whited out at the end of your post
-All posts 200+ characters (approx. 2 full lines of text)
-Do not post in #660033
-Keep an eye out for Pub Events


Pub will run 3 Pages/150 posts, or until I feel like starting a new one, whichever comes first



PUB EVENT

It's SUMMER. It's HOT. You thought it was normally hot in Mordor? You thought it was normally hot on the slopes of Mt. Doom?! THINK AGAIN. It's hotter than the hottest patch of sand in farthest Rhûn when world is tipped at exactly the right angle for Arien's righteous fury to concentrate on it and turn it to glass. It's hotter than the ass end of a fell beast that flew too close to the top of the mountain when it was erupting. It's hotter than Írimë coming out of a nude hot spring Baywatch style. IT'S FREDDING HOT, PEOPLE, AND WE DON'T HAVE ANY A/C. All doors and windows have been thrown open in the vain hope of catching a breeze. Around the pub are scattered copper tubs with large blocks of ice in them (don't ask how much that cost) to attempt to cool the air, or for the cooling of one's toes/claws/whatever. Paper fans are available throughout the pub. If On the Rocks had a dress code before it has been completely abandoned, and all drinks are now available iced (for a significant fee). The Georges are especially angry, which is saying something, and their chatter and red eyes are much more prominent than usual.

Incidentally, a large sign has been plastered up next to the front door, inside and outside, containing a painfully detailed rendition of the infamous Regdûsh, of Uhhhhhh Spa fame. The previous pub had its festivities unceremoniously cut short when he drunkenly spilled a brazier of hot coals onto one of the festive fir trees, sending the whole thing up in flames and disrupting both a reunion and a canoodle that were going very well. Above his portrait, in large, scarlet script, is emblazoned the edict: "86'd!"

Come one come all to try and beat the heat with drink, commiserations, and doubtless shenanigans.

[Baphởmet]

Mordor. She’d always meant to visit this place at some point. Well, “meant to” might be a strong way to put it. She knew it would have eventually. It was an inevitability that Eldûrien would come back here. She’d not been here since her kidnapping and the subsequent… transitions she’d made. It was hotter than she remembered. Far hotter. She was used to the oppressive heat on the deck of a ship at high noon in the tropics, but this kind of heat was different. Humidity was insidious and devious, Mordor’s heat was violent. She looked up at the volcano. Either it was a source of all the night cursed heat, or merely the most obvious symptom of that heat. It glowed orange and gold. She wished she could be detached right now. She wished she could observe the phenomena from within the safety and distance of someone else’s mind.

Don’t you dare think I’m coming out for this darkling, I’m nice and happy where I am.

The dark elf grown and spat her distaste. The laughter in her head was metallic and hollow. She was definitely going to need a drink now. Something very, very cold. She knew where to go too. Frost had bragged about this place enough, had gone on endlessly about how gorgeous the pubmistress and the barflies were and how well he had insinuated himself with them. Arrogant ass. She smiled though, he was an egotistical megalomaniac, but that didn’t mean he was wrong. He was normally a very good judge of character, despite whatever it was he’d done in Rohan. He had blown that off as a concussion and an attempt to turn a spy. Pffft. She was the one turning spies and charming people. Who else could have gone into the heart of the Last Homely House and charmed one of the lord’s most influential councilors? That reminded her, she needed to see him again. Their meetings were so full vigorous intrigue. Perhaps after this jaunt through the Black Lands she would head north again.

Spare me that, will you? I haven’t recovered from seeing what you two did the last time.

”Don’t be such a stick in the mud darling. You know you enjoyed it.” When there was no response, she chuckled. “Poor put upon Krakzun, whatever shall you do?” Still nothing but silence. The orc inside her head had decided to find a nice corner to brood and sulk. So typical, so typical.

Putting her companion out of mind, Eldûrien finally entered the pub. She’d been hanging around outside for long enough. There was a giant craban that had gotten a little too friendly and its raucous squawks and random gibbering of words was not what she had in mind as entertainment. At least he didn’t try to peck out her eyes. He’d already flapped about her enough that the intricate braid she’d wrapped her bone white hair in had nearly come undone. If it weren’t so cursedly hot, she’d have just left the messy look, but she was not going to let anything impede a bit of cool hair hit the back of her neck. Frost had warned her that this crow was a rather nasty sideshow, well, the Númenórean wasn’t right about everything. She looked at the sign declaring a certain orc persona non grata. He looked rather simple, but she was sure he could be fun guy as well. He had the look. She touched the paper, making an outline of his rather hairy frame. Surely he wasn’t that hairy. It was just an artist’s rendition to make him look gross and unappetizing. Right?

The heat did not dissipate as she entered. In fact, by some foul bit of sorcery, the heat seemed to have increased. She wiped her forehead. It took a lot to make a Mablui sweat, but there were a few beads starting to form. “Black mother of night,” she muttered. The heat in here came in waves, each coming just as one recovered from the last. It was a good thing she came dressed to deal with such an occasion. The obsidian skinned elf throw off the jade color cloak and laid it across the seat next to her as she stood near the bar. She tightened the leather gauntlets on her wrists, making sure they were perfectly tight and in place, the sound of the leather creaking and shifting was wonderful, and made sure her matching black leather thigh-high boots were laced up. Everything was, well, open for interpretation. Her muscles were tight, either from nerves or the heat. There was a way to deal with that though. She looked lazily over the menu as she leaned against the bar. A Fireside Chebley sounded divine, especially if she could have a few ice shavings in it. It was time to see just how accurate Frost had been about this place.

There was a laugh deep in her mind, a smarmy chuckle. Checking out the competition, eh? No wonder you came dressed like that today.

“Oh bugger off you lecherous toad,” she muttered under her breath. “That thought wasn’t meant for you to comment on.”

[Galadrihell]

The Mouth of Sauron

"What do you mean, there's no more ice?" spat the Mouth.

The serving-girl wrung her hands together. She looked about to cry. Truth be told, she always looked about to cry - something about the hardships of the life she led, or some other such nonsense. The Mouth cared not, although he always made sure to obnoxiously tell her to smile every time he passed her. Occasionally he chucked her under the chin, as well. Except when he actively wanted her to be quivering in terror and about to cry, of course: such as now. The Mouth was displeased, and when he was displeased, everybody else should also be displeased.

"It's been purchased already," she faltered on, managing to squeeze a single tear out of her desiccated face. Everything was dried up in this weather. "Paid a fortune for it, apparently. Already delivered - and fast, too, prob'ly enchanted to stay intact..."

"But WHERE TO?" the Lieutenant roared. He slammed his fist down on the table and regretted it - much as he regretted his all black uniform. It made him look hot, this was true. It also made him FEEL hot. TOO HOT. As much as he wished he could slink around in cobwebs and suggestion as half the denizens of Mordor seemed to do, he had a reputation to maintain which involved a degree of mystery. Desperately, he wondered where he could lay hands on an undyed linen kaftan without ruining his reputation as a military man.

"On the Rocks," quavered his serving-girl. "Írimë... she bought the lot... had it delivered there immediately to cool off the patrons..."

"Get out!" roared the Mouth. "You're heating up the room with your STUPIDITY!"

A sentence which, in retrospect, made no sense; but it mattered not. She fled.

There was nothing for it.

He was going to be FORCED to go to the pub.

The Mouth stamped over to his wardrobe and flung it open. He fingered through his uniforms. Of course, they were all black, with a few in red. He hissed between his teeth before choosing, at any rate: a silk shirt that could be left open, and his thinnest breeches. Absolutely not the Big Helmet, that was a sodding heat trap at the best of times. He supposed that calf-high boots would have to do. There was no way in Udun that he was going to be driven to the monstrosity that the Umbarians called "sandals". Barbarians.

Appropriately garbed - or approximately so - he scowled his way down and into the pub. Slamming the door open, the Mouth scanned around frantically for the location of the ice. At least some of it appeared to be floating in a large copper tub - what sorcery was this? And Balrogs below, who was that creature wearing leather thigh high boots in this weather? She was brave, at least.

"Írimë!" he bellowed. "Where's the ice?!"

[Moriel]

Írimë was hot. Well, that was a given, but she was more than usually literally physically hot at this particular moment. She had twisted her dark chestnut mane up onto a messy bun at the back of her head to spare her neck some of the heat, and while she was sure it was probably doing her some good, it sure didn't feel like it. She had even had to tone down her makeup routine, for though her cosmetics were more than fair on the sweat resistance front, it wouldn't do to be all raccoon eyed in front of the customers, even under these circumstances. She would simply have to depend on the uptick in the 'sultry' component of her notorious sultry beauty. That was one way to pass off a heat haze, wasn't it? At least her manicure wasn't melting yet. Írimë had not given up yet on her high-heeled shoes, but rather than go through the agony of her usual many layers, she had simply thrown on a whisper-light gauzy lavender dressing gown as a sop to propriety, though it did little to challenge the imagination, and belted it with the coils of her whip. She was just questioning whether it might not be better to just close the pub and run away, when a bellow came from downstairs.

"Írimë! Where's the ice?!"

Oh, she'd know that voice anywhere. With a rapid tacktacktack of her heels, the pubmistress made her way down the stairs and entered her dominion with a dramatic bang of the door. And there, sure enough, was His Mouthiness, dressed quite dashingly she must admit, demanding ice. "Right there you big buffon!" She bellowed right back, leveling one sweating finger at the nearest copper tub, "Go and put your bum on it and stop your shouting! It's too hot for that nonsense. And pony up some good coin if you want a cold cold drink." Írimë made her way behind the bar and practically flopped onto it next to a newcomer (Eldûrien) who was perusing the menu. "Well I see you've embraced the necessities of the situation," Írimë said wryly, her eyes flicking the woman up and down, "I hope you've got a full purse hiding somewhere. What can I get you?"

[Galadrihell]

Mouth of Sauron

He broke out into a fresh sweat at the sight of Írimë, somehow looking as …. perky as ever, despite the sweltering heat. The Mouth’s eyes (weird phrase, narrator notes) travelled her outfit - even worse than Ms Thigh High Boots, who had still not introduced herself - and felt in more need of a cold shower than ever.

Quite put out, he stamped over to the huge copper tubs - his heels clicked quite as loudly as hers. “I’ll thank you not to reference my bottom, madam,” he said scathingly, with as much dignity as could be managed from a man lowering himself into a few inches of sloppily melted ice water. The Mouth sighed with relief - although that rapidly became a sharp intake of breath as that tender appendage sank into the cold. Ooohh, that was good, but… abrupt. He hooked one leg over the side of the tub, bracing himself on his elbows, and found a wicked smile. The wench was certainly saucy, but the Mouth wasn’t about to rebuke her impudence too harshly: for His own reasons, Annatar gave Írimë completely free reign in this, her domain: and the Mouth had no intention of being bounced out of his lovely cool pool. His thighs were tingling and his own red shirt becoming more translucent than ever. The blessed iciness suffused him and the Mouth gave a tiny shudder of pleasure.

“Come bring me a cool drink,” he invited. “I certainly do have some coins hidden on my person - care to find them?”

[Baphởmet]

Eldûrien had just finished her perusal of the menu, one far more extensive that she would have imagined (and those names!), than someone (The Mouth of Sauron) burst through the doors. When she was the only one to jump, she assumed that this was the normal way to make an entrance. She watched the newcomer for a moment. He looked familiar, like she should instinctively know who he was. He was dressed ravishingly enough, that black silk shirt really looked good on him. She imagined it would look good off him as well. She smirked. That helmet though, no no no, it clashed with the shirt and the boots. It was utterly out of place. Perhaps that would be her in with this one, a fashion consultant. Men needed one everywhere they went. If not for her, Frost would likely go about in naught but boots and breeches (not that that was always a bad thing). The breeze from the rush of the door and the man’s subsequent shouts of rage made her flesh goosepimple. She giggled in a very unladylike fashion. She was going to enjoy him.

And speaking of ladylike fashion! Down came to pubmistress herself (Írimë). Frost had not been exaggerating after all, even on the exaggerated parts. There was another chuckle in the back of her mind, but she ignored it, as she’d done a hundred thousand times. Let the old voyeur have his fun, this was the closest he’d ever get to a woman of such… prowess. Eldûrien rolled her head from side to side and put her hand on her neck in an overdramatic display. “When needs must, the clothes turn to dust,” she winked and leaned against the marble of the bar, it was refreshingly cool against her dark, bare skin. “I must day, he doesn’t do you justice,” she didn’t need to say who “he” was, especially if he were as well known and important as he thought he was. “I do indeed have coin purse, but I never hide anything.” she flicked her wrist and produced a black satin coin purse and set it on the table. The coins inside clinked a cheerful note. “I think I can leave this here to cover the cost?” she gave the pubmistress a devious smile. “I think a Sex on the Beach of Nurnen, really a clever name, is what I’d like to start. Two if you don’t mind. I am going to see to this grumpy soul over here, but,” she traced a line from the middle of the bar back to her, “I promise to be back for more conversation.”

She sashayed over to the large copper tub the handsome stranger had deposited himself in and, without waiting or asking, stepped into the other side, purring as the ice sent chills up her spine. Ice baths were utterly luxurious in the best of times, in a heat wave of this magnitude? Utter decadence. “Well hello there, stranger. You don’t mind if I join you for a quick dip? It’s ever so hot. My name is Eldûrien by the way. It’s pleasure to share such an intimate space with you.”

Why was it always so bloody hot here? Every single day it was another degree closer to the pits of hell. Why in all the world did he have to build his kingdom next to a volcano? Sure it looked cool, but it was the most hazardous thing you could possibly do. It was a pity she had not been around to tell him where she thought he should have established his kingdom. The elves had taken most of the prime real estate but there were some wonderful places. She’d been touring Middle-Earth now for thousands of years. She had come to appreciate the sights that weren’t volcanic in nature.

Speaking of volcanic in nature, the Witch-King was in a foul mood. Again. He was always in a foul mood but the heat made it worse. Even in Minas Morgul, his little sandbox, the heat had begun to seep into every nook and cranny. She pitied his personal secretary, the woman was a fount of endless patience. Better her than Adûnaphel. “Adûnaphel.” She liked the sound of her own name. Not as much as Khamûl, but no one like their name as much as him. He practically wrote it on every surface he could find. All the others had forgotten their names. Sad. It was going to take more than four thousand years and passing into the world of the Unseen for her to forget her name. That was men for you though. They didn’t need to worry about names. She, however, very much did. She was only woman in the sausage fest and she was going to make her mark. Back on the isle of Númenor she might have said a “boys’ club” but those days were long over, and woe to anyone who tried to get into a dick measuring contest with Adûnaphel now.

It was time to visit that lovely little spit of dirt she’d heard all the orcs go to. On the Rocks? What a lovely, clever name.

She burst through the doors (clearly it was something that everyone did, that’s what one does with doors) and let her terrifying appearance announce itself. There were orcs, little snagas that looked like they were going to turn into a puddle of candle wax, scurrying about, working themselves into a frenzy. When one of them say her, well, there was a puddle of something. She laughed. Her laughter had grown to more of a screech as she aged, a side effect of living far, far passed one’s natural life. Still, it was funny to watch them all stare at her with eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Dinner. Yes, that sounded good. And lots of things to drink. It had been what, a few thousand years since she’d eaten. It was fair to say she was famished. The pubmistress was already behind the bar, excellent. Hopefully what she was about to communicate would be understood. She really didn’t want to have to fly back to the Morannon and find her interpreter, he was such an obnoxious git.

“Hello there. It’s been a while since I’ve, eh, eaten anything. Have anything good? And the drinks… let’s go with all of them.”

[Marceline]

Zôrzimril

Zôr sat up and lifted her long curls off her neck, sighing and brushing at the stray hairs which remained plastered to her sticky skin. She sat on the edge of the bed for some time. It was too hot to move - too hot, almost, to breathe. The previous evening’s activities had worn her out more than usual thanks to the scorching air, and she had another engagement today. Hydration would be key. She swept tired eyes across the room in search of any mechanism with which to cool down. How she wished for a marble tabletop to stretch out on! The stone, if kept indoors, might offer some relief from the oppressive atmosphere. She twirled her hair into a knot at the back of her head and fastened it with what had been intended by its elven maker to be a letter opener. The little jade thing was delicate and pretty, though, so she had repurposed it as she’d seen fit.

Hair attended to, there was next the matter of attire. Moving slowly to keep relatively cool, she leaned over to fasten a pair of black stilettos with narrow double buckles just above the ankle. They could barely be called shoes: merely a boost in height and protection from the worst jutting rocks and broken glass littering the ground, affixed to her feet with thin, winding leather straps.

“Really?” asked her companion lazily. “I don’t know how you tolerate those.”

“I suppose I have to wear something,” Zôr replied. “It may as well be these.” She laughed and rose to look in the full-length mirror near the door. There was something missing. Of course, she thought. She retrieved a brush and blood red lip paint from a small bag. Her mouth might as well match the lava flowing from the mountain nearby. Lips shaded, she stretched and prepared to go, retrieving a folding bamboo and paper fan - her one weapon against the heat.

“Farewell, darling,” she said, turning back at the door. “It’s been a pleasure. I’ll try to look in next time I’m in the area.”

Her companion said nothing, but smiled.

The journey to On the Rocks was blessedly short. She barely registered the sign on the door as she threw it open. Inside, she was met with more heat - both atmospheric and bodily. That was nothing new, but the sight of patrons soaking in copper tubs certainly was. She could almost see the steam rising off those most blessed of sights: ice and wet tshirts.

She sidled up to a heavily-robed patron standing at the bar. “You have my respect,” she said. “Not everyone would be so bold as to appear so very . . . clothed on a day like today.” Turning to Írimë, she continued, “I didn’t think the pub could get any hotter than the last time we all met. But I see I was mistaken.” She turned to eye the pair sharing a tub once more and snapped open her fan in a vain effort to cool herself. “Telperion mist,” she said over her shoulder. “With so much ice.”

[Moriel]

Írimë swept up Eldûrien’s coin purse with practiced ease and, not having any pockets in which to deposit it, instead dropped it into the slot of the small safe she kept behind the bar, for just such circumstances. The weight and the peek she had taken inside assured her there was more than enough. It was clear that her pretty bartender had been telling tales, but it wasn’t as if she minded- or as if she didn’t do the same thing. “Sex on the Beach of Núrnen, always a good option,” Írimë replied, watching Eldûrien saunter over to the Mouth who had both taken her at her word, and taken advantage of the rapidly melting ice, to immerse himself in one of the tubs. That had not been the intention, but in this heat, Írimë wasn’t about to deny that kind of logic. She produced the drinks, but before she could make her way over to deliver them, another person burst through the door. The pubmistress had never met this fetching wraith before, but knew exactly who she was. “Adûnaphel,” Írimë managed her usual purr despite the heat, and flicked a sweaty lock of hair out of her eyes, “Welcome. My sister tells me you have excellent taste… but if you think I’m cooking anything in this weather, you’re wearing your robes too tight. It’s time to get drunk, not turn up the ovens! All the drinks you say? As a special favor, I’ll let you open a tab. And if my pretty BARTENDER,” Írimë hollered this last word back up the stairs, “wasn’t being such a lazy ass, you might have a show as well.” She turned and snapped at a couple of snags, who rapidly began putting together every drink on the menu, and shoving them across the bar at Adûnaphel. Once again, before Írimë could proceed over the the Mouth (and Eldûrien, who had joined him in the tub), the doors swung open again. “Zôr,” Írimë’s purr was more enthusiastic this time, “Darling you wouldn’t believe the heat. And on the second floor… well, let’s say it was too extreme even for certain extracurricular activities.” She assembled the Telperion Mist at the speed of light, liberally piled with ice, and slid it across the Zôr. Then, at last, she took up the two SOTBONs and sidled across the the tub where His Mouthiness was bathing. She handed one drink each to him and Eldûrien. “If you insist.” she shrugged, hearkening back to his invitation to search him for her payment- and giving in to the temptation of the icewater. Írimë stepped into the tub with a splash and slung one leg across the Mouth, straddling him as she sank down to her knees, causing the water to saturate the bottom half of her gauzy dressing down, and began to fish about his person for coins, even as she sighed with relief.

[Galadrihell]

The Mouth of Sauron

Plish. Splash. The Mouth of Sauron dabbled his hands in the thin layer of water that was beginning to just rise as the heaped ice melted, skating his fingertips over the frozen surface until -

slosh

a wave of icy water surged up and over his half-bare chest, one of the cubes plinking against his left nipple ring. The Mouth made an indelicate squeak. His eyelids, which had begun to sink under the soporific pleasure of his ice bath, fluttered open indignantly.

He was confronted with none other than Ms Thigh High Boots: with said boots planted firmly in HIS ice cauldron as she sank in and got comfortable.

The Mouth’s nostrils flared with outrage. He huffed a little breath out of his chest. The ice cube detached itself slowly from said chest and plinked back happily into the sea of other small ice cubes.

“Hello there, stranger,” said the newcomer brightly, and introduced herself without so much as a by-your-leave. The Mouth was so gobsmacked by this piece of casual effrontery that he almost missed an opportunity to ogle Zôr, who had just sashayed into the premises with her usual elegance (the Mouth was only surprised she wasn’t coming down from upstairs, where no doubt that Frost was ensconced - he knew what these lot were like).

“Stranger?” he said incredulously. He took off his Small Helmet and began to pile ice cubes into it, his long white fingers twitching with annoyance, shaking out his long dark hair. “You really don’t recognise me? But then I expect all we humans look the same to you, Elf,” he added with a sneer.

The Mouth’s mood was considerably lifted when Írimë traipsed over, bearing some kind of cocktail. He carefully set the helmet in front of him in the water. The way he was sitting, with one leg up over the side, he felt oddly vulnerable - especially with that creature in here smiling at him.

Írimë stepped into the water, blocking his view of Ms Boots - or Eldûrien or whatever she’d introduced herself as - sinking gracefully down in front of him and running her hands up his shirt.

“Left pocket,” he said in a low voice, half-smiling. He normally relied upon the helmet to conceal his expressions, but it was Too Hot to be bothered with that. He was close enough to feel her breath. Delightfully intimate as this was, the Mouth remained immobile; his fingers tightened around the stem of his glass instead of tweaking up her absurd dressing gown or exploring the dimples of her knees. Írimë had her ways of dissuading unwanted contact, and he had no intention of being evicted from his lovely cauldron - even if there was an elf in it.

“Breeches, not shirt,” he added, in a conspiratorial whisper.

[Baphởmet]

It wasn’t until after he removed his helmet that she recognized him. The attitude, the hair, the mouth. There was no questioning who this uptight screwball was. She smiled sweetly, shrugging her shoulders as if she were being flattered by the most scandalous poet in Rivendell (she needed to remember to write back to Figwit, his last letter was rather saucy). “My Lord Mouth,” she gave him a polite (but not too polite, he was just a human after all) nod and stretched further into his tub. “Now that you say it,” she said, suddenly more interested in the designs scribed onto her enameled nails, “you do look a little similar to…” she looked at him again, feigning concentration on his pale features and dark hair, “No, no. You know they say you look a lot like… hmmm, no. Your hair is similar, but he has more tattoos, and his skin isn’t quite so…” she paused for dramatic effect, “pale.”

Curiosity sated, Eldûrien rose up from the copper tub. It was getting rather crowded in here now, as the pubmistress straddled the Mouth (try not taking that out of context). The ice had done a great deal toward cooling her off, her skin shimmer in the light of the open windows (it was a red light but, it seemed appropriate for all the sorts of activities going on in the pub). The other stories were true about him though he wasn’t a fan of elves (jealous most like, he’d seen everything after all), she considered the Mouth for a moment, smirked, then selected an ice cube. She brought it to her dark lips, gave a good show with her tongue, then tossed it playfully into his helmet, getting her nasty elfness in his little bucket of cold. “It’s been a pleasure, my Lord but I have cold drink waiting for me and a few more interesting people to meet.

She graciously took the SotBoN from Írimë (they hadn’t been properly introduced but the Lord Foot-in-Mouth had been screaming it like a scorned lover) and winked at her. “He’s all yours. Thank you very much for the drink though.”

Eldûrien sauntered over to the bar and encountered two more women (the hips and the armor gave it away from one of them). Oh, the women of Mordor! She was going to have to come here more often, especially if this heat wave kept up. She downed her drink in a single, long swallow. The coolness of the drink went down very, very well. She sighed then sidled up next to the latest comer (she was not about to hob nob with a Nazgûl, even if this one wasn’t him). The Avar recognized her from all the drawings he’d sent in his letters. “Zôrzimril, I presume I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure to finally get to meet you in the,” she looked the Númenórean up and down for good measure, “flesh. I’m Eldûrien.”

She licked her lips. Not that anyone in here could see her do it. The debauchery that must go on in this place, she’d only just arrived, and things were already more interesting than a year spent in Minas Morgul. It was called the Dead City for more than one reason. The parties they liked to throw there were few and far between, and always appeared to happen when she was away (again, sausage fest). This place was much, much more to her liking. “Oh I suppose you’re right,” she acquiesced. I wonder if we could just bury a whole hog and see how long the ground takes to cook him.” She smiled (but again no one was ever going to see that smile, and no one was ever going to tell her to smile either) at the pubmistress. It took her a moment, but she saw the resemblance “Ahh! Saicië! That’s right! You’re Írimë! It’s so good to put a (very beautiful) face to the name.” She leaned heavily onto the bar’s marble countertop. It was not as cool as the ice, but those copper tubs were so far away. How could she possibly manage to make it all that way? She laughed. She really shouldn’t do that. Each time she laughed it came out as a shriek. The stupid sound had given her an unwarranted reputation of being shrill and unreasonable. She was neither in fact, the Witch-King was shrill and Khamûl was unreasonable (and the rest were all interchangeable). Adûnaphel watched as the snagas jumped at Írimë’s commands and began assembling all her drinks. All. The. Drinks. She was not sure if she could get drunk anymore. She hadn’t tried it in about three thousand years though. Why not today? Today was a day for bucking trends. First, she tried the Telparion Mist. It wasn’t bad. She tried another. It was better the second time around. A third and she found it almost good. Onto the next ones! A bloody Mordor. Now that was more like it! Blood, Hobbit blood especially, was decedent. The next one was Screaming Ringwraith.

Wait… what?

She grabbed the snaga that served it to her by the throat and made him repeated the name over and over under he was slobbering and crying. She didn’t actually care about the name she just needed to make it seem like it. She downed it and, well she had to, screamed. “Well, at least we’re moving in a less sober direction.” Írimë wasn’t there anymore, having to tend to the whims of the Lord Mouth. Who was she talking to then? Adûnaphel looked back and forth until she caught sight of a woman dressed in something that made her very jealous (Zôrzimril). Touching her own heavy black robes, she sighed (which did not sound like a screech). “Believe me when I say, I will not be wearing them for long.” When she was alive, or more alive, she had a habit of shedding layers of clothing with layers of alcohol. There was a chance that trend could continue today.

Alright, alright! Fine! Frost did not want to get up. Today was literally an anathema to him and his very existence. It was going to be just as hot down in the pub as it was up here, so why not just stay up here? He’d tried to convince Írimë of this logic but, having already spent a good portion of her wakefulness getting ready, she demanded that he follow her post haste and get his ass behind the bar. There were many, many advantages to his working here (the benefits were something most could only dream of) but the actual work was, well it was work and it was hot. Frost did not work well in heat. Not this kind of heat anyway. Again, it was antithetical to his very nature. He waited until he was good and ready, when he’d built up enough energy reserves to get out of bed. He looked disappointedly at the mostly unmessed sheets. It really was hot today. Remembering the pajama party the pubmistress had thrown some time back, he decided that he was going to wear those same silk leggings, they were nice and baggy and wouldn’t stick him. Sticky clothing was only good if there were intentions behind them.

He found the leggings in the drawer Írimë had tossed them into (or was it Zôr or Khaulzîm, there had been so many limbs to keep track of that night) and put them on with no great speed. Her temper was already high, why worry about tripping over himself to get downstairs before all the patrons showed up? He decided nail guards were in order, even if his form was not the one he had when he normally wore them. He forwent the morning oiling, the sweat have made it impossible and the tattoos were already shimmering. In a move most unnatural, Frost bound up his hair into a loose ponytail instead of letting it cascade freely down his back. Again, it was blisteringly hot.

He grabbed the violin he kept behind the door, made a few adjustments to the strings, adjusting for time and temperature, and pluck at them idly to make sure the sound was correct. He was going to need to make an entrance after being late, so why not make it an extra entrance? He crept down the stairs and whispered harshly to a trio of snagas not tripping over themselves to make drinks. “It’s time.” He said and shoved their instruments in their scaly hands. He’d been teaching them to play cello, mandolin, and kettle drums for weeks now, anticipating when he’d have a chance to use this particular entrance. With a nod, the music began to play, Frost taking the lead of course. He descended the stairs, taking them slowly but two at time, the violin under his chin. The snagas, he had to give them credit, did their jobs flawlessly; he would have to make sure they got an extra ice cube tonight. The song ended as he reached the bar floor and, with a flourish of his jet black hair, he took a low bow.

“Well, well,” he said as he looked up. “It’s seems the party has started without me.” More people had arrived than he’d thought. The rumors of Írimë’s ice must have reached a few important ears. He blinked. Eldûrien was here? Talking to Zôr? He grinned salaciously. Today was going to be a very, very interesting one. He poured himself and elf blood, added and ice cube and leaned nonchalantly on the bar’s marble counter. “What did I miss?”

[Marceline]

Zôrzimril

“Ahh, what a pity.” Zôr shook her head in lamentation at Írimë’s loss of certain pleasures. “We’ll just have to make up for lost time once things cool down a bit.” She smirked and caught up her drink. The first sip was heavenly. So hot was it (and she) that she could feel the cool liquid snaking its way through her. It was liquid restoration; where she had been wilting, she now felt renewed. “I won’t ask how you came by all this ice,” she said as the pubmistress sauntered over to the occupied copper tub, “but well done, regardless.”

She turned to gaze directly at the fascinating, inappropriately-dressed person (Adûnaphel) standing beside her. She could discern nothing of the woman’s (hips like that don’t lie) features. What was going on beneath that hood? Zôr found she was aching to find out. “I’d be more than happy to help relieve you of your sartorial burden,” she said with a wink. “When the time comes.” She turned to lean her back against the bar and found that the marble was cool against her bare skin - exactly as she’d predicted.

The Telperion Mist did not last long; soon, she was holding onto a sweating glass filled with rapidly melting ice. Each cool cube was to be savored, though, and she worked her way through them gladly. She had just crunched through the brittle remains of one ice cube when, with a gentle splash, the woman in the tub rose from the waters. Zôr’s eyebrows rose in turn, and she swallowed the broken bits of ice in haste when the elf approached. “Eldûrien,” she said, nodding. “You presume correctly. I’ve heard all about you, of course,” she said with a wicked grin, “How is that little toy of yours - Figwit, was he called? Believe it or not, I saw him not long ago, half-drowned in a wine fountain. Must have been mourning your absence.” She laughed lightly. “But more importantly, tell me - how is it you recognized me on sight?” Her grey eyes traveled the elf’s every curve, from her collarbone to the toes of her boots. “I also need to know,” she continued, “where you acquired such footwear. I must get a pair for myself.”

The sudden sound of strings arrested her, and she swallowed another ice cube without chewing. The music could only mean one thing: the arrival of her dramatic, cunning, and smoldering partner. She laughed as he entered to the accompaniment of some unusually-gifted snagas; they outdid themselves, and she tossed the remaining ice from her glass in their direction once the song had come to its final quavering note: a tip of sorts for these heated times.

“Darling,” she said. She leaned over the bar (aided in no small part by her heels) to plant a kiss on his lips, then went on, “You’ve barely missed a thing, though I’m not quite sure how I managed to miss meeting the infamous Eldûrien after all this time. Be a dear and refill this iced Telperion Mist, won’t you?” She slid her glass across the bar. “It is ever so hot in here today.”

[Moriel]

One of her more intelligent and respectful customers. The Mouth helpfully directed Írimë exactly where she might find his coinage- in the vicinity of his loinage, as it so happened. “How obliging you are,” she replied, in just as conspiratorial of a whisper, as Eldûrien seemed to decide pastures might be greener elsewhere, and exited the tub. The pubmistress slid her hands down The Mouth’s chest (never one to pass up such an opportunity, after all), and down to his breeches pockets, into which they greedily dived. After spending probably a moment longer than was strictly necessary with her hands encased therein, Írimë drew them out, along with a hefty coinpurse. “I think that’ll just about do it!” She winked at him, and made to stand up. However, as it turns out, ice is quite slippery, and extra hazardous when you aren’t used to it. As Írimë shifted her weight back onto her feet, a small block of ice materialized underneath one foot, and said foot abruptly shot out from under her. With a scream and a flailing of limbs, Írimë twisted in midair and came down bodily into the tub beside The Mouth with an enormous splash, her errant foot missing certain of his tender bits by the narrowest of margins. The water rose up around and over her, completely saturating Írimë and a great deal of the floor below the tub. She broke the surface with a gasp of cold (praise The Eye!) , hair sticking wetly to her head and neck- the coinpurse still clutched tightly in her fist, and her dressing gown now entirely pointless. She blinked the water away in time to see Frost at the bar with Zôr, having finally made his appearance. “Pretty!” she yelped, half-sitting in the tub and sweeping the hair out of her eyes, “Bring me a SOTBON, it seems to be required for this tub.”

[Baphởmet]

“Half drowned in a wine fountain?” Eldûrien chuckled, placing a finger to her lips. “The poor besotted fool. I simply must visit him now. But you say that you made it into the Valley as well? My, my, they must let everyone with a gorgeous face in these days.” The dark elf gave a not so subtle wink as she stole one the newly made drinks for the Nazgûl next to her, an Orquilla Sunset; it burned deliciously going down and helped take some of the edge off the heat. “The Lord must be getting lonely up in his lofty manse.”

If Eldûrien had any humility, she would have blushed at the compliments Zôr paid her for the boots. Naturally though, she did not. But that would never stop her from accepting all the compliments she could get. “Why thank you dear! I had to get them special made by an old cobbler and his wife in Umbar.” She extended a heel and showed off all sides of the boot, and how far it went up. “Technically they were retired but, well it’s hard to resist my charms. I, on the other hand, simply must know where you found that lip paint. It looks positively devilish on you. And those stilettos, marvelous. They are the perfect accoutrement to your battle armor.” She leaned in against the Númenórean woman, their skin almost touching (it was really too hot for that kind of activity unless they were in those glorious copper tubs) and gave her a closer inspection. The closer she got, the closer she wanted to get. This woman had an allure about her, no wonder Frost had been so smitten with her. “You know,” she murmured in a husky tone as she reached out and grazed her nails along Zôr’s forearm, “the next time you and I are in Umbar together, we ought to get together…” she paused, winked, then continued, “then afterward we can show each other all the sites. I’m sure you know of a good opium den or two we can relax in.”

She pulled back and took another drink, this one an iced Elf Blood with a lime wedge and a salt rim. “Preferably when this heat wave has dissipated.” She took a drink and purred as the cool liquid filled her insides. “I swear, there must be someone very high up that is very upset with us. A girl can’t desecrate a shrine or two and get away with it anymore.” She smirked.

Then he came down, in an as extra a fashion as she could have imagined. Teaching to snagas to play instruments? That took more patience that she thought he had. “You’re learning the instrument well, I’m sure your teacher will be very proud of you. And passing your skills onto the snagas? Oh beneficent of you.”

Feeling a bit jealous of the kiss the two Númenóreans were sharing (she was rathe used to be the center of attention) she turned to one of the snagas, the one that had been playing the cello, and booped him on the nose. He blinked, went slack jawed for a moment, then brightened, his eye color changing from a dull brown to a slightly more vibrant green. “Be a dear,” she whispered and prepare a few drinks for us, deliver them to that tub there.”

The woman couldn’t tell, Adûnaphel being under a very heavy cloak after all, but the Nazgûl had been rendered speechless. When was the last time that had happen? A few thousand years at least, probably at Khamûl’s latest piece of “art”. On an unrelated note, the forest landscapes he created were quite serene. Who knew? Technically it was a secret but… well this alcohol was bound to have an effect on her at some point. She’d been through half the drinks so far and she’d begun to feel that familiar buzz. It was weak, just the slowest lag in her thoughts. Good. That meant this stuff was working. “I’ll bet you’re quite good at… relieving things, darling.” She would have winked, but stupid cloak. It made it impossible to flirt. There was no subtly with it. It was great for a dramatic entrance, for a bit of light ambience, or some roleplay, but meeting people and socializing in it was so hard. What was she to do though, Adûnaphel hadn’t exactly appeared in public as herself in a very, very, very long time. What was even under these robes?

She looked at the woman. The Númenórean (she could tell a member of her own, superior race at a simply glance) was lovely, there was no debate there, and she had just about everything on display, much to the Nazgul’s approval. Her brunette hair was done in a tight formation, the opposite of her own flowing blonde hair (she made sure it stayed that way too, the Witch-King’s hair was an utter farce at this point, he had not been using the good stuff). “You just might get the chance to do that.” She wanted to wink. Dammit! Stupid robes. “A few more drinks and I might be persuadable to… well just about anything. You can call me Adûnaphel.”

She had not yet noticed a good amount of her drinks had been stolen by the elf accompanying the Númenórean.

He was surprised to see Eldûrien here. No, actually, the more he realized it, he was not. It was only a matter of time before they crossed paths. “Really? You weren’t there when we met my mother? I could have sworn I saw you the rest of the crew…” he shrugged and set the violin aside. He gave the dark elf a dangerous smile. "Soon the master is going to have to come out of hiding and show off their skill, lest anyone thing I learned to play all those wonderful melodies by myself.

“Well, regardless,” he drawled, leaning against the marble counter, “it’s about time you two met. Can’t have two of my favorite people traipsing about Middle-Earth not knowing each other. There’s less room for fun and games that way.” He grinned, winked, and allowed himself to be pulled in for a deep kiss from Zôr. There were several things he could learn from her about that particular art. Each time, they seemed to take some of his breath away. “Oh, you were with someone new last night,” he remarked. “I could taste a little of them on your lips. You’re going to have to tell me all about them when you’re ready.”

“Telperion Mists, coming up my dear.” He had to push passed several of the snagas, a half dozen of them seemed to be furiously working on creating drinks for a patron he’d missed someone when he came down. Was that… no… that was… he blinked slowly. Surely the heat was getting to him already. That was surely not a… Nope, nope it was. A member of the Nine was sitting in the bar across from him. It was madness. He burst into laughter, what else could he do? He poured the drinks, added a few extra ice cubes and presented them with a flourish. “Enjoy, and don’t do anything without me just yet. You do know I how I hate to be left out of all the fun.”


Before he had a chance to engage anymore, he heard the voice of the pubmistress. He chuckled. “The mistress does call me. COMING DEAR!” he mixed up an SotBoN and skated across the ice strewn floor, he’d missed some fun things over here, that was clear, and presented Írimë with her drink. “Well, you look like you’re having some fun after all. And you said it was too hot for that sort of things.” In an overdramatic show, he placed his hand his forehead. “And to think, if I’d managed to make it down here just a few minutes before you wouldn’t have had to settle for the older model. Greetings Lord Mouth. I see you’re making yourself nice and comfortable. Do let me know if I can get you two anything else, a prophylactic, some oil, anything at all. I am at your service.”

He returned to the bar, made himself an iced Elf blood and drank the whole thing down in a single draught. It was going to be a long, hot day. And the temperature was rather high as well.

The pub. Again. At least this time he was assured the hairy oaf his offspring hung around wouldn’t be here. The fire had been most inconvenient. It was hard enough to force himself into a pub, but to have to have the visit he planned made moot. Fleeg hated it when plans went array. That was why he got out of the whole military, ruling thing. Being an occasional mercenary, full time art collector was much more to his liking. Yet, how could he deny a request from his maker (was there ever such a thing as a request from Swil?).

He growled at the oppressive heat. It was not as bad as underground in Angband, but it was still unnecessarily hot. He was sure the volcano was going to blow its lid any moment and ruin another meeting. This is why he didn’t like doing his business (or pleasure) in a pub. Too unpredictable.

The heat was making his mood sour much more quickly than it ought to have.

At least the inside of the pub was cooler. There was ice all over the floor. He snarled. A waste of precious resources. He kicked a few of the melting cubes across the floor. It was crowded in here. The heat had apparently made most of them lose their minds. Half of them were half naked and the other half was fully naked. He didn’t mind of course, he was not some puritanical prude, but if they thought he’d be joining them in that sort saucy debauchery, they had another thing coming.

And where was Swiltang!? The goblin lord mumbled irritable. A snaga skittered over to him like a beetle, bowing and scraping. Great. This is the kind of behavior Fleeg wished to avoid. It was beneath them to be so servile and so obsequious. “Get me the best whisky. Not a glass, the whole fredegar bottle. And a glass of dwarf blood. I’ll be waiting…” he sighed and rolled his eyes, “in that copper tub over there.”

[Galadrihell]

Mouth of Sauron

The Elf was staring at him- quite critically. He flared his nostrils at her. "You do look a little similar..." she began, and then continued prattling inanely about his similarity to someone she'd met once. The Mouth stifled the urge to roll his eyes. The Small Helm barely covered anything at all, so her reaction was, in his opinion, clearly put on. He ignored her childish inanities as she clambered out of the cauldron (thank Melkor), but he was treated to a display of her tonguing an ice-cube before she left. Whether this was some weird Elvish custom the Mouth couldn't say, but he flicked the cube discreetly out of the cauldron anyway, as he had no desire to catch Elvish cooties.

Besides which, Írimë's inquisitive hands were proving to be incredibly distracting. The Mouth fixed his gaze straight ahead and concentrated on the ice. Wait. Was that ONE OF THE NINE? Filled out a bit, he mused. Or had the heat gone right to his head? No, that was a distinctive sway that wasn't caused just by hours in the saddle. (Or maybe it was. In truth, the Mouth tried not to think about how wraiths were put together under their robes). Ye Balrogs, it really was hot if even the Nine were driven into drinking dens.

Even this distracting thought was not enough for the Mouth's self-possession as Írimë rose up - and then came down again. Quite abruptly. Very closely. His knees jerked up reflexively in an attempt to protect his most precious possessions (the helm, obviously, lodged between his thighs) as the Pubmistress floundered, quite absent her usual grace. The Mouth's arm shot out to steady her - not the one holding his glass, obviously. He studied her admiringly as she resurfaced, her hair and clothing sleeked to her wet skin. "Want to borrow my, uh, hat?" he smirked at her, as Frost finally wandered over with his insouciant style, bearing more drinks. The Mouth had always had a liking for Frost: Black Numenoreans were few enough, even if Frost had chosen a rather eclectic career rather than following the military. Still, the man had style. And a drink. And a really hot selection of girlfriends. "I wouldn't say no to a snag with a fan, if there are any about," he suggested to Frost's generous offer. "I think we're slippery enough here that there's no need for oil," he added slyly.

[Marceline]

Zôrzimril

“You’re quite right,” Zôr said to the inscrutable cloaked figure. The longer they spoke, the more curious she became about what the woman looked like. Would lowering her hood reveal immeasurable beauty? Horrors untold? Something in between? She raised her newly-refilled glass in a toast. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Adûnaphel. My name is Zôrzimril. Here’s to a few more drinks, and all that comes after!”

She drank deeply while Eldûrien speculated on the state of things in the Last Homely House. “The security in the valley certainly was lax,” she said. “Everything seems to be falling apart up there. I’m not so sure I’d call the Lord of the Valley lonely, though . . . perhaps I’ll tell you someday about all the treasures we discovered.” She laughed aloud at the memory. The well-shod elf explained where she’d acquired her boots, then leaned in. Heat pulsed off Eldûrien’s form, and Zôr felt a bead of sweat run down her spine. She raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe Figwit has already let you in on that little secret. Regardless, I also could offer a little demonstration of what we found - if you’re willing, that is. As for the lip paint, it’s from the farthest east. I’ll put you in contact with my supplier if you like.”

With one hand, she picked up her fan and snapped it open; with the other, she caught up her glass again. “A day in the dens sounds perfect - a true girls’ day out!” She held the cool glass up to her neck while fanning herself in another vain attempt at cooling off.

“I was indeed, love. You’re very perceptive,” she said to Frost. He would notice such a thing. She had not, of course, intended to hide anything from him - far from it. But he’d inferred the basics of where she’d been before she could share her story. She licked her lips, trying to see if she could discern the same taste he had. Alas. She tasted only the sweet flavor of her lip stain mingled with the tang of alcohol. “They’re quite an interesting individual - you’d like them, I think. Maybe someday soon I’ll introduce the two of you.”

There was a great splash from across the room. Zôr looked over to see Írimë soaked to her skin and stopped her fanning all at once. She observed the goings-on in the occupied tub for a few long moments. “Those ice tubs seem a bit dangerous,” she said once Frost returned to the bar. “But this fan is doing nothing to lower the temperature. Could I get one of you to help me into one? I’m afraid these heels and all that ice won’t mix well.”

[Baphởmet]

Her grin turned wicked at Zôr’s mention of “treasures.” She closed her eyes and remembered when Figwit had shown her (under duress of course, such a dutiful man) the lord of the valley’s manse. She’d explored and found some very, very interesting items. Figwit had been aghast, but also fascinated by them. That was when she knew she had him in her grip at least. It hadn’t taken any charm spell or enchantment, just a few suggestive winks, an arched back here and there, a salacious giggle at a bawdy joke. What she planned on doing with him was anyone’s guess, they were elves though, she could afford to wait until the correct opportunity presented itself. “Who knew the Lord of Imladris would have some an explorative side, eh? He seems so boring in public. Figwit had questions and I, ever a dutiful tutor, made sure to show him exactly what kind of exploration his liege lord was into.” She snapped her fingers at the snaga and one of them broke away from the group still making and pouring drinks for the Nazgûl and poured her a glass of black spiced rum. She snapped her fingers again and the snaga blinked as if he’d just been asleep. He looked around, confused, then looked at Eldûrien with a nervous grin before getting back to work making an endless supply of drinks. “Good boy,” the dark elf purred.

The previous snaga she’d enchanted came around the bar, tray of drinks in hand and a large half moon grin on his face, without looking, she set her new drink on the tray next to the new ones and nodded her approval. The snaga snickered like he’d just been told “well done” by a king and scuttled off to the tub to await further orders. “Darling,” she drawled to Zôr, “you must join me in the tub, it is far too hot out here. Don’t you think?” She maneuvered over and placed a feathery kiss on Zôr’s lips. “You’re right, that lip paint is something I’m going to need a lot more of, a girls’ day out indeed.”

She sashayed to the tub and tested the ice. Nice and cold. The dark elf licked her lips. “Do I have to get more persuasive for the two of you to join me?” She looked over her shoulder at the pair of Númenóreans and placed her hands on her hips in mock disapproval then slowly started to undo the lacing in her boots. Fully declothed now, Eldûrien stepped into the tub and have a little squeak of delight as the frozen water sent shivers over her flesh. Slowly, she lowered herself into the tub until she was in a comfortable seated position. The snaga came round and offered her the tray. She took the black spiced rum and took a spice. “Well?”

It occurred to Adûnaphel that perhaps this lovely, lovely creature, Zôrzimril, that name really had a lovely ring to it (where had she heard it before?), didn’t quite know to whom she was speaking. Any of the others, the boys, would have been furious and made sure she knew exactly who they were before going off to pout in some dank dungeon. She, however, was quite delighted. It was not everyday (or week or month or year) that she ran into someone who wasn’t already cowering in fear. Don’t get it wrong now, she liked it when people cowered in fear, but it did get boring after a few thousand years. Being hit on was new and delightful. She hadn’t been treated like this sort of queen since she was back on the island and had a line of suitors a league long. “It’s wonderful to have your acquaintance, Zôrzimril,” she managed to pronounce the name with a purr despite having had all the alcohol (how many drinks had she had now? She’d lost count) and her natural Ringwraith hiss, “you are indeed correct, there will indeed get to be something after for you and I, but…” she took a sip of some Silmaril wine, “it appears for now you are being called elsewhere.” For the umpteenth time today, she wished she could wink. Still, this Númenórean was clever, she would know what was happening, and what was going to happen. Adûnaphel was not the jealous type, not anymore at least. In the thousands of years she’d been alive, she’d learned to take up new hobbies, voyeurism being one of them. Lazily, she leaned back against the bar and did just that: she watched each tub with rapt attention.

A snaga with a fan. Frost smirked and snapped his fingers. “You heard the man!” he shouted one of a dozen snagas milling about attempting to clear the ice from the floor before it melted (which would have spelled their doom surely). Three jumped at attention then darted to the bar to bring over large fans and began to wave as if they were working the bellows of a forge. “There we go, do let me know if there’s something else I can get you.” He bowed then returned his attention to the bountiful bevy of beautiful ladies attending to the massive selection of drinks at the bar.

He watched Eldûrien kiss Zôr then then precede to a copper tub of ice. She put on quite a show, not that Frost needed much convincing to cool off. Between the dark elf and the Númenórean, it was a wonder he could focus on putting one foot in front of the other, there was so much… energy in the room today. Frost silently thanked his black stars for the good fortune (despite the heat). The still berobed Adûnaphel continued downing drinks as if a drought were on the way, but Frost could tell most of her attention was actually on them. He chuckled. He liked an audience, that’s when he did some of his best work.

And speaking of work (it’s not all play as the bar tender of On the Rocks) he made sure the snagas knew what they were doing and continued making drinks while accounting for the ones they’d already made. He was grateful it was not he that was going to make sure the Ringwraith paid her ballooning tab. Once he was satisfied they could count past ten, he shooed them off to continue their Sisyphean labor (could a Nazgûl ever become drunk?) while he came back to Zôr.

“Well now, my precious fire jewel, I was thinking the same thing. A dip in these tubs would be much more refreshing than a single fan. And we can’t keep our friend waiting, can we?” he looked over to Eldûrien, already lounging luxuriously on her end of the tub. Without warning, Frost scooped up Zôr, carrying her bridal style to the tub. He stepped in first, delighting in the utter cold of the ice as it reached up his spine, then, still carrying Zôr, lowered himself into the tub so that she ended up on his lap. Smug and proud of himself, he took the proffered drink from Eldûrien’s snaga and took a long sip. “There now, better darlings?”

[Marceline]

Zôrzimril

The more Eldûrien described Figwit, the more curious Zôr became. She was impressed - but not entirely surprised - that the dark elf before her had managed to seduce a loyal servant of the elven lord. Such high-ranking courtiers were known to be skittishly well-behaved, and the idea that one of those would risk his position to frolic about (and more) with this voluptuous, malignant presence was highly intriguing. She was already looking forward to hearing more on that score on their day in the dens when Eldûrien brought her lips to Zôr’s. She was gentle but forward, and the invitation implied by that kiss became rather more explicit when she removed her boots and summoned the pair of Númenóreans to her tub with an impatient, “Well?”

Zôrzimril was not one to turn down such an invitation, however tired she was from her previous night’s activities. The arguments in favor of joining the elf in the copper tub included things that would both cool her down and heat her up, preferably in that order. With the three of them tangled together in such a small space, she mused, the ice would not last long.

She bent to unfasten the small buckles at her ankles but, before she could remove her hazardous shoes, she found herself floating through the air in a pair of deliciously well-muscled arms. Soon Frost had stepped into the tub - still half-clothed and all - and brought Zôr to rest in his lap. She exhaled sharply when the water hit her bare skin and shuddered with both delight and relief as they sank into the cold water.

“So much better,” she whispered. From the bridal position in which he'd carried her, she swung a leg up and over his torso so that she straddled him face to face. A small splash of water fell over them both, and she laughed. Leaning forward, she touched her forehead to his but kept her lips just out of reach. Her hands moved beneath the water and, once she’d found the silken waistline of those leggings, she ran one fingernail against his skin, just above and along that line. “But there’s always room for improvement.” She grinned and swung the other leg up and over him, bringing with it a fresh cascade of frigid water. She turned, settling herself comfortably onto Frost’s lap with a slight arch of her back, to face Eldûrien directly across the little tub.

“There’s no reason to stay so far away, love,” she said to the elf.

[Baphởmet]

Despite the oppressive heat, Frost had a feeling today was going to be a very good day. Who could blame him? He was in a tub of ice (melting fast but it still felt sinfully divine) with two gorgeous women and had whatever sort of alcohol he could want within an arm’s reach. Yes, today was shaping up to be quite nice. Zôrzimril was a tease, but that was one of the many things he liked about her. As her fingers traced the line of his hips, he felt an icy shiver run up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold water. “Careful,” he said with a heavy wink, “if you use your magic too well, things might get indecent in here.” Naturally, he wanted things to very much become indecent; sin was in the air and he was going to breath deep that silky, luxurious perfume.

He wrapped his arms around Zôr’s waist and pulled her in closer, situating her in just the right spot so that he could have an eyeful of her and Eldûrien sitting across from them.

“My, but you two do like to carry on,” she pouted, feigning jealousy, “but I’ll never turn an invitation like that.” Quick as a viper, she slid across the tub, barely making a ripple, and sat on Zôr’s lap and wrapping her legs around both Frost and Zôr; she leaned against the edge of the copper tub getting an excellent preview of all that the Númenóreans offered. Frost grunted under the surprise of extra weight, grabbing onto the sides of the tub until he was able to find a position that supported the weight of all three of them.

“Everyone comfortable?” He asked, putting his arm around both women.

“Nearly,” the dark elf answered. She snapped her fingers and the snaga came scuttling over to her, offering her the bottle of black spiced rum. She accepted it and winked at the poor creature who liked as if he were about to spontaneously combust. Instead of swallowing, however, she leaned forward, taking Zôr’s delicate features in her ash-grey hand and kissed her, spilling the shot of rum down both their chins. “There we go, much better. You looked like you could have used a drink, my dear.”

Frost smirked. “I suppose I’ll get my shot later?”

He looked back at the bar where the snagas were still furiously working, and arguing, through all the drinks. There was a substantial amount of used glasses of all shapes and sizes being put to the side. A Ringwraith can put away liquor better than anyone he’d ever seen if this evidence was anything to go on; the snagas were having to get creative and make new drinks and new combinations to satisfy her. Still, there were some signs of wear, the black robes were looking a little rumpled, and he could swear he saw some of her golden blonde hair peeking out from under the hood. She swayed ever so slightly. Her gaze, or what he could assume was her gaze (given that the hood made it impossible to tell what she was actually looking at), was still fixed on them. They, in fact, still had their audience. Good, wouldn’t want all this effort to go to waste.

“So tell me, you two, what sort of sinful plots have you two hatched?”

[Marceline]

Zôrzimril

Zôrzimril laughed and sighed as Frost settled her into place; her lips curled into a satisfied smirk when Eldûrien slid across the tub and came to rest on her own lap. With no agenda to distract her from the simple pleasures of this highly stimulating situation, Zôr couldn’t help but lean into it. And lean into the tub’s inaugural kiss she did, wrapping her arms loosely around Eldûrien’s neck and swallowing half a mouthful of rum when the dark elf pulled back. Wet as she was, she didn’t bother wiping away the excess alcohol as it spilled down her chin.

“Thank you,” she purred. “I think we could all use a little something.” She waved over the same snaga who had delivered the rum just moments ago. It moved toward the tub in a daze, an Orquilla Sunset in hand. “My, but you’ve done a number on this one,” she said to Eldûrien, not bothering to hide how impressed she was with the elf’s influence over the little creature. She took the little glass from the snaga and downed the shot in one.

“Not bad,” she said, licking her lips. “Another.” The snaga was gone and back in a flash with the shot. This one she held delicately in one hand. Turning from Eldûrien for the moment, she brought her lips eagerly to Frost’s (lest he think he was being ignored), the taste of alcohol mingling with the red paint and the flavor of her partner from the night before - but all of it superseded by him. “I’m sure you can find the equivalent of half a shot down both our fronts, my darling. If not, there’s always this.” She offered him the Orquilla Sunset and, with her other hand, slowly ran her fingers down his chest and abdomen. Those pesky leggings got in the way in the end; she gave a little growl of frustration and kissed him again.

With Eldûrien’s legs wrapped firmly around both her and Frost, it was hard for Zôr to deny the elf her attention. In fact, there may have been a squeeze or two from those thighs demanding attention as the two Númenóreans kissed. Zôrzimril turned her eyes upon the lithe elven form tangled up with hers.

“You know, Frost always told me you were menacingly lovely,” she said, leaning in to brush her lips against the elf’s again. “But the emphasis,” she kissed Eldûrien’s cheek, “was always,” she gave the elf a playful bite where her neck and shoulder met, “on the menacing part.”

[Baphởmet]

Being the top slice in a sandwich is always the most comfortable, even if it’s not the most engaging. Eldûrien had experience as the bottom, the middle, and the top and she always preferred to top. The bottom carried too much weight to be overly active, the middle had maneuverability issues, but the top had none of that. Tops had control; the dark elf liked control. Zôr was messy in her delivery of the orquilla sunrise, just the way she liked it. Eldûrien took both Frost’s and Zôr’s chin in her hands and with deft, practiced lips, managed to kiss away the excess alcohol that had not quite made it into either one of their mouths. Such messy drinks, these Númenóreans, what would they do without her? She purred and nipped at Zôr’s earlobe. Somewhere in the back of her mind, not his mind, she wondered exactly how far these sexcapades were going to be allowed go to. Mordor, blessedly, was much laxer on the moral handwringing than places like Gondor and Imladris, but every place had a line. Where exactly was the line here? In theory, Eldûrien could not care less about the limits of people outside her partners, but in practice it was always wise to know exactly what one could get away with. She and her darling fig thief had gotten away with some very public frolicking in a fountain in Rivendell, but surely something like that would be a daily occurrence here in On the Rocks? If the tales Frost talked about what he and Zôr got up to with some of the patrons were even half true, the line was still quite far. They were only at the “making a Zôr sandwich” level, and that was practically innocent and demure compared to what she had in mind for later.

She purred with each of Zôr’s kisses, biting her lip in a more than suggestive way. “Well, menacing and lovely are,” she paused to groan, “excellent, if inadequate ways to describe me. We mustn’t blame the poor lad for a lack of imagination when it comes to describing those he’s gotten to know. He’s gotten know so many people and there are only so many words in human and elven tongues,” she kissed his cheek sympathetically and tapped his chin. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” she laughed, Frost was rolling his eyes. “You know the flavor of all the men, women, and enbies from Umbar to Angmar. Don’t try to act innocent and wet behind the ears. That’s only attractive in those that actually are.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“But,” she continued unabated dropping her voice to a husky whisper, “I’m sure you and I can come up with some better descriptors for the pair of us.” Eldûrien leaned in and traced the nape of Zôr’s neck down to her belly button with a long, elegant finger. “I have a feeling women like us can… scarouse more than a few people watching from the shadows, too afraid to interact but eager to have an opinion. Shall we give them a show?” With her other hand, she traced similar path that Zôr’s had on Frost’s chest, abdomen, and hips and her lavender eyes sparkled with delight.

How long was he going to have to wait for Swiltang? If it weren’t so damned hot, Fleeg would have flown into a boiling rage. However, for obvious reasons, he kept a tight lid on his emotions. He wished he could say the same for the rest of the bar’s patrons. He looked at the ménage à trois across the bar’s spacious common room and spat in disgust. Humans and elves and their need to flaunt their sexual prowess in public. Not for the first time, Fleeg was glad he was not overburdened with some compunctions. Some of his men told him he’d been missing out, but he knew better than that. He snarled and down another shot of the rum. It burned going down. He could feel the rage in him dulling, receding into the background. He looked over at the bar’s counter. She was there. He knew her well enough. She appeared to be engrossed in watching the trio in the ice tub spilling drinks and licking each other like cats. What was so entertaining about that? What was she even doing here? This sort of place was beneath his dignity, surely it was below hers as well. He would have assumed one of the Nine would never be caught dead… he chuckled involuntarily. He was not a goblin given to much humor, but occasionally after three or four bottles of rum or tequila, some biting humor appeared. “You,” he waved at one of the snaga with moony eyes, it looked at him as if not realizing he’d been sitting there the whole time. “Tell her ladyship that I would be honored if she joined me.” Might as well make the most of this trip. It was beginning to feel less and less likely that his progenitor was coming, and a wasted day was the worst thing in Fleeg’s mind. A conversation with the one and only Adûnaphel would go a long way to make sure things weren’t wasted.

The snaga scuttled off; Fleeg spat again, disgusted by the obsequious, compliant toads. Why would any self-respecting orc work in a bar, serving... humans and elves? Fleeg watched with relaxed indifference. The snaga was nearly decapitated when it interrupted the Nazgûl’s voyeurism but once the message was delivered he seemed in less danger of becoming a red stain on the wall. She joined him, moving with an evil ethereal grace that sent shivers down his spine. If he were a lesser goblin…

“So, the great Fleeg the First wants me to join him in a tub?” her voice was cold and sibilant.

“Aye,” he said without shifting or moving, “if the lady would not mind breaking from her current distraction?”

Nazgûl can smile. Most can’t see it, unfortunately he was not one of those people. Despite all the dark things he’d done since being given form in Angband thousands of years ago, there still things that made his skin crawl and ensured nightmares.

“I’ll even make the tub more to the liking of your old habits.” Without warning, he grabbed the snaga that had followed, ready for more orders, produced a knife, and sliced cleanly and efficiently across the thing’s neck. Blood gushed into the tub, turning the ice and water red in an instant. None of the other snaga moved. They looked at the scene, then looked away conspicuously. Either they were too enthralled in their “work” or they were too charmed by the dark elf’s magic to care. The creature struggled for a moment but couldn’t free itself from Fleeg’s grip until all the blood was in the tub.

“No bad,” Adûnaphel hissed. “I’m more accustomed to elf blood, but one never turns their nose to a bloodbath.”