“Alright, alright. Most of them deserve to be taken down a peg anyway.” A pause, and she looks suddenly serious, and a bit earnest. “Perhaps time to lay my cards on the table. One of the groups whose attention you have no doubt attracted is the rest of the Denarians, led by Nicodemus Archleone, and he has been at the top of my kill list for centuries.”

“Two names, four syllables each? Sounds like a douchebag.”

“You have no idea.”

“All that as may be, it is my considered opinion as the resident Chicago expert in your head that we should take that long rest before we start taking out the trash.”

“Lez do itttt.”

Melkor walks toward the edge of the roof, mulling over what zany-ass flight mechanism he should cook up. Transform into a giant vulture? Summon a malevolent icy breeze? Sling some more webs?

Sky’s the limit.

Meciel snaps her fingers and appears on his shoulder in miniature. “Okay, I’ve cloaked you physically and both our auras, and-”

“Melkor, do you know that you have some kind of tracker on you that followed you out of the Void? I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Uh, I didn’t know that, because it isn’t possible.”

Melkor stands at the ledge. He’s suddenly not in the mood to leap off, do a double 360 backflip, and be carried away by a current of tiny malevolent ice vultures.

“The Valar don’t know shit about this place. Or anywhere else outside of Eru’s Funtime Adventure Camp. Because if they knew, I would know, because I’m High Fucking Melkor.”

”So even if Aulë could pull it off, there’s no conceivable reason he would build Angainor to survive intact and still bound to me across the transition between realities, except out of some bizarre autistic worst-case-scenario craftsmanship fetish.”

“Oh shit that totally sounds like Aulë, they’re fucking coming for me.”

He feels Meciel flicking lightly through more of his memories. “Hellfire, this man is like Da Vinci with his helicopter. Ugh, no, he’s actually much worse than Da Vinci.”

Then he feels something less gentle in his mind. The smell of sulphur rises, and there is a distinct burning sensation just behind his left ear. His vision flashes orange and fiery. But then it all stops, and he feels the impression of Meciel in his mind sagging. “I cannot destroy it, at least not without more preparation than this. I have blurred it somewhat, but I can’t really tell how much - maybe the distance of a building, maybe a few blocks.”

Melkor feels a tense knot in his stomach. Is this… anxiety?

“I gotta test something real quick. Keep an eye on the wrought iron fishhook thing going through my skull.”

He unfolds his hands in front of him to reveal an exceedingly twee music box featuring fourteen delicate porcelain figures riding around on a carousel, singing “It’s a Small Arda After All!”

Oromë stalks through the void, toward immense gates set in a towering bulwark against chaos. His link of Angainor sears with heat. The First Enemy has unleashed another burst of mad destructive power upon a defenseless land.

“Yes, that is what sets it off. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you may need to ease up on the magic usage somewhat. It’s just as well. The higher powered stuff seems to have been doing some damage to your mortal body.”

“I don’t have a problem, Meciel! I can stop anytime I want, and you can’t make me! Man but nah those assholes wouldn’t just kill me, they’d probably throw me in a volcano for 20,000 years. I gotta cool my em-effing jets.”

“…Which I guess means I shouldn’t jump off this tower?”

Meciel is conspicuously silent on his shoulder.

Melkor heaves a big melodramatic sigh and walks over to the door down to the stairwell.

A tear in reality is slashed through the air to Melkor’s left, about ten feet off the ground, dim light shining through it. The tear opens into a portal, through which he can see a craggy mountaintop, and feel a fierce wind even stronger than here.

An instant later, three figures in grey cloaks leap through the portal in rapid succession, rolling to dissipate their momentum. They rise in a tight outward facing triangle, weapons drawn, scanning the rooftop for threats.

Oh shit, it’s the mighty morphin’ power rangers.

…which is something Melkor would normally just quip out loud, but A) these greycloaks don’t look like they’re cosplaying and B) he just started his new low-magic diet. Bad form to start making exceptions 1 minute in.

He puts eyes on them and slowly backs down into the stairwell.

The oldest of the three, a man with a ponytail, speaks first. “Looks like we just missed him. Air still reeks of power, but no active aura. Yoshimo, do a sweep of the rooftop. Ramirez, go downstairs and find the poor bastard that got transmogrified, see if you can undo it before his mind goes to goo. I’ll see if I can pick up a scent on the warlock, figure out which way he went.”

The young woman starts circling to her right, and the young man turns towards the doorway, heading straight towards Melkor.

Melkor makes careful, silentish steps backward down the stairs. He subvocalizes to Meciel, as quietly as a mob rat with laryngitis in a library. “Any chance you can turn this buttsniffer around without —“

The next step where he places a foot is unexpectedly, inexplicably slick with snake blood. His weight goes out from under him and he careens/caroms down the stairs, hitting every available surface on the way down.

Meciel’s voice is a clarion call inside his head. “Melkor, run! Once they know where to look for you I cannot disguise you, you’ll have to lose them before I can get the cloaking back up!”

Melkor groans in a black-and-blue pile at the bottom of the stairs. He hears what sounds like a Ramirez shouting something irritating. He hauls himself to his feet and hobbles as quickly as he can down to Lobby 103.

”Stupid… frigging… balance issues…”

Bootsteps pound on the stairs behind him. Ramirez shouts “Morgan, I got eyes on him! He fell down the stairs - I’ll try to head him off. Scutum!”

The bootsteps turn into a much faster thunkthunkthunkthunk, and about five seconds later the young man comes into view, sliding down the stairs on a large metal shield he appears to have conjured, popping it up to bank off the wall when the flights reverse direction. He makes it down to the 103 landing just before Melkor and hops off the shield, leaving it to clang its way down another couple flights before coming to a stop.

Ramirez brandishes his sword, his other hand gauntleted and held in a defensive position.

Melkor pees himself.

Then, Melkor peels himself off the wall where he scrunched up to avoid getting trample-stamped by a crazy dude riding a flying shield.

”Hey, you’re a pretty cool guy who doesn’t take ish from anyone. You oughta work for me! Audition starts now.”

(sotto voce as an italian schoolgirl whispering about her turkish crush at a funeral during WWI: “Got any tricks for sword-fighting dingbats?”)

Meciel’s voice comes to him at the speed of thought. “These are Wardens of the White Council, a collection of human wizards. They are probably here as enforcers of the Council’s ban against so-called black magic. This man is much younger than the Wardens I have known, but he doesn’t seem inexperienced, unfortunately. The sword and gauntlet are both magical, though the gauntlet is his primary spell focus. Wardens like using fire magic.

“You’re in a choke point here in the stairwell. You need to get past him so you have more options. Their magic will disrupt modern technology, so if you could force them into the elevator, you might be able to get them stuck. 

“Wait - are those grenades on his belt? If you can get ahold of those you might be able to create some better options.”