Land of Darkness RPG

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle‘s post

The sounds of chaos died down from the courtyard above and Grash slowly emerged from his hiding place in the storeroom. Casting furtive glances about for the guards he walked down the dark hallway past the cells, looking neither right nor left at the prisoners. He had long ago ceased to regard the folk who passed through this place as actual beings. Rather, he thought of them as creatures like himself: dead already, without the formality of having their breath stopped or their hearts stilled. A few of the prisoners spoke to him, asking him to free them but he passed on as heedless as wood. He reached the stairs and climbed slowly, his every fibre tensed and reaching outward for signs that his captors were still alive. All he could hear, however, was the unnatural wailing of the Silent Watchers as they screeched their warning to the listening mountains.

He had been climbing these stairs for two years now, and did not need a light to find his way. He soon reached the top and marked without emotion that the door, which was normally locked and barred as tightly as steel, had been left open. He poked his head through the door into the lowering gloom that lay upon this land always and looked about. The courtyard was filled with bodies and body parts. There was no movement. He stepped out of the door and picked his way through the courtyard toward the gate. Once, from somewhere high above, he thought he heard a cry and he fell immediately to the ground for fear of having been seen, but there came no other cry to interrupt the wailing of the Watchers. He continued and soon got to the Gate, but he found his way barred by some unknown and invisible will. It held him back like a huge black hand and try as he might he could not move forward. Finally, panting and gasping with the effort he fell back from the gaze of the watchers, defeated.

The last time Grash had cried he has been but a boy, and a sound whipping at the foul hands of an orc had cured him of that weakness. But this was almost more than he could bear. His guards were dead, and before his very eyes he could see the road that lead to his freedom stretching out, but he could not reach it. Once more he threw himself forward but this violence seemed only to increase the resistance and he fell back into the court once more. As he lay there he thought about the freedom that was so tantalizingly close, and realised that it really was nothing more than an impossible dream. The wailing of the Watchers was sure to bring more orcs soon, and there was already, no doubt, one of the Dark Lord's Screechers already winging toward this place. Grash turned from the gate and crawled back to the cells on his hands and knees. Better to hide in the storeroom again and await the orcs than be caught out here. If he plead ignorance of the events he might escape with only a whipping.

As he slunk into the hallway once more, however, he heard the calls of the prisoners and a new idea occurred to him. Alone and naked as he was, escape was impossible. He knew the ways and paths about Cirith Ungol well, and could easily find a way down from here to the road that lead westward to Minas Morgul. But beyond that he was lost. Even to get to that point alone and unarmed would be impossible…but with the help of other folk, it might just be possible. He sat for a moment and thought this over. He had never in his life considered the possibility that other people might be able to help him, but as hard as that thought might be, in this circumstance it actually made some kind of sense.

His decision suddenly made, Grash rushed down the hall to where he had seen the jailer’s body lying in a bloody heap. He pulled the keys from the beast’s belt and began unlocking the cell doors.

[piosenniel]

Bêthberry’s post

The cell was cool, dank, dark. The stone walls sweated and against these she pressed her body, for the coolness and the moisture alleviated the sore swelling of the bruises on her back and limbs. Amid such relief, she dreamed.

Nyumbani unada ye mkulima. Mtu utakuyo ndege. She sang to herself the old words which she had not heard for over fifteen moons save from her own tongue. How often had she recited the story of the hunter who, trapped by the lion, had miraculously turned into a bird and flown away high above the beast. She told herself the story over and over again as she thought of ways to make herself a bird and escape. Caged she was, but she would sing.

~ ~ ~

At first, when she awoke to find herself in chains in the Umbarian camp, she spoke up to the marauders in her tongue and for that she was cuffed about the head, hits that brought back the surging pain in her head which she had felt before blackness swarmed over her mind during the attack. Every time she had spoken the tongue of the Amazigh, her tribe of Far Harad, she had been hit or scorned. Sometimes the brutes of Umbar would throw their garbage at her and taunt her with pidgin imitation of her speech and soon she soon gave up speaking in her tongue aloud. But she refused to use the tongue of Umbar, the words of those who bartered her people as payment for weapons from men even more foul than they. For that reason the jackals of Umbar had begrudgingly fed her, keeping her healthy on the journey out of her land, for her caramel skin and golden eyes and lithe body would bring a high price from the men of Mordor.

She had watched the sky change as they brought her into this strange land until she could no longer tell direction from the stars at night. Part of the time, too, she had been drugged so she could not remember the route. No longer could she smell the scent of the tamarisk tree or of cinnamon in the radiant heat of the savannah. Instead, the air hung heavy with acrid odours and she came to know the scent of sulfur for the first time in her life.

She could remember only too well, however, the indignities and abuse from the hands and bodies of these swilling men who were no better than warthogs. Mordor she would repeat to herself, learning its name and some of the words of their vicious speech, as rough in tongue as the speakers were in attitude and action, but she would never give them the satisfaction of speaking their language to them. She had fought them at first, until they had broken her arms for her defiance and she could no longer fight them off. The snap of her bones breaking had brought back the pain in her head incurred during the attack on Makhubela, her home village. Many things were to bring back that pain and add other wounds. Unable to resist physically, she had taken the pain into herself and given it a name, kwenye darasa, until she had become so intimate with it she could follow its path and would know its duration and could recognise when it would peak. And in binding herself to the pain she took control of it and became utterly indifferent to her captors and their desires. And they tired of her indifference and intransigence and beat her in ways anew. Then they threw her off into this cell, taunting her that she would be fed to a monster blacker than she and more loathsome.

~ ~ ~

Shehemu yakii! Her dream was disrupted by howls of rage and hurt and the clang of steel upon steel from some kind of fracas in the courtyard; her senses became alert as she heard the screeching of the strange watchers and then warily observed the slave Grash run down the hallway. She tensed as if for battle when she saw him, for there was an urgency to his movements she had not seen in him previously, but he ignored the calls of other captives.

She was curious about Grash. He had been startled to see her when she was first brought down to the cells, and stared with undisguised curiosity at her dusky skin. In her tongue she had asked him if her skin was much different from his own tanned hide, yet he had not hit her as the Umbarians had. He spoke in a tongue different from that of the filthy warthogs yet not one she knew. He would speak its words to her occasionally when he came to sweep her cell or bring what food was given to her and she remembered them in her cunning. He had come to call her Darash after overhearing her speak several times to her pain, for she had refused to divulge her real name to him and he had refused to repeat the name the orcs had given her. He smelled different than the foul men of Mordor and she had come to realise that despite his seeming freedom he also was captive.

Then more footsteps sounded outside her cell and she pressed herself even closer to the wall, hoping to disguise herself and perhaps gain an advantage. Yet, instead of one of the foul creatures it was Grash who reappeared. He opened her cell door and called to her, “Darash.” She stood to her full height but without comprehension until he beckoned with his head and grabbed her elbow, drawing her with haste into the hallway. At first she resisted but then she followed him, wary, and yet aware that something had changed, like the sudden hesitation in the air of a dry season storm which would bring release after calamitous drought.

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial’s post

Deep down beneath the tower, in the depths that did not even feel the natural wind through it’s corridors or the run on its hard stone floors, a lone prisoner waited in a cell. Waited, I say, but then, waiting implies hope, and this prisoner has barely any of that left. A lone strand, barely anything at all, remained in her broken and disjointed mind, but it is all she is surviving on.

At the back of the dark cell lay what resembled like a pile of rags, tattered and torn, strewn in a loose pile as if shaken then discarded by some larger-than-life dog. But if you look closer, avoiding the dank smell of rot and blood, both dried and fresh, you would see a body underneath these rags. Another clank from above and the body does not move, and neither does it respond to the drawn-out, agonised scream which is suddenly cut short which floats from high above. The being is barely recognisable now, it’s skin mottled, bruised and torn, it’s limbs broken and disjointed, but one thing is sure. Whatever it once was, the being is dead.

But something in the cell responded.

Near the door, in the darkest, gloomiest corner, something stirred, a brief, sudden movement as a limb spasms and a gasp sounded quietly. One blue eye, old before it’s time, snapped open, and Raeis looked around, her gaze quick and darting. As another rattle, closer this time, sounded from above, and the sound of a man’s voice calls, the elf tried suddenly to move towards the door, but is pulled short suddenly by the ropes binding her wrists above her head to a loop of metal hammered into the wall. Raeis gasped again, painfully struggling once more against the ropes, her legs kicking frantically from the rough stone wall, heedless of the scrapes across her bare ankles, as her nightmare began to come real once more – the nightmare that someone was coming closer and she couldn’t do anything to defend herself. Maybe it was a nightmare…her detached mind drifted through the thought and she ceased for a moment.

Another clank sounded and the elf made up her mind. She was surer than she had been of anything in the past few torturous years – this time, it was real. And despite every instinct that she had developed in that time, she was going to have to do the one thing everything in her mind screamed against.

“H…help.” Her cry was feeble, coming from a throat unused to calling, but, bracing herself, she tried again. “Help…help!”

Suspended by her wrists against the wall, her feet about half an inch off the floor, Raeis twisted around the try to see out of the barred slot in the door. The young elf woman had been tied in this position for several hours, and she guessed it was probably morning: the guards had taken the correct number of watches for it to be a few hours from dawn, not that that meant anything down here. But where was the next? The last monster had gone sometime when Raeis was asleep, and another had not yet come – the always rested their spears in one of the holes into the cell, poking the spear through as if to tease her, knowing that she would gladly take it, throw herself upon it…even if just to see if this existence was real. But this hour…it seemed to have stretched forever. Hearing another clank, Raeis twisted again, the ropes biting into her wrists once more and opening up new wounds, but in her desperation she only spared them a moment, biting her lip.

“Help! Please I…” she trailed off, breathing heavily as she writhed furiously, attempting to get out of the ropes although she knew they were done up tight. It was just another form of torturing the elf, to hang her like this. The other rope, which wound around her neck before passing through the loop above with the one tying her wrists, pulled tight every time she struggled, choking her and making breathing and calling hard. Against all sense, she continued to struggle, coughing and choking against the noose as she called, until eventually she saw a shadow cross the door’s slot. For a moment, she thought the dark figure was an orc, another guard, but as it paused and looked in, she saw bright, blue eyes gleaming in what little light was cast from a guttering lamp. Giving another sharp, dry cough, her throat feeling as though someone had taken a saw to it, she twisted her fingers once more, feebly this time, against the ropes, and looked into the man’s eyes with her one, dark blue one.

“Help…” she whispered.

[piosenniel]

alaklondewen’s post

Lyshka had heard the commotion in the tower, but paid it no heed. Her cell was dark with shadows and the floor was cold as she sat against the wall with her long legs tucked beneath her chin. Her eyes stared blankly into the darkness as her mind simply worked to pass the time quickly so her body would not feel the pain of hunger.

Then, her ears began to pick up on a sound that was unexpected…the jingling of keys and the swinging of the iron doors. The prisoners around her called out and the first sounds of joy she had heard in many years flooded the dungeon. Lyshka slowly pushed herself up with her hands and crept to the door. She peaked through the window, but kept herself hidden in the shadows.

A young man was freeing the other prisoners. One cell at a time he inserted the key, turned it, and let the door fall open. Lyshka watched as he made his way one by one to her cell door. She stepped backward. Only her face was not consumed by the darkness. The man stepped forward, and she heard the shift of the lock. Still, she would not allow hope to rise in her, and she touched the door and studied the young man’s face with suspicion. Sensing her movement, he met her gaze with dull blue eyes, and then he turned from her and continued his task.

Lyshka held her breath as the door slowly opened. She knew nothing of freedom and taking a step toward it was one of the most terrifying actions she ever made.

[piosenniel]

Durelin’s post

Another scream reverberated in his head, and it shook his mind, thus shaking his entire body in a convulsive shiver. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he had no trouble recognizing that sound of pain, and who felt that pain. It was sad that he knew his mother’s scream just as well as he did her loving voice, but he did not understand this. Jordo knew he felt something, and it was so very uncomfortable. This was painful, in some way – he thought he understood ‘pain’ – but he wondered why he felt pain. Pain was a punishment, and he had been good.

Jordo remained curled up on the ground, listening to the screams for several moments, until a hand touched him softly on the arm. It was cold and rough, blistered and bony, but it still sent warmth running through him, knowing that this was not an orc hand. He pulled his head out from within his arms, and noticed that the world around him had grown silent. There were no more screams. His mother knelt next to him in the dirt and soot, her face showing no signs of pain. And Jordo’s eyes were dry. The world was so silent.

“Mama, I’ll be good, mama! I won’ hurt you mama, I’ll be good! They won’ hurt us, I’ll be so much good!”

“So very good, Jordo.” Her loving voice made him smile, even though she now spoke without her mind, as it was wandering in sadness. “What you do can’t stop them from hurting your mama, and I’d never want it to. You must let them hurt me, Jordo.”

“Never!” he cried, but still his eyes were dry. His mother smiled.

“If you truly mean never, Jordo, they will hurt you so much more.”

“What you mean, mama? Mama?”

There was no answer, and now he looked down at his mother as she lay on the ground. She lay on the ground, silent and still, and yet his eyes were dry. “Mama?” his voice cried out in an horror and a growing anguish that he could not feel.

“You let them hurt you, mama!”

Now the sounds returned to his silent world, though he could not determine what he heard or distinguish any single sound. A warm itchiness tickled at his cheek, and his hand reached up to scratch it. He felt a wetness, and with this feeling so many others returned to his mind, and he cried freely. The knowledge of where he was, and that seeing his mother had had to have been a dream, made his body shake in small sobs.

Metal ground and screeched, and they were the first noticeable sounds yet heard. He was alone, yet he was in the little room he had known all his life: his cell. And so he felt at ease. He dried his eyes. They were coming to get him, it seemed, though it was not time yet for work; he knew that. But he also knew that he had nothing to fear, because he had always been so very good. But it was not an orc that came for him, but a man dressed in the same garb as Jordo. In his hand was a set of keys.

“Come with me!” he whispered urgently, and Jordo was so ready to obey that he was silent as he rose to follow the man.

[piosenniel]

Aylwen Dreamsong’s post:

Alone.

Jeren had never been so alone in his life.

In his small, confined imprisonment room Jeren could find little comfort. The dank, dusty stone walls and the little candle that held all light in the room held no warm company. The wooden entryway in the floor that led to a small set of creaky wooden stairs did not offer hope of escape; Jeren knew who – or what – awaited him should he dare to open the decaying slab of wood. Jeren suspected it had been locked anyway. The metal bars on the left wall opened to some other cell, but Jeren had not been in his own room long enough to wonder if any other beings had been held prisoner.

Alone.

Jeren had no company save for the noises of battle outside the tower.

They had been rumbling and shouting for a long while, or so it had seemed to Jeren. None of it gave any hope to Jeren. If the attackers came out victorious, Jeren was likely to be pursued and killed for his days of fighting in league with Sauron. If the attackers were massacred, he would still end up in the high tower as prisoner. He would remain a prisoner in his own King’s castle. Jeren had little pride left in him and no one to fight for. After being deemed a traitor and a piece of scum by those he had fought for and those he had led, Jeren had little motivation to do anything. His own life would never be worth enough to try and save, and he had spent his whole life trying to help others. Jeren sighed as he thought about the past, which had been dedicated to others, then held his breath as he took a good look at the present.

Alone.

Jeren did not know how long he had been in the cell.

His clothes had already begun to tatter, though. At the hems Jeren could see the threads unraveling, releasing the pressure and care woven into breeches he had worn for so many years. Jeren’s thick black curls did not feel as soft or bouncy as they once had, while his face and body burned with the pain of a thousand scrapes and bruises. His dark eyes had long clouded over in misery, losing the sharp black gaze and being replaced with hardened and disheartened anger. Still, no matter how many thoughts brashly ran throughout his mind, he remained alone…

…That is, until someone stuck their head through the little door in the floor.

“I am Grash…follow me!”

[piosenniel]

Sarin Mithrilanger’s post

Darkness spanned Zuromor’s entire cell once more. It was always dark and gloomy beyond all imagining. He sat in the darkest corner of both his cell and his mind. Dark thoughts came to him, besieged him. In an effort to shake himself away from such things he began to exercise, though he now tired of even thinking of doing such things. The orcs were not without intelligence however and they usually had a guard outside the group of cells his own was in – in case any of the slaves tried something foolish. But this night (or day) was different. There was no guard on watch. This seemed strange to him, but strange things often happened in Mordor.

He was just finishing up his routine when he heard raised voices and odd noises that soon sounded like keys. He approached the cell door and peered down as far as he could. Soon he saw a figure approaching. He sighed and stood in the center of his cell expecting an orc to come and threaten him. But in a matter of moments a man stepped in front of his door and unlocked it.

Zuromor was so shocked he dared not move. The man looked at him for a moment and then waved for him to follow. Zuromor hesitated - freedom seemed like another prison, just bigger. But maybe there is a land where orcs do not roam. He smiled briefly as the thought crossed his mind. He quickly followed this mysterious figure to his first taste of freedom. He was out of his cell and for the first time, there were no orcs around him.

[piosenniel]

Novnarwen's post:

A four legged oblong thing came sneaking through the closed bars this morning. Yes, for it is believed that it was morning. It ran hurriedly after the smell, of which it had been eager to get closer to for a long time. It was a nasty smell, the smell of rot and dried blood. But this little creature didn't think it horrible at all. It came closer and closer, having its nose sticking up in the air, squeaking, trembling with curiosity. Its long, thick, tail could only just be seen as the dim light crept through the bars and into the square room. The tail made a whispering sound now and then, as it was dragged, quickly, over the stone floor. Suddenly, what it had been waiting for; there were movements in the corner. Its yellow eyes lit up, its mouth twitched and its tail slid more quietly along the floor. Not long now...

In the dark corner of the room, something was indeed moving. A steady movement it was, someone was breathing. Rags and old clothing covered what was beneath.

Finally, it was there! It ran, scraping its sharp nails on the floor, through a hole in the clothing. Sniffing, letting in the stank of rot, dried blood and sweat, it set its teeth into the flesh.

"OUCH!!!"

A voice, so loud that the bricks in the wall trembled, exploded from underneath the rags. The rags moved quickly from the ground, and a pair of feet could be spotted; a man arose. His face was pale and his eyes red and bleary. He was covered in sweat and dirt, this, making him look old and grim. The rings under his eyes showed the number of days, weeks and months he had staid here. His eyes looked desperately around. Cursing like mad, lifting a hand to where he had been bit, he discovered the creature crawling pettily towards the bars again. With gritted teeth and a malicious look in his face, he sprang over. As there was a crack, the man lifted his foot gently and laughed gruffly. "Never bite a sleeping man. Never!"

Rhând sat down, laid his head on the ground and stirred into the dead rat's eyes. The open wound the rat had left him, made him writhe with pain. "Darn you rat!" he said slowly, feeling the pain in his neck die away for a bit. "Where did you come from?" he smirked and paused. "Was it through the bars or was it elsewhere? Is there another way to get out of this hole?" he shuddered, biting his lip. He cursed the rat, the hole of a cell and all the servants of Sauron. How had he ended up here? He knew very well how, but he had difficulties coping with it anyhow. He cursed once more, loudly this time. Offering the dead rat one last look, filled with hatred that is, he rose to his feet and clapped his hands together. Thirteen months inside of this hole, it was too much! He clapped his hands together once more. Clever they are, the free men, he thought to himself. They must have known that he wasn't who he claimed to be, and set him up. He frowned. A year had passed and he didn't even know the truth about what had happened. He wasn't sure whether it was the Gondorians who had set him up or whether it was Sauron's faithful servants. He supposed it was the Gondorians though. "Those foul folk of free men!" He yelled and cursed. He should have known that day, when that ambassador had called him in for a meeting. The ambassador must have already known, Rhând was certain of it. Why else would that filthy Gondorian have smirked so annoyingly at him that day? He clapped once more, jumped up and down, dancing. He broke into a song; which touched every aspect of his life now and what it had been before. He grabbed the dead rat, held it in is tail, and swung it in the air.

Some would call him crazy, but the months locked up in the cell had made him different from what he had been like. From the very first day he had been brought to the Tower, or rather; from the day he had been interrogated, Rhând had been tortured. He usually screamed, asked for mercy or tried again to tell the truth about being set up, but this only made it more enjoyable for his interrogaters. However, as Rhând got to know their ways of tormenting, he was more aware and tried to make friends with his keepers. Sometimes, he found it good fun to learn about their miserable lives, even though they probably never spoke the truth. By doing this, he also made them forget about him, as they all believed he was both crazy and harmless.

"This is good fun," he muttered to himself, still having the rat in his left hand, swinging it back and forwards. But he was interrupted by a terrible uproar. He cast himself to the floor, slightly afraid that they were coming to get him. What was he supposed to tell them today? He wondered. He had already listened to their pathetic lives; he would have to figure out something new, creative. Maybe the torture would stop completely then. He lay down, covered his head with his rags, casting the rat towards the bars. Rhând focused, trying to hear what was going on. There was shouting, no; roars, coming from .... somewhere. Rhând even got the odd feeling of whoever it that was shouting, weren't coming his way. He frowned; almost disappointed that no one was visiting. It was after all quite lonely staying here day after day in this dark hole.

A few minutes had passed, when at last Rhând realised that someone was coming. He cursed, and regretted that he had even thought that some of these nasty, treacherous creatures, could be good company. He curled together on the floor, making himself look small; hoping that whoever came by, would just leave again; thinking that it was just an empty cell. He spent his mucles, in case they would burst into the room and grab him. He felt the bite on his neck burn with pain, and he cursed the inner circle, before letting out a sigh.

"Anyone there?"

A voice from the other side of the bars muttered silently. Of course, Rhând heard the whisper quite well, but grew uncertain about what to answer. This did not at all sound like the voice of the orcs who guarded the Tower or any other he had got to know through the torturing. Gritting his teeth, he realised that if it was indeed someone else, something terribly wrong was at hand in the Tower. How could possibly a normal man or woman, who weren't prisoners, walk freely around in the Cirith Ungol? Unless.... they were prisoners, he thought.

Next thing he knew, he was out of the cell, trotting behind a man he had never seen before; named Grash.

[piosenniel]

The Perky Ent's post:

The festering odor of orcs emanated through Dorim’s cell. The constant darkness that filled his prison remained its putrid hue. Dorim’s back was firmly against his wall, where no light could reach him. Drops of water dripped from the damp ceiling and landed in front of Dorim’s barefoot feet. Inside his head, nothing passed through Dorim’s mind. No thoughts of heroic escape or fantasies of love. Nothing, as he had nothing to live for. In the last 15 years of his life, he was deprived of purpose. The only things that could move his in-animate body was either if someone opened his cell, or if Sauron decided he was worthless and should be killed. Fortunately for him, fate would choose the first option.

Hearing a giant crash from the ceiling, Dorim didn’t bother to look up. Whatever it was, it surely wasn’t important enough. Soon after, Dorim began hearing even more loud sounds. He could hear people of all races mumbling in their cells. All races of Middle Earth had somehow found their way into the hell that Dorim waked up to every day. Then, as he closed his eyes, Dorim could feel sand from Harad beneath his feet. What little light crept into the cell vanished, as a pillar of light smiled down on Dorim. Behind him, he sensed something, and behind him was a lone Haradrim, holding a dagger. Dorim reached for his ax, finding nothing. The man was facing the other way though, not looking at Dorim. Then, another, larger beam of light came, and revealed a large group of Haradrim in a circle. They all pulled out their daggers, and began to make the circle they were in smaller. Suddenly, there was a shout, and a red bead of light shot upward from the center of the circle. Suddenly, the lone Haradrim dropped to the ground, revealing a dwarf with a piece of glass in his hand. Dorim. Suddenly, one of the men sliced Dorim’s head, and all the lights went out.

Suddenly, Dorim heard something he never thought he would here. The opening of cell doors. There was a confused merriment being flushed through the cells. It flowed past Dorim, having little effect. There were still rumbles in the ceiling, but they were significantly lighter. Suddenly, a dark figure ran to the barred door of his cell. Dorim could faintly hear the jingling of keys. Suddenly, in an instant, the dark figure opened the cell door, and ran. Dorim, if he were still as foolish as he used to be, would have stood there in amazement, pondering the occurrence. Dorim rushed out of his cell, cutting his foot on a rock. It didn’t matter. Freedom was in his grasp.

Looking out of his cell, Dorim noticed several others had been released. The fact that no guards were in sight troubled Dorim. “Maybe it’s a trap?” Dorim thought, wondering why fate had chosen this to happen. Dorim always believed in fate. He thought his capture was meant to be. That like his parents, he wouldn’t be remembered. His pessimistic thought came through Dorim’s mind every time something happened. It was just his way of looking at life. “It must be a trap! It must be! That blasted spider must be hungry!” Dorim thought, starting to back away from the exit. Then, he heard the scream of an orc, and realized something was wrong in the tower of Cirith Ungol. This was no mass feeding. It was freedom.

[piosenniel]

Kransha’s post

Bror sat, as he always did, leaning in cold and solemn silence against the rough-rocked wall of his cell, the back of his thick skull pounding, a resonating beat thumping like a drum in the back of his head as he sat, his eyes firmly shut with heavy eyelids sealed as if they were sewn together. There was very little light to let in, but the checkered shadows around him let in slim plumes of light whenever they were absent, though Bror had discovered that this was mostly a silhouette drama fabricated by his own mind, which was gnawed at daily by the insect of tedium. Even though that invisible spider was not as lethal as the monstrous being who skulked through the jagged rocks of the pass of Cirith Ungol, its omnipresence in Bror was just as painful.

‘Baruk Khazâd. Khazâd aimênu.’ He chanted slowly in his head, hearing the melodious thunder of the dwarven battle-cry pounding incessantly in his ears, the blast of it increasing as the dragging moments passed, roared by a hundred of his folk at least, a chorus that lingered in the blank corridors just before his eyes, beneath his nose, under his beard, and out of his reach. He breathed deep, the beard hair around his mouth blowing about as a sail would in a calm sea breeze. His eyes beginning to open, his ears quivered sensitively, listening to the murderous, raucous cries that rained down on him from the levels of the tower above.

There were sounds, not that there ever weren’t, but these sounds held a strange feeling in them that wafted like smoke through the rusted bars of Brór’s cell. He lips parted as he began mouthing the words inaudibly to himself, thinking even in his tongue, although he feared he would never need the language again. He knew that no one else in Cirith Ungol knew the words he spoke of save the other few dwarves, and he had long considered attempting to teach it to the other prisoners, just so he would not be alone in the knowledge, but it was a miserably foolish thought and his secretive nature would not allow him even to speak it aloud, coupled with threats from the orcs, who didn’t appreciate their prisoners saying things that they couldn’t understand. One dwarf had made that mistake and paid a most terrible price, but sights such as that no longer haunted Bror.

He managed to shift from his position, inching his way forward through the dank cell that contained him. His eyes widened weakly, his furrowed brow easing up as he looked through the bars and peered out, circumspect, observing his surroundings which he was so familiar with. Sounds of vicious mayhem had been rattling and clanging above him for a long time now, but those sounds had drifted away, out of his hearing, and he suspected that whatever struggle had occurred, it was now over. Suddenly, his keen eyes flitted to a figure scurrying down the damp hallway, busying himself with the unlocking of cells. At first, Bror could not fathom what was going on, as he ceased thinking in Khuzdul and reverted involuntarily back to the tongue so oft used in Cirith Ungol, being the only one that all races within new and were fluent in.

Was it possible? Were the prisoners being freed? Was this some sort of mass feeding session for the spider in the pass? He considered as quickly as he could, his dulled mind sharpening upon the whetstone of spontaneity in the span of an instant. He stepped back from the icy bars, half in shock and half in a pooling mixture of horror and glee, as the man, a black-haired being, lean and with the same look as many human prisoners, but with an odd glint in his eye, unlocked his cell door and hurried off as the barred object that had held Bror in this forsaken place for 19 years swung open, limp and useless, as if it were nothing. Staggering with a weight that had never been before, and another weight removed, Bror walked out, through the threshold, and into the hall.

[piosenniel]

CaptainofDespair's post:

Morgoroth awoke in his cold, dank cell on a dark morning. His unusually long captivity in Cirith Ungol had made him aware of everything that went on in Mordor. He had learned to tell, just from the sounds an orc made while moving, what was going on. He was kept alone, segregated from the other prisoners. This was ordered out of caution on the Tower Guards' part. He was dangerous, not because he could free himself, but because his calming allure, and his intermittent singing, would act as a bolster to the captive population, and might allow for a rebellion.

But this day felt strange to him, for he perceived many new guard detachments being sent farther down into the Tower. He wondered what was going on down the depths of the dungeon. He could make out the faint sounds of screaming prisoners.

"Most likely they are being beaten or tortured", he muttered to himself. "They won't last long."

Suddenly, the horrid shrieking stopped. A another detachment of orcs went scurrying down the hall past his cell. Two of the guards stopped outside his door, and began conversing in their gutteral language. Morgoroth had managed to decipher some of which the orcs had said. One of them had, before the two had moved on down the hall, spoken of a small uprising on the third cell block. A few slaves had freed themselves, and were now in the process of holding of the orc contingents sent down to quell their revolt. A thought crossed Morgoroth's mind at that moment.

"Hmm...maybe this one will succeed where the others have failed..." He paused for a moment, and then continued where he left off from. "However unlikely it may be." He chuckled softly to himself. "And if the revolt has lucky on its side, the Orcs will kill each other over some paltry trinkets taken from a haul elsewhere."

Again, screams were heard reverberating from the lower levels. The orcs were dead no doubt, and many had probably turned to killing each other. The captains of the tower had never seen eye to eye, so even in a small rebellion, if they had some previous conflict, they would not aid one another. What seemed like an hour passed by quickly, and now, a hurried scampering of feet echoed up the hall, slowly making its way nearer to his cell. Morgoroth could hear the hushed mumbling of voices a few feet outside his wooden door. Slowly, he heard the clanging of keys approach. The movement hastened, as the being on the other side of the doorway searched frantically for the right key. At last, they found it, and inserted it into the lock. The mechanisms within the lock could be heard moving, as the key was twisted in its place. Silence then pervaded the area. But the thud of the lock hitting the stone floor interupted the aura of serenity that had overcome the Elf in that instant. The door was then flung open by a mysterious man standing the doorway. Morgoroth knew he was no orc, or mannish guard, but a prisoner of the Tower, awaiting his fate with Shelob. The figure quickly left, leaving Morgoroth to make his own exit from the cell. He gracefully got up from his hay-covered, stone slab bed, and bolted out the door.

[piosenniel]

Himaran's post

Dwali sat in the back of his small cell, listening to the sounds of battle coming from all directions. Such a horrid clamor did not bother, nay, even affect him; for it could only mean that some worse evil was approaching. Perhaps it is finally time to die. Time to leave this world of darkness... and enter another. Relaxing against the cold stone in a relatively calm fashion, Dwali contemplated what was to come.
Maybe it was the great spider they had spoken of, Shelob, or another rival orc army. Then the thought that it was a force from Gondor flickered through his mind, but the dwarf tried to ignore it. The mind is deceitful. It leads to hope, and hope slowly turns to reality. He shifted his postion, trying to find a comfortable spot on the rough prison wall.

And reality... is darkness. And death.

Although only a prisoner in Morder for three years, Dwali spent much of his time brooding in the inky blackness of his underground cell. He had been tortured for information about his race after arriving at the tower, but had since been left alone to guess his painful end; fed on scraps more putrid than orc fare. The dwarf's personality, already frayed since the murder of his parents, had molded into one of pessimism, sarcasm, and an assurance that his death was imminent. But on that particular day, Dwali's demise was not to be.

As the screams and clangs of metal began to fade, another sound caught the dwarf's keen ears. It was that of a key turning in a lock, and a rusty door swinging open. And then realization dawned -- it was his door! Dwali stood quickly, trying to recognize his rescuer (or murderer, more likely). It was a young man, but his other features were hidden by the darkness of the cavern. "You are free," he wispered. "Follow me, there are others."

Ignoring the nagging thought that it could be a trap, Dwali stepped out of his chamber. It was probably all some sort of trick, and he would soon be beaten and returned to his tiny prison; but even to be out for a few minutes would be worth it. Then he stopped, and hurried back inside. The dwarf felt around the bottom of the wall, hands digging and feeling about in a frantic manner. Then his left hand hit cold steel, and he pulled it out gingerly. There, it a hidden crack, was the knife he had stolen from a nearby guard over a year before. Perhaps it would be of some use afterall.

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post

Grash led them down the dark passage toward the storeroom at its end. They were a motley collection of folk and they were still adjusting to their sudden and unexpected freedom. Some were clearly joyous at their release, while others merely looked about them as though in a daze. All bore some mark of torment or abuse, and if Grash were capable of human feeling he would have been heartbroken by the pitiable state of them all. There was not a whole shirt or unrent garment amongst them: they were starved, exhausted, naked and entirely unarmed in the dungeons of their torturers. And yet they were free. Free – Grash let the word roll about in his mind, like a tasty morsel of meat about his tongue, tasting and relishing it. He had never known freedom, and was as yet unsure of its flavour. He felt it was sweet, but when he looked about him at where he was and who he had to rely on, his mouth went sour with the forethought of failure. Once more he thought about running away and hiding, and telling the orcs that the prisoners had freed themselves, but he knew they would never believe him. He had no choice now, but to continue with his plan of escape.

Reaching the end of the passageway, he led them through the low arch to the right of the Underdoor, behind which lurked the nameless terror that consumed all who dared venture into its lair. Never had Grash passed that door without a shiver, knowing that it was his fate one day to go through it, prodded on by the jeering insults and sharpened knives of orcs. He saw many amongst this ragged group glare at the door with similar feelings of horror.

When they were gathered in the storeroom, Grash turned to speak. At first, however, his heart failed, for in all his life he had never spoken to a group. Indeed, in the last three years the only speaking he had done had been to respond as curtly as possible to the rough commands of his captors. When he looked about him he saw the eyes of the prisoners glinting in the half-dark of the room, all of them looking to him for guidance and escape. Grash, hardened as he was by the long terrors of a life spent in servitude to the cruelest of masters, was afraid. He swallowed twice, though his mouth was dry, and began to outline his plan. “Krâzduk dakka, nit grankúl.” The instant he spoke he could see that few if any of them understood a word of what he said. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps they did not speak the Black Speech of Mordor, which had been his tongue since birth. He switched into the Common Speech that the orcs used when speaking with members of other tribes. “Food,” he said, pointing at the sacks and casks that lay about. “Water,” and he indicated the small cistern. “We take some with us. From here, in skins and bags. Grik, need weapons, armour, clothes. Search bodies and find these things; try to look like orcs.” He saw that they understood him, as uncouth as his speech might be. He gestured at the group, making motions with his hands as though he were trying to part them. “In groups,” he said. “We look in groups. Two or three; go above into courtyard, fraz Tower. Then meet here, and leave…through Door.”

There was a slight murmur as they took this in, and Grash could see that his plan was not being taken very well. One of the Dwarves stepped forward. He was sinewy and tough, like all Dwarves, but this one was darker than most, even after his years in the Tower. Grash had heard orcs speaking of him once, and they had said that he had been prisoner here for nineteen years. “Why must we go out through that door?” he demanded. “The beast which lurks there will destroy us all!” There were sounds of assent from the rest.

Grash tried to explain. “Gate closed by terrible creatures of stone. Cannot go out, cannot get past great wall that cannot be seen. You go to gate, you see.” He pointed out through the arch of the storeroom, toward the Door. “Only way, only way out. You come with me through there, or go back to cell now and wait for orcs to return.”

The male Elf spoke, then. Grash was awed by the two Elves, for he had never seen one until he had come to the Tower, and all that he had heard of them had been from the orcs who ruled his life. He knew more than to trust the word of an orc, but still he was somewhat afraid of the Elves – afraid that they might kill him and take his blood so they could live forever. “Why must we find weapons?” he asked. “Where are the others rebels? Surely they are armed, to have killed so many orcs.”

“No, no,” Grash said, shaking his head. “No others. No rebels. Orcs killed orcs, fought each other. Some ran away, will soon bring others. Other orcs and maybe,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “maybe even, Screechers – Screechers of the Dark Lord.” He shivered at the thought. “Hurry, hurry,” he said, “look for weapons, look for clothes. Go in groups, but come back soon; orcs coming, be here soon. We must be gone before they find us.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis rubbed her wrists gingerly, letting pain sear through them as the sweat of her hands mingled with the blood that slickened her skin. Pain was no stranger to the elf but...but this pain was of her own making. She was causing it. Her own choice... She clenched the fingers of her left hand tighter, digging her ragged nails in a little, as if testing as to whether it was actually real, then gasped quietly as the pain of her nails in her raw, bloody flesh laced like white hot pokers through her arms, lancing through her body. It was almost exhilerating.

"Stop," a voice said quietly. A hand grabbed Raeis's left wrist, pulling her fingers away from the wounds on her right wrist. Her reaction was a reflex: she lashed out, ripping her hand from the grasp of the other as she glared up at him. The other elf looked back at her in a sort of confusion, but a studied confusion. His eyes were sharp, intelligent - so very different from any that Raseis had seen in so many years that she felt captivated by them, almost drawn in...shutting her eyes tightly, childishly, almost petulantly, Raeis looked away, pressing her lips together firmly. His eyes seemed to wield some power over her and no one would have power over her.

She felt her wrist burn with renewed vigour - when Raeis had pulled away from the other elf, he had ripped another layer of skin away. She looked up at him angrily. "You hurt me..." she whispered, her voice soft, parched.

He shook his head, and Raeis was intrigued by the way his dark hair moved as he did so, a dull sheen moving across it in response to his movement. She could scarcely believe he was real, they were real, she was real... "If you damage your right hand, you won't be able to fight."

Raeis smiled defiantly. "'m left-handed," she shot back, then grinned again, surprised at herself. A sort of heady euphoria settled over her as she realised that she could say whatever she liked without punishment, could converse with another - and another of her species as well. She looked more closely at the other elf now, although she was careful to avoid those wise, captivating eyes. Dark hair, grey eyes, a shadow over his face from the years he had spent captive, but he was elven - an elf! An elf! - and Silvan, she thought.

"What is your name?" she asked, curious.

"Morgoroth Aranur," he replied courteously. Raeis regarded him for a second, head on one side and eyes glittering in the half darkness before she broke the habit of so many years of captivity. "I am Raeis," she replied grandly. Yes...Raeis...I am Raeis...an elf, and not a prisoner...ye-es....

"Food. Weapons. We must find these to escape."

The words strung together brokenly in the Common Tongue made Raeis spin around from Morgoroth to face a dark man, an easterling. He was like those men who sometimes came with the orcs to gawp and mock and beat and... Raeis's hand whipped out viciously towards the man, fingers splawed like a talon as she gave a cry of anger.

"No!" Once more, Morgoroth caught her wrist with incredibly speed, stopping her hand just a few inches from the other man's face. The other man stumbled back hastily, anger and fear in her otherworldly blue eyes as he looked back at Raeis. She watched him haughtily and Morgoroth let go of her wrist. She took a step closer to Grash, although he kept his distance, tilting her head again like a bird to observe him. After a second, she reached out a hand slowly towards his face. The man watched her warily, but did not flinch this time, although he was evidently nervous of the elf. "You freed me..." she murmured quietly, surprised. "But you will not hurt me. No one will hurt Raeis now..."

Smiling lopsidedly, Raeis turned away, thoughts of weapons and food leaping into her disjointed mind of a sudden. Stretching her arms out in front of her and flexing her fingers, she rolled her neck around to dispel a painful cramp then shook herself like an animal, before starting off in a stealthy run to where she knew she could find weapons...

[CaptainofDespair]

Taking in the dark, clouded air of Mordor, Morgoroth gasped for a fresh breath. But finally, after his eighteen years in a tortured nightmare, he was free. This new freedom was, however, not what he expected it to be. Surrounded by the high mountain walls of the Ephel Duath, and with the harsh, almost inescapable watch of the Great Eye so very near, he did not feel free.

His encounter with Raeis however, had given him a brief feeling of homeliness, as if he was back in Mirkwood, listening to the sounds of the birds amongst the trees. He could have drowned in her deep blue eyes, for they had drawn in him in, as a spider does to the fly, and he had immersed himself in the history of them. But his attention had quickly gone back to the man they knew as Grash. He listened to him speak of the Silent Watchers, and of the Tunnel. Having heard stories of what lurked in the Tunnel from the orc guards, he knew all too well what waited for them. But Morgoroth saw a certain confidence in the man, and he trusted him.

He scanned the motley, rag-tag group that had been freed by Grash. Morgoroth was not surprised to see a few of the Haradrim and Easterlings thrown in with a the slaves. But he was curious as to why dwarves were being held captive here, in Cirith Ungol. His knowledge of the dwarves was limited, but he knew they were great craftsmen. He wondered why they would not be put into the service of the Dark Lord. But soon he realized, that he would have time to contemplate this thought later. The Orcs would return to Ungol, and if the escapees were still in the Tower, there would be slaughtered ruthlessly. Time was of the essence, and the questions that were hurtling through his mind, would have to wait.

Now, he noticed that the remnant slaves and prisoners were pairing off, and preparing to head into the tower, to search for those which would be a necessity if they were to survive. Having been in complete solitude for so long, Morgoroth's mind told him to seek the recluse within, as he had always done. But now, his heart demanded a different course of action. So, he made his way to the now ajar entrance of the courtyard, blocking the path of Raeis, whom had made an attempt to sneak off on her own.

"Milady..." Raeis stopped in her tracks, seeing the tall, but tattered elf blocking the path that she had chosen to take. "You do not think I would allow you to run off into such an evil place, without the proper...company?" She stared at the Silvan, still intrigued by why he had taken his time to prevent her from entering the Tower. "I believe it is my duty, not only as an elf, but as a noble child of Eru, to keep you from harm. We should stay together, as it would prove most beneficial in the long run," he continued. He flashed Raeis a sharp smile, and stood patiently awaiting her decision.

Raeis looked at him quizzically, and it took her a few moments to respond. but finally she muttered a low-toned response. "Fine...We shall keep each other company," she groaned. Morgoroth stepped aside from his post at the gateway, and allowed her to pass. As he turned to follow her in, he looked back a brief moment, caught up with the eerie display of carnage that had ensued in the courtyard. "Stupid Orcs," he muttered, as he hastily trotted into the Tower, to catch up with Raeis.

[Novnarwen]

It was an odd feeling which arose inside of him. The moment he had left the little hole of a cell, he'd felt somewhat different. A year had passed by, a whole year, and he had been locked up for all this time. Standing now, utterly surprised by the people he found himself facing, he was lost for words. He listened to the man who had come and set him free. Rhând couldn't make out the details as he was completely in his own thoughts. However, he understood that they were going in groups, getting weapons. After that they would find a way out. Rhând stood silently watching the others with his mouth open. How could possibly this be happening? This Grash couldn’t really expect all of the to find a way out together. They didn't know each other. Most likely, Rhând figured, they were all traitors of Sauron and fighting for the free folk. Why else would they be in the Tower? He knew that he, of course, was an exception. But it had been a mistake. He was truly a faithful servant. However, as he looked at the others, who he supposedly would be going out of the Tower with, he realised something new. There were elves here! Feeling his body getting tense and his veins getting purple, he tried to control his fury. They were evil creatures, proud and arrogant. Last of all, they were amongst them who were against His will. With disgust, he cast a glance over at the elves - two in number - two too many. They were standing closely together as if they were scared the Dark Lord would take care of them personally. Rhând smirked, but was careful not to be seen. How disgraceful.

Realising that the others were taking Grash seriously, about making groups, Rhând found himself thinking about who he should go with. Knowing that the elves were out of question, he turned to look at the others. It was very important not to mix with the wrong people. As Rhând began to think about it, it was probably best for him to mix with a possible leader. Yes, for he was now determined to follow the group, at least until they were out of the Tower.

Making no suggestion yet about whom he wanted to go with, he tried not to stare too much at the others. Intensely, he watched the dwarves. They could be good, because they were rumoured to have a strong will. Besides, they were strong, physically, and stout. But he had also heard that that was indeed all there was too. According to his sources, they were quite dumb. In that case, could he make good use of them if time came? Eventually, he would have to get away from the group, as he was probably the only one who was a servant of Sauron. Yes, for even though his year in prison, he would again prove his faithfulness, and again he would gain trust. After a few seconds thought, he realised that the elves would never side with dwarves in a confrontation. Rumour had it that the two races were highly hostile towards each other. No, dwarves out of question and elves out of question. What about the women? No, women were too emotional, and would most likely not charge for the leader position in the group. Yes, there would most definitely be a leader here. Against his will or not, a leader would be born. Rhând was not going to be that leader, but he would have to find the one who would. It would be best if he found the man who would against his will be the leader, because he would likely be easiest to have an influence on.

As Rhând turned to the remaining men, he couldn't make out their figures properly. He could, however, see some things of value. One was slightly short, and due to the uncertainty in his face expression, he would definitely not be the one who would lead the group. Not even dwarves, who were dumb, would let that happen. The two others remaining; Grash and another, seemed both to be of the calibre Rhând was looking for. The one, standing next to Grash, could possibly be a Southron and therefore most likely to be the man who would fight with claws to get the position in the company he wanted. Good, but he wouldn't be loved for it. Grash would. He had set them free, he would be the leader without really wanting it. He would be easy to trick, he would be the one Rhând would use. Yes, the pieces finally started to make a complete puzzle.

At last Rhând pointed at himself and at Grash, to symbolise that they should go together.

Just then, he had realised that his own intelligence had played him. Why hadn't he thought of it before? If he wanted to gain respect amongst Sauron's servants and make up for the mistake he made over one year ago, bringing lost prisoners back to their cells would certainly help him get what he so eargerly sought.

[Kransha]

Brór walked slowly, dragging his feet, which were feebly garbed by withered rags and threads, along the cold, rock-solid earth beneath. Fresh air was not unknown to him, though the vile air of Mordor bore a furious, deathly stench as if a smoggy haze had descended on the tower and interspersed parapets, the cloud working its way down with a insubstantial, slow speed as it pulled itself over the land, groping as the clawed digits of orcs would…or the rough a multitudinous legs of the beast that waited for its prey just outside the shadowy tower. Brór’s eyes shifted up, with a threadbare hint of anxiety in them. He was struck, as he saw the billowing clouds wafting through the sky as ominously as ever, by a disjointed paroxysm of fear, and then of hope, and then of both together. It was a strange, lancing feeling that jetted through him, but was whisked away by the passing wind, the first breeze Brór had ever felt in the land of shade.

He glanced around as his pace increased, still weak and tediously wrought, but with some notion, though vague, of vigor, which he had not let attach to him in fifteen of his nineteen imprisoned years. Beside him, as the trio of dwarves hurriedly ascended into Cirith Ungol’s high depths, were two others of his kind. One was less than half his age, by the look of him, and the other barely that half. They both seemed older than they doubtless were, an effect which leeched life from all those imprisoned, but Brór’s quick thought told him the summer’s they’d seen. As he threw his feet, one by one, up the jagged, chipped stone of the stairs to the next level, he turned from them, moving in front. Most knew that many weapons would be found in on the higher levels above the courtyard and overlooking it, since many orcs congregated there from time to time.

“This forsaken place is rank with orc stench, even after they are gone.” Said one, the second oldest, who Brór knew to be called Dorim, with disgust evident in his tone. Brór looked at him icily, his gaze as cold as it was years ago, unchanged by anything, even this new possibility. Dorim kicked aside a body, colored dark as coal and decked with jutting prongs of misplaced steel, which lay in a twisted, wrenched position on the stairs. “It is the stench of death,” Brór corrected quietly, “not of orcs.”

“Death and orcs share the same jagged blade.” Retorted the one called Dorim, with the same flat, unemotional treble that Brór bore in his gravelly voice. He leaned down, not hesitating to heave the orc over onto his back, sending the knife which was there embedded deeper in. The orc, though dead, gurgled and twitched violently, but the dwarves remained unfazed. Dorim inspected the corpse for weaponry and, finding none, instead flipped the stiffened husk again and yanked the rusty, crimson-soaked blade from his back, buried hilt deep. He examined it too, and clutched it in his hand.

“It would seem not,” interjected one who Brór did not know, a younger dwarf, “if one blade has crushed the other here.” Dorim nodded astutely as he wiped the blood from the knife on his rags, almost delighting in it. Brór nodded as well, walking forward across the open, cracked stones, examining the many lifeless carcasses, cast aside as useless puppets might be from their masters’ hands. He looked at their battered forms, the blood that stained the earth beneath, the wreckage and debris spread around. Limping unconsciously, he leaned down and drew one of the more intriguing, and pain-inducing weapons from beneath an orc, a crude mace, with spikes and points welded upon it to make it formidable. In some dark, horrible way, it reminded him of the ax he’d once sported in the days of his freedom. He hefted it onto his shoulder.

“Yes, crushed and broken indeed. We’ll be lucky to find a weapon intact.” He looked relieved to have what he had, which was still very unruly a device. Most blades were broken, shattered into metallic splinters on the floor. “I have my own” the young one shot in swiftly, but still pessimistically, “…this.” He drew out a small glinting object, a knife or dagger of some sort. Brór looked at it dismissively and turned, prodding the last jerking bodies with his new weapon. “That won’t do against the mistress of the pass. One slave thought, in the foolishness and youth of his heart, that he could take the spider with a knife he stole. The orc who saw him off said he’d been struck down before he neared her, and that he’d made a great meal.” Brór considered momentarily the thought of being unceremoniously devoured by that dark being, that spawn of Unholiant, who inhabited the pass so nearby, the pass that must be taken. His mind winced, flinching from that fate, but his heart, wanting death whenever it could come, did not. His heart invited it instead, and his arm swung the mace he held just to illustrate his purposeful dedication to his rebellious thoughts.

“We have numbers, at least,” remarked the youngest dwarf, “and we can take the fiend with us.” Brór nearly smiled at his defiance, but the facial expression could not creep across his wizened, pain-ridden face. “I know not if we can,” his voice sounded all but mournful, as it should, for it seemed that he might even be happy to go down beneath the tendrils and venomous fangs of the spider, “but we can try as we may.” Now he paused, his narrow eyes widening to let the sight of sky seep into every niche of them. He turned to the young one, “What is your name, lad?” He queried, the new tone in his throat somewhat refreshing and the words of greeting like water in place of dirt.

“Dwali.” He replied, extending his hand slowly (the one that contained no knife). Speedily Brór shook it, but no excitement could be told by that gesture, since he did the task as tiredly as a man bereft of life. Both hands retracted as Dorim watched behind, still looking over the field of battle. That dwarf, Dorim Stoneweaver, still drew up more supplies as he could, but seemed as much a pessimist as the other two.

“I am Brór, Brór Stormhand.”

[Durelin]

He could hear his breathing rushing in his ears, the inhale louder than the exhale, and his heart pounded its rhythm. Jordo’s eyes raced, checking every corner, then settling to rest on the door to the storeroom for a moment, only to search the room once more. There were so many shadows, as there always were in this place, shadows that could hide a ghastly hand that might drag him back to his cell. He awaited it, so that everything could return to normal. His body shivered in a clammy fear, and yet his body still sweat in the heat of this place. Feeling his legs wobbling beneath him, Jordo sat down on the floor, his hand resting in something wet that he ignored.

Looking around him, he did not raise his head, for he felt it might be a great effort. So he looked at feet of those who stood conversing around him. Many of the voices he heard he could not understand, but he could still hear the excitement in all the different tongues. He heard and sensed no fear in them, and he knew fear. They ignored the fact that they were surrounded by darkness and fire, and that a door could be opened to the great darkness that draped the land of Mordor. He watched feet shift restlessly, most were grimy and leathery of skin as his own. They were all brought together in a likeness that would not be present in any other position. All were covered in years of toil, with memories leaving permanent scars. There was something familiar in the eyes of each, man, elf, or dwarf.

Jordo then saw a pair of feet move toward the door, quickly followed by another. He decided to look up, and found with great relief that his head was functioning normally. He saw a tall being with long black hair that shown slightly, though Jordo could not think how it avoided being marred by the ashes that filled the air of Mordor. The head covered in the flowing black hair turned slightly, revealing his ears, pointed on the end. He gasped, and all his fear rushed out of his body against that intake of air. The elf’s hand grasped the arm of another of his kind, and Jordo let the breath that he now hold escape. She was a beautiful being, even in her condition. He had never seen any of these people at work about him, and he was glad he had not. Seeing them beneath a whip might have made their sorrowful beauty less beautiful. Jordo then glanced between the male and female elf, and decided that perhaps it would have only made it more sorrowful.

He still passed his stare from elf to elf until their backs suddenly disappeared behind a dark wooden door. They had exited the sanctuary, and Jordo shivered at the thought of this. But then he pictured the elves in his mind, and he found himself on his feet. His legs no longer felt weak beneath him, and he felt they were strong enough to walk. He made his way across the creaking floorboards, his legs quickly gaining strength, and thus his stride gained speed. He finally found himself in front of the door, after bumping his way through a the crowded room. He shut his eyes as he reached out to the handle. He felt the cold metal as a shock, and he shivered once more in a shadowy cold. Jordo now wondered what awaited him on the other side, shadows would be there, but what would they hide? And would flames await him to end his cold, only to burn him?

He found himself looking upon a courtyard, still shivering. The cold did not engulf him, but it lingered in the air of this place. He was able to sigh in relief, as he was heartened by the sound of voices nearby. They spoke in a strange tongue, that played a melody in Jordo’s ears, soothing him. He glanced around him, knowing what he would find. The two elves spoke, and he watched them, lost in their song. He was silent and still, standing before the open doorway, between two sanctuaries, and he breathed what felt like open air.

[Bêthberry]

She who would now answer to Darash followed the man out, looking left and right warily for signs of entrapment or attack. None seemed forthcoming. Slowly Grash released other prisoners and Darash found herself face to face with peoples she had never imagined in her life.

Nmubelima derlig she murmered to herself as she saw the three short creatures, coming perhaps midway to her forearm. She had never seen dwarves, although she had heard the stories of dark short tribes south of her village. They stared at her and she knew not what to say, except the formal words of her people for strangers meeting. And they were not enough. The three grey pithniba quickly formed their own group and were away, accomplishing the search that this Grash had demanded.

She spied a lone woman who stood hesitantly and walked over to her, but just then she stopped and stared with hatred and open disgust at one other person Grash had released.

A jackel of Umbar in their midst who she heard called Jeren! She turned towards Grash with a gutteral cry of reprimand and prepared herself to attack the jackel who bartered humans if he took one step nearer her or this other woman. Her face she forced into a cold mask of contempt as she fought the urge to spit on him.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka wrapped her long arms tightly around her body as she watched a listened to those around her. Naturally the dwarves and elves drifted together, each to their own kind, but those that were left were men, save one. The Easterling drew her limbs closer to cover her body as her eyes darted from man to man, waiting, expecting one or all of them to attack her. They, she and the other woman, were outnumbered and it would be difficult to defend themselves against all. Lyshka stepped back. Her body was tense.

The dark-haired man expected them to gather food and water, but she would not go alone with any man to search above or below. Turning her eyes, she suspiciously studied the other woman. The woman was darker than she, and her clothing was marked with an exotic design. Lyshka wondered at her.

Feeling Lyshka’s gaze, the woman glanced at the Easterling and their eyes met. The woman nodded and Lyshka returned the gesture. To her surprise, the woman began to move toward Lyshka, but she stopped short when another prisoner caught her eye. Fury rose and flashed in the woman’s eyes, and Lyshka lifted her own body to her fullest height and flexed her fingers, ready to protect herself and the other woman if this disgusting man, the woman felt was a threat, made any move.

[Himaran]

“I am Brór, Brór Stormhand.”

Dwali thought hard for a moment; the name seemed faintly familierly, but still out of the reach of his waning memory. Ah, what did it matter; Brór would die too, burning in the fires of Mordor like them all. This was just a respite, and intermission; then they would all be recaptured, tortured, and finally sent away from this dark hell. But if he was to face that fate, Dwali knew that he would go down fighting; and now was the time to prepare. Death and orcs are certainly not the same... but one results in the other, and I intend to be ready for both.

"Then you must be... Dorim. Come, let's find some blades." They began to traverse the courtyard, staying fairly close together. Dwali found a stout, single-headed axe to supplement the knife he had stolen, and the other dwarves had similar luck. Clothing was slightly more difficult to come by; there were many bodies, but most of the orc dead wore tattered rags and torn armor. Than Dorim gave a shout, motioning them over. Two large Uruks, obviously captains, lay sprawled on the stone floor; arrows protruding from their necks and torsos.

"These will do," he said, but there was immediately an uncomfortable pause. Three dwarves were staring at two sets of armor and leather garmets. Dwali, however, signaled for Brór and Dorim to take them; he was already better clothed than they. Grateful for the quick resolution to what could have become a prolonged argument, the pair stripped the orcs quickly. They were pleased when minutes later, Dwali found a similarly dressed corpse. Thus, the trio returned to the meeting place wearing and carrying full orc gear, and although quite uncomfortable, it would provide enought protection in the probable event of a fight.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash watched the Elves leave with a sense of relief, for their beauty, marred as it might be by ill treatment and neglect, was almost oppressive in this dark and horrible place. Grash had never seen real beauty, except maybe for his mother. He could not remember her face but he sometimes tried to imagine it. The Dwarves were also quick to band together against the others and hurry from the room, casting suspicious glances at the Elves and Men. Grash barely noticed, for he had spent his entire existence trapped in the mean life of the slave, in which petty jealousies soon arose, and people were quick to anger and violence over the smallest matters: insults, food, women. He had seen Men kill one another for such things, and for much less. What had it mattered when their lives were not even theirs to throw away? There were times when Grash felt that to die would be an act of rebellion.

The only people in the room were the Men, including the two women. One of the other slaves – Grash searched his memory for a name and found only Jordo – had followed the Elves as though he meant to go with them. Grash noted that and decided to keep a close eye on Jordo in the future: any Man who would willingly put himself in the hands of a pair of demons had to be watched closely. The remaining Men shuffled about slightly, as though unsure of what to do next. A slave with a shifty look stepped forward, indicating that Grash should come with him. There was something about his urgency that made Grash wary, but he nodded and moved with him toward the arch.

Cries, both terrible and great, called his attention to the far corner where the two women had come together. The tall one he called Darash was pointing at a Southron and speaking in her own tongue. Although he could not understand the words she spoke, nor fathom why she spoke them as she did, Grash knew the sound and tenor of a person near violence. Darash held her body as though ready for immediate combat, and Grash noted with surprise that this was a natural posture that came as easily to her as did the lowly stoop of the slave to Grash. The other woman rose to her feet, reaching out with her hands as though they were claws.

Grash’s first impulse was to stay quiet, keep his head down and slink for the door. This was how he had survived so many years – if one got involved in someone else’s conflict, it could only lead to trouble. But then it occurred to him that there were no guards to wade into the fight and club apart the assailants. If it came to blows, someone could end up killed, and that might prove difficult to manage. Grash moved toward the women crying out “Garak-thûl, garak-thûl!” as he had heard the orcs do when they were forcing apart combatants. He seized upon the arm of the Southron and began pulling him toward the arch. “Come, come” he said quickly. “Must go look for weapons, must look like orcs. Leave women to hide here.” A sudden idea occurred to him, and he turned to the females. “Food and water,” he told them, pointing at the provisions about them, “you bring food and water. Women bring food and water.”

The Perky Ent's Post

Dorim strided across the cells slowly. The stench and light slowed him down. As Dorim walked, he noticed people in front of him and behind. Of the tired, dirty prisoners, Dorim noticed two that standed out. They were dwarves. As Dorim began to climb up the stairs, he glanced at them, but then turned his face back. A weapon would be much more important than friendship. “This forsaken place is rank with orc stench, even after they are gone” Dorim said in a disgusted voice, looking down at the bodies of dead orcs. “It is the stench of death, not of orcs.” A dwarf next to Dorim said. Dorim hated being contradicted, and therefore wasn’t so keen on the dwarf, whos name happened to be Brór. “Death and orcs share the same jagged blade.” Dorim retorted, in the same flat tone as Brór. Feeling no reason to continue the conversation further, Dorim looked over the dead body of an orc. It was still twitching. Without a moment to consider what he was doing, Dorim heaved the orc onto it’s back, and shoved the knife inbedding in his back even deeper. Although the orc was still twitching, Dorim took no notice and began searching the orc for weapons. Finding none, Dorim took the only one he could find, and ripped the blade from the orcs back out and clutched it in his hand.

“It would seem not,” the third dwarf said. “if one blade hascrushed the other here.” Dorim gave a small nod, and took what rages he had to clean off the blood from the knife, delighted that he had a weapon. As Dorim looked down at the festering orcs on the ground, Brór and the young dwarf began talking. “Dwali” Dorim heard the young dwarf say. “So Dorim, Brór, and Dwali are the dwarves of Mordor” Dorim said, looking at the two. “Then you must be… Dorim. Come, let’s find some blades.” Dwali said, as the three began to traverse the courtyard close together. Then, they began to go their separate ways, looking for weapons. Dorim could see many armed orcs, but none with the equiptment he needed. Then, seeing two dead Uruk captains, Dorim gave a shout. “These will do” Dorim said, stripping the orcs of everything they had. Greatful for the goods he was now wearing, Dorim looked around again to see how the others were doing.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor was free. The mere thought of it sent his mind into a constant whirl of emotions and dreams. He was ripped away from his reverie as he heard Grash speaking to the others about searching for the much needed supplies. He completely agreed but he was too nervous and too unsure of this freedom to make any movements or to speak at all. As he stood and watched he saw the Elves and Dwarves take off with their own and another clambering after the Elves, he noticed that a strange and peculiar man had gestured to Grash. As Grash replied with his own gesture it soon became quite apparent that they were going to travel together. Zuromor stood there shaking. He was not sure if he should follow or merely wander about by himself. After all he had been alone for so long... how could he travel with others? While he was thinking this all over time was moving along and he soon realized that he would have to stand up from here on and be as strong as he portrayed himself to be. He quickly moved up next to Grash and walked proudly as his beaten body would allow.

"I search with you as well!"

He did this to stand up for the first time and also because he did not trust himself. What would he do on his own? Surely dispair would seize him, and he would forever be alone. He also did not trust Grash's other partner. But he simply shrugged it off as his being weary of company, for he had never known it.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Lurg knew few things. He knew, for instance, how to skin a rat so that the choicest morsels would be preserved. He knew how to toy with a prisoner for days without killing him. And he knew that when the Big Chiefs began to brawl with one another, to lay low and wait for it all to be over. He did not know why the orcs of the Tower had begun to fight with those from Morgul. He did not know who had invaded the Tower, nor what they had brought with them that had driven the Chiefs into an even greater frenzy of greed and bloodlust than usual. He didn’t care. His only care this long nasty night had been to play dead and wait for it all to be over.

In the worst part of it he had slipped down the stairs to the first level where a nice pile of bodies lay out upon the parapets, having been thrown there from the levels above. He wormed his way beneath the bodies and kept still, comforting himself from time to time by licking the blood that pooled upon the stone below him. The sounds of battle died, but he remained where he was just in case. The first time he thought it was safe to come out, the Watchers had started bleating. The second time, a cry of agony from somewhere far above had stilled his movements. But now, finally, it was time. Gingerly removing himself from his grisly cover, he slunk to the stairs once more. He stuck his head into the stairwell with great care, half expecting one of those filthy Morgul maggots to slice it off. What he was not expecting was to come face to face with three ragged looking Dwarves, all of them laden with orc arms and weapons and coming down the stairs from the upper levels.

For a split second, none of them moved or spoke. The Dwarves merely stared at him stupidly, as shocked as he by their encounter. Lurg recognised them immediately, for he had often sought entertainment in the dungeon. He had, at one time or another, played with all the prisoners down there, but the Dwarves had been a special practice of his. Their fabled endurance and hardiness presented just the kind of challenge that fired his wicked imagination, and he had spent many hours thinking of ways to entertain himself with them, and hours more putting those wicked imaginings into cruel practice. Lurg recovered from his shock quickly, and with the cunning of his race instantly put a plan into action. As quickly as a stinging adder he drew his dagger and lunged at the smallest of the Dwarves, seizing him about the neck with one hairy forearm and pressing his jagged blade into the terrified flesh just beneath the Dwarf’s ear. He knew this one well, having long enjoyed the pitiful display of the Dwarf’s hatred for his race, even through the torture. Dwali was his name.

The Dwarf struggled to free himself but it was useless; despite his native strength, his years of imprisonment had so weakened his body and will that he was no match to the evil ferocity of the orc. Dwali tried to pull out a knife but the orc pressed his own into the skin so that he drew blood. “Drop it, my pretty,” he hissed in his ear. “You know how well I can use a blade, so drop your own or I’ll split you from neck to ear!” Dwali had no choice but to do as he was told. He dropped his knife and his axe upon the flagstones.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor walked along with Grash and Aldor (as he soon found out was the name of the other man.) and looked around for the needed supplies. Jeren quickly caught up to them and began to tag along. As they walked Zuromor noticed something shining out of a door way. He split away from the group and walked to the door.Once he walked out the door he noticed that he stood in a large courtyard. He cautiously walked towards the object that barely shined on the floor of the courtyard, and saw that it was one of the swords he had seen the orcs wielding. He quickly snatched it up and began to swing at invisible opponets while he tried to become familiar with the weapon.

With each swing he felt the power of his body for the first time...and that power felt good. Amidst his swinging he noticed a shield still attached to the arm of a downed orc. He picked it up and put it on. As he did so Grash, Jeren, and Aldor had backtracked and found him equipping his new found equipment. They soon found their own as Zuromor found a poor example of a mail shirt , a collection of rags and a rusty cracked helmet. They all walked aimlessly around the courtyard.

Zuromor could not help but be weary of them both. Their company was great but after all this abuse he could not help but think that everyone, whether orc or no, was cruel. He had come to expect the worst in others..but they had done nothing to deserve that. As the walked Zuromor decided that these men were his friends and he welcomed them.

[Himaran]

The orc blade was sharp, but Dwali felt not the blood running down the side of his neck. He saw before him the most hideous creature on earth; a slavemaster, the slavemaster, the Uruk that had tortured the dwarves as a daily routine in the past. Part of the dwarf told him to relax and die -- it was inevitable, anyway -- but another voice in his young head was screaming for him to fight back. Somehow, the second thought was far more appealing to one enslaved by such a burning rage.

The brute's grin quickly disappeared when Dwali headbutted him, and Lurg stumbled backwards. Still holding onto his knife, he charged the dwarf, but Dwali had already scooped up his smaller weapon and caught the blow. Lurg was, however, in perfectly good shape, having lived on the best of plundered rations ever since he was rotated to the tower. The smaller of the two had been released nought thirty minutes earlier, after teetering on the edge of starvation through three years of the most inhumane treatment imaginable. Naturely, the Uruk began to force him back, and death had never seemed closer. But then something deep inside Dwali's mind simply snapped.

Years of hatred compressed inside his withering frame were suddenly released in a virtual explosion of rage; one which Lurg would not survive. The dwarf, bloodshot eyes flaring, roared and grabbed his opponent's blade with his free hand. The Uruk, obviously surprised that his target completely ignored the sharp steel cutting into the flesh of his left hand, lost sight of Dwali's right. The pair toppled to the ground, with the dwarf's fingers digging into the rough skin around Lurg's neck. Brór and Dorim simply watched in awe as their young companion began throttling the beast that had been the primary cause of their past misery. But then, for an unexplainable reason, the spell was broken. Lurg forced the dwarf off of him, then planted a knee in his forhead. The Uruk left the unconcious dwarf on the ground and turned on the others, though in a much slower manner.

[Novnarwen]

"I search with you as well!"

Rhând heard one of the freed prisoner say this over and over again in his head. After that, another Southron had followed Grash and himself, which was indeed bad news for Rhând. When being asked for his name, Rhând couldn't quite figure what to answer. If he told them his real name, he was afraid that the Southron would react. After all, he would probably recognize the name as being a name of Harad. Instead, he bit his lip and muttered therefore slowly. "Aldor. I am Aldor." Zuromor, a man with dark filthy hair and green eyes, nodded approvingly. The Southron's name was apparently Jeren, but Rhând didn't care about him too much. Just being a Southron, looking like one and having a name from Harad, would not make him popular amongst the free prisoners no matter how kind, gentle or affectionate he was. (Not that he was either of these things . . .)

After a few minutes walking, the four of them found themselves in the middle of the courtyard surrounding the Tower. From here they spread slightly, in order to get what they needed; weapons and armours. Rhând turned, going straight towards a couple of Orcs lying lifeless at the ground. He would have to find a little orc, whose armour could fit Rhând's skinny body. After the months in the tower he had definitely lost weight. And having been a bit slender before he was locked up, he certainly looked as if he was starving now. Actually, when he thought about it, he was quite hungry. He looked over his shoulder, seeing that the others were busy finding equipment. He bent down, feeling the pain of the bite that the rat had given him on his neck, searching the orcs nearby for something to eat. Nothing! he thought, cursing in his own tongue.

"Weapons?" A voice from behind made him jump. He looked into the eyes of Zuromor, who seemed to have found most of the equipment he needed. Rhând made a nod, smiling as warmly as he could. "I'll just take these," he stuttered, meanwhile pointing down at the dead orcs' selections of knives and swords. By this, Zuromor was apparently satisfied and stalked off to see if the others had found anything.

Again, Rhând cursed, but not as loudly as before. What if Zuromor had heard him talking in another tongue than the Common Speech? Would it not seem suspicious? He had already told them that his name was Aldor, and they hadn't questioned him, so they obviously believed he was from Gondor. However, if they knew that he spoke the language of the Harad, they would certainly know that he was indeed someone else than whom he claimed to be and then it would all be over. He prayed that he hadn't heard, and promised himself to only speak the Common Speech.

Bending down again, he grabbed a hold of a dead orc and began to undress him. A few minutes later, Rhând was fully dressed; having a pair of dirty boots on his feet, bearing rusty armour and a sword which was hanging from a belt. He also grabbed a few knives of which he would not show to the others. They could be very useful one day, and he covered them secretly from everyone's view. He spotted one of the others and went towards him.

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry's post

She watched Grash intercede and take the stinking swine away, not sure whether he meant to protect her or the Haradrim or join with the pig. There was something strange about Grash, as if he was in his head fighting Orcs who weren't there, pulling himself away from them. Why had he released the prisoners? Why had he returned? she wondered.

"Mlungwana dharlotte mushabi. Whana dnego." The ancient words came back to her and Khastia stood more proudly erect at her full height. The few who were left in the area stared at her with some alarm and even Grash stopped to look at her in some amazement. She felt power surge back into her muscles, a feeling she had not felt for over a year. Watching the Haradrim closely and not trusting Grash completely, she raised her right arm into a fist and a warning and sneered. "Unala umwhano. Shuridah."

Then she looked down at the pots and vases Grash had pointed to. They were not her job. She flicked her head over towards the other slaves and then looked down at the pots before she turned her back on both, to catch the other woman's face.

The woman had been prepared to fight and in her face Kashtia saw iron will and determination. This one she would keep by her side, maybe an ally, she thought.

"Bhun lasta nunjoga. Arhana," she said to the woman.

She walked into the courtyard where the orcs' bodies lay, see ing the woman come with her. There were clothes here to find, if she could find a shrift and vest that would fit her. Better yet, clothes which she could pile on layer over layer, making herself look larger, as large as some of the orcs perhaps. They wore strange hard leathers on their feet, these orcs. Maybe she would try some for herself. And weapons. She saw no bows as yet, but cautiously explored the bodies and the perimeter, picking up knives and throwing some away that did not balance. She scooped several into a bag she found and then sought clothes. By the time she was ready to return, she would have a black leather vest over her torn clothes and several layers, which made her shoulders and chest look massive, and strange leggings. She picked up a helmet and other items which she secreted about ther, so others did not see.

The bag of knives clinked at her side. When the others returned, she would show them the right way to throw a knife, so to determine its weight and balance. Grash would learn and so would the Haradrim how a warrior could defend herself.

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alaklondewn's post - Lyshka

Lyshka understood naught of the other woman’s words, but she saw strength and pride in her eyes. The Easterling would keep close to her as they would prove to be quite a challenge to overcome together. Following the other woman, Lyshka stepped out into the courtyard and witnessed the remains of the bloody scene.

Corpses littered the dusty ground, and the Easterling walked slowly through them winding her way around their bodies. Many were face down, knives protruding from their blood soaked backs. Others whose faces were shown…wore eternal expressions of anguish. Lyshka was not saddened by the scene, nor was she sick. She was more curious than anything. Taking her bare toe, she nudged one body just to be sure the hideous creature was not faking death and would pounce on her from behind and slash her throat. The Orc lay still, however, its expression remained unchanging.

Kneeling, Lyshka examined its clothing and searched for a weapon. A short broad blade still lay in its hand, and she pried it free to hold in her own palm. The knife was heavy in hand, but the handle fit well. Rising, the Easterling tossed the knife side to side, hand to hand, to get a better feel. She lunged forward and jabbed the empty air, then quickly threw a glance over her shoulder at the other woman…ensuring her actions were not seen.

The woman then searched for clothing. She quickly found a thick leather vest that tied at the breast. The garment was bulky on her small frame, but was satisfactory in length. A large gash had opened the lower back of the vest, but it covered her nicely. As nicely as any Orc garment could do.

Peeling the dark leggings from another body, Lyshka was soon in Orcish attire and ready for more action.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jeren glowered at the woman indignantly, surprised at her needless ferocity. He did not know her, she certainly did not know him...did she? Jeren refused to show his doubt and shock outwardly, keeping these emotions within as he watched the woman's muscles tense and her face lift up into disgust. Taking in the lady's appearance he realized that she was not as emaciated or neglected as some of the other former prisoners. Jeren was certain he had not been captive long, and he was sure that he would be in the best shape of all his new companions...but this tense woman was not far behind. Holding back the impulse to strike the woman in her reasonless and agressive manner, Jeren did as she had and merely held a repremanding look upon his dark face.

“Garak-thûl, garak-thûl!” Grash cried with disapproval, grabbing Jeren's arm. Jeren looked back to the man, who had broken his glare so rudely, and eyed the man with the same lack of respect as the woman had previously shown him. As Grash looked back at him, unaffected, Jeren calmed and let his muscles relax in Grash's strong grip. “Come, come.” Grash continued, “Must go look for weapons, must look like orcs. Leave women to hide here.”

Jeren sighed and walked out under the arch and into the courtyard where the slaves of Mordor had begun their search for weapons and disguise. Grash had momentarily left Jeren to speak to the two women, and Jeren walked out into the dim courtyard. The Southron wondered at the company he would apparently be sharing until further notice, and he quickly noted that he would not be well-liked or respected, based solely on his appearance, name, and heritage. His people were far and wide known only for their strength in war, malice in battle, and cruelty in life. None of his new companions knew that he had been deemed a traitor to the workings of Mordor and its master, and none of his new companions knew of his life or his escapades. Jeren knew that somehow he would have to adjust, and show the Elves, the Dwarves, the other Men...especially the one fierce woman...that he had been just like them. He had been a prisoner, too.

Mumbling to himself in his own tongue, thought he knew vaguely the Common Speech, Jeren searched the grim courtyard for armour and weaponry. Jeren passed over all the long blades belonging to the orcs, choosing only two slightly dilapidated knives. The Southron man could not find any trace of a bow or a good set of arrows, so he felt contented with just the two shorter blades within his hands. Comforted with the weapons, Jeren began to silently search for suitable armour.

[Kransha]

A decade and a half of emotion being played out remained an invisible sight on Brór’s face as his unkempt beard of murk and grayish hue was whisked aimlessly around his head. His eyes lay transfixed on Dwali and the anonymous orc who had threatened them all. He seemed to be musing, as did Dorim, though their stances had eased steadily into battle-ready positions. Brór had outfitted himself amply, bearing the crude, imposing mace he clasped in his hands, two small, differing axes stuffed into a cord of leather he’d bound about his waist as a belt (which he’d use for throwing when the time was presented to him), and a long, ragged-edged dagger. Plates of randomly assorted mail, chain and leather alike, had been used to clothe him foolishly, as he had piled layers over his current fashion of rags and shreds. He cut the figure of a barbaric primitive, some foul individual, purposeless and senseless. A minute blaze flickered behind his eyes as he saw the fight.

At long last, or at short last, it was Dwali who was defeated, to Brór’s slight surprise only. Dwali’s fit of murderous, incensed, and passionate rage had peaked and ebbed, now failing him. He was thrown aside as the hapless orc stumbled up and turned his head. The remaining two dwarves, still retaining no emotion in their furious faces, did not hesitate to head forward. Dorim leapt as nimbly as dwarves could over the panting form of Dwali, who seemed to have been knocked out in the fray. The now duo looked ominously upon the orc, who looked to be inadvertently caught between a devilish smirk and a pitiful whimper as his curling lip quivered with anticipatory confusion. It could not be told whether he was gleeful or afraid.

Brór, the more experienced, older warrior, went at it first. His mace swung, but missed purposefully. The uruk stumbled oafishly as the spiky cudgel bashed the stone below, sending up a sudden spurt of dusty mist that clouded the vision of dwarf and orc. He raised the mace again and swung, this time hearing the satisfying crash of metal on metal that resounded eerily, carrying as if pulled by dark, shadowy hands past every crevice of the tower and crammed within. Twice more he swung, pulling his blows short as the orc, fumbling with his smaller blade, tried to parry and to dodge. After several of these arching, bashing swipes at the pungent-smelling air, Brór’s mace found home in the side of the orc, though not well. With a blunt blast from the cudgel hilt, Brór struck the uruk in the arm. The arm gave a protesting groan, as did its owner, and the uruk turned, limping back and slashing madly as he turned. Brór hurried after, but the orc suddenly spun and planted a fist in his chest, raised up. The dwarf fell, cursing in Khuzdul, and the orc scurried off like a rodent towards the nearby stairwell, disappearing down those stairs a moment later.

In an instant, Dorim was at Brór’s side, pulling him up with forceful care. “Quickly,” he cried, raising his weapon as Brór managed to find composure on his feet, “we must follow him!” Brór glanced at him, his face as it had been throughout the brief scuffle, calm and blandly serene. He looked up studiously, and gestured back towards Dwali, who remained unconscious behind the two of them. “What of Dwali?” he queried swiftly, tensed and ready to dive after the orc, but still tranquil somehow, “If other orcs yet live he may be slain, left here.” Dorim looked back at him with understanding and nodded, but Brór quickly shoved the other dwarf forward. “I will take him to down, you descend before me and pursue the creature. If he escapes, tell the man who freed us of his presence…but not the others if you can…Send him to his doom if you must, but leave what you can for me. Go, go swiftly! Baruk Khazâd!”

And Dorim was off momentarily, his own weapon ready as he plunged, throwing himself down the winding stairs two at a time. Meanwhile, as fast as he could, Brór stuffed the rough mace into the bowels of his newly armored tunic and hefted the husk of Dwali, a lighter and smaller dwarf than he, even after emaciation in Cirith Ungol, onto his shoulder, trying to encourage the form to use his limp legs and walk as he dragged both himself and the living burden down the stairs slowly, towards the lower level, courtyard, other prisoners, and his the dwarves’ orcish quarry, possibly the last living orc in the Pass of Cirith Ungol.

[Himaran]

Dwali's vision eventually changed from exploding, cascading lights into a blurred image; which slowly cleared and revealed the hunched form of Brór. "Are ye alright, lad? That was quite a blow you took there." The dwarf did not respond immediately, embarrased by his failure to kill the Uruk. Lying facedown on the edge of the stairwell, he felt defeated and alone. Had not the others been there, Dwali most certainly would have been slain. His adrenaline, stimulated by pure rage, had worn off; and the young one felt not like warrior. A child meddling with foes to great for him to overcome, perhaps, but not the dwarven soldier he had always wished to become.

Sitting up, and rubbing the sizeable lump on his forehead, Dwali tried not to show his discomfort in conversing with a fighter more experienced than he. "What happened to him," the dwarf asked bluntly. Brór seemed preoccupied, looking down the curving, downward path into the tower. Dorim was nowhere in sight, which could only mean he was pursuing their quarry. If only I could have finished it there, sent the slavemaster to the dark pits of hell.

"He fled, but Dorim went after him. A cunning orc, indeed. It would be a bad stroke of luck if he alerted the army of our escape."

"Aye," replied Dwali. "If that were to happen, we would have more to worry about than an old spider." He stood, and quickly collected his two discarded weapons. I should have fought him, but acted like a coward. No true warrior drops his arms in combat. Then his thoughts turned to Dorim, somewhere in the tower; searching for the Uruk who should have already been slain. We must go after him, Dwali thought, but he decided to wait for Brór to suggest it. After all, it was probably a thoroughly useless idea, and one which would only bring ridicule the dwarf so wanted to avoid.

Presently, his older companion said "Come, we must follow. I tried to carry you, but decided to wait for you to revive." The pair hurried down the stairs, into the waiting darkess below.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Morning was approaching, inasmuch as it could in this land of eternal darkness. Grash, who had spent his life rising with the son to work the fields and going to bed with the night to get what rest he could, had developed an innate response to the coming of day, and he could feel the Sun beginning to lighten the horizon beyond the looming shadows of Mordor. He looked up at the noisome smoke that roiled tirelessly above the heads of the mountains, searching for some sign that the black might be lightened by grey, but there was no change. Good he thought. The night of this place will hide us from the orcs. The land was not wholly dark, however, for the distant wrath of the fiery mountain lit the underside of the clouds with a lurid stain like drying blood. Grash hurriedly looked away from the reeking roof of this land and scanned the equally blood-stained stones of the courtyard for something he could use.

He had never so much as held a weapon, so he was at a loss now what to do. There were many tools of death and destruction lying about, but none of them looked remotely familiar. At length his eyes fell on a curved dagger, no longer than his forearm, that reminded him somewhat of one of the small scythes that the slaves had used to harvest the tough grains favoured by the orcs for baking their waybread. He lifted the weapon from out of the dead hand that had wielded it and tried its balance. It felt good in his hand, and he swung it a few times, his arms easily remembering the accustomed motions of reaping the crops. He smiled in an unhappy manner as he thought how little prepared he was for combat. As useless as the weapon was, though, he kept it. He soon found an orc who had been roughly his own size and he quickly stripped the corpse of its leather garments. He had never worn anything more than a light shift and it took some getting used to the weight and stifling closeness of the shirt and jerkin, particularly in the stuffy warmth of this land, but he endured it. The orc’s helm was useless for it had disappeared with the orc’s head, but Grash found another small helmet nearby that fit reasonably well.

At the sound of an approaching footstep he flinched and swung about, his hand fumbling for his knife, but it was only the Man who had first joined him. Grash dropped his hand from his belt and held it out to indicate that he meant the Man no harm. He looked at the fellow’s arms and armour and noted with some relief that at least one person had understood what he had wanted them to do. The Man smiled, but Grash’s face remained impassive, for he had never seen such a look before and had no clear idea of how to react to it. The Man’s face fell somewhat and he held out his hand. Grash moved back a step, uncertain of what the Man wanted of him. Once more the Man’s face became thoughtful, but then it brightened. He pointed at himself and said in the Common Tongue, “Aldor. My name is Aldor. You and I, we should be…friends, yes? Friends? We can help one another; stick together.”

Grash frowned lightly, not sure what to make of this. He pointed at himself and said, “I am Grash. Have no friends. Need no friends. But we will help each other. We must help each other to get out of this land.” He looked up at the sky once more, and said as though to himself, “Yes, must help to get out of this land of darkness.”

He looked at Aldor once more and tried to mimic the Man’s smile but judging from Aldor’s reaction, he did not do a very good job. He began to indicate that they should return to the storeroom when he was distracted by the sight of the two women moving about the courtyard. He was surprised to see that Darash had already armed herself and was busy gathering more weapons and putting them in a sack she had found. He scowled and was about to rush over to her to demand that she and the other woman return below and gather food, when a commotion from the far side of the courtyard drew his attention. An orc came bursting through the door of the outer stairwell. He was holding his side as though in pain and labouring, but his speed was tremendous. Quite close behind him was one of the Dwarves, a maniacal look in his eye. The orc froze for a moment when he saw so many people about the courtyard, but the instant he realised who they were he snarled and spit in hatred and rage. Stooping so low that his hands almost dragged along the ground, he ran through the courtyard to the gate.

Grash was terrified. If the orc got away he would tell other orcs that the prisoners were free, and they would come looking for them. “Kill!” he cried out. “Kill orc! Kill kill kill!”

[Novnarwen]

And so he had failed, or at least, he had somewhat failed. Asking Grash to be friends was apparently not the smartest thing Rhând had done during his time as a free man. However, hopefully Grash would reconsider his offer and maybe he would turn to him (Aldor, which was the name Grash knew him by,) when Grash needed him. Yes, for if Grash didn't need him now, he would certainly in a while. Thinking this through a couple of times, looking at Grash, he made up his mind that this arrangement would probably be for the best anyway. At least it would be best in the long run Rhând noted to himself, being immensely satisfied by his accomplishment. It didn't take long for the part Southron to get lost in his own thoughts. Suddenly, he thought his armour too heavy for him and wanted to pull it off, but remembered it would be too risky if Grash saw the knives he had collected and hidden. So, even though feeling as if being drained of energy, he held firm and stood watching the women who came bursting into the courtyard. He stared at them with pity. As he discovered that one of them already had collected several pieces of weapons and armed herself heavily, he couldn’t help himself getting quite frustrated by their ignorance; especially thinking of the woman who was collecting weapons in a sack. Poor woman. She doesn't seem to know her place . . . He tried not to take heed, but he grew stuck with the thought of how wasted it was to bring these two women along; they would simply just ruin everything, by getting themselves killed or something. That would certainly not be very good for Rhând. Not good at all. Turning in these eleven prisoners, would be the least he could do to gain trust again. In fact, when he thought about it, less than these eleven would actually seem as if he was making a fool of Him. But there was nothing he could do now, he would have to run through with it, only having eleven, and hope it would help him and his purpose. Yes, Rhând would make sure that everyone stayed alive until he could show his true self.

“Kill!” he cried out. “Kill orc! Kill kill kill!”

Rhând was under the impression that the orc had come from nowhere in particular, as if the orc had lain hidden amongst the many dead orcs and watched them from his pile of dead bodies. As he could see the orc running through the courtyard where they stood, only standing still for a moment or two watching the freed prisoners, he was alarmed. Rhând hadn't reacted at once. Now, on the other hand, he had realised what was happening and knew instantly that the cry, which had seemed so faint at the moment it was let out, had come from Grash. He pointed at the Orc, who was speeding towards the gate. As desperate as he felt, he couldn't do anything but stand quietly beside Grash and see the orc run on. Few seconds later, one of the dwarves, he had seen in the storeroom earlier, came hurrying after. The dwarf called out something, but Rhând couldn't quite make out what he said as he didn't understand it.

By this cry filled with panic, all of them seemed to wake up; they couldn't possibly just stand here, letting the orc escape, could they? Rhând looked desperately around at the others. They wouldn't live to see another day if that happened. All their effort till now would be wasted. For a minute or so, Rhând regretted the fact that he gone with Grash in the first place. He had survived in the cell for thirteen months; surely he could survive at least this year through. Yes, he should have waited. He would probably have managed to escape somehow anyway. But as much as Rhând regretted now, his situation didn't alter to what it had been before; the lonely life in the cell. He was here, present, seeing an orc running towards the gate which would definitely be his death; a bitter end it would be. Could they prevent it from happening? Could he do anything? After all, his longing to be cleared from the false accusations lingered inside of him. No matter how he tried to explain himself that he was innocent, and where his loyalty lay, he couldn't stop yearning after the moment where others, too, would realise that Rhând was forever faithful and would never have betrayed the Dark Lord.

Trembling with anxiety, as it was certainly a thought which made him excited; the day he would be cleared, he found himself springing after the orc, seeing the back of the dwarf and Grash ahead.

[Bêthberry]

Kashtia did not need to know that word, "kill", for the panic and urgency in Grash's voice made clear the desperate situation. And the scruffling sound of the orc's footsteps had rung around the stone stairwell even before Grash had called out his command. Still, she was not prepared, for all the knives she had collected were in the bag and she was still getting used to the strange orcish clothes. The leather jerkin hindered her movements and the delay cost them all.

Scrambling almost with his arms on the ground like a beast, the orc rushed towards the gate. Only Kashtia was between him and gate, but others were alerted behind the creature. She grabbed a knife from the bag, any knife she could get her hands on, hefted it once to get the feel of it, and then threw it. But her aim was off, the jerkin held her back, and she felt her muscles in her forearm cramp where the bone had poorly mended. The knife hit the orc's shoulder, making a slight cut, but glanced off. She had time to grab one more knife, this one longer. She stood up to face the orc as he neared her. He was dripping blood and gore onto the stone floor. Perhaps she could slow him down.

He came within two feet of her and was not expecting her to charge into his path. Her movement put him off his run but still his huge weight carried him forward. Her nostrils filled with the stench of him, she thrust the knife deeply into the orc's lower chest, where she thought his belly would be. In her luck, she chose well, for she missed the bone and the blade sliced into the beast's innards. He roared, raising his arm from his bloody side and knocked her over, more in the wild motion of pain than in any deliberate attack. She fell to the stones and rolled, over and over to get away from him quickly, in hopes she could prepare another attack, but her movements were hampered by the bodies of other orcs.

[CaptainofDespair]

Wandering between condemned corridors and broken hallways just off the courtyard entrance of Cirith Ungol, the two Silvan Elves searched for weapons and armor more befitting of their stature. Raeis had proven herself to be a quick elf, much faster than her male counterpart, even after her long captivity. Whilst he was struggling to keep up with his new friend, Morgoroth noticed a small set of doors blocked by the mangled body of an orc grunt. He stopped his pursuit of the female Silvan, and studied the door. Deciding to see what was within, he first called Raeis to make her way back. She did so, but with a slight sense of hesitation, wondering what the male elf could possibly want.

“These doors may hold something useful for us,” he murmured to her. “Haradrim and other foul Men were sometimes stationed in the tower, as a way of keeping the orcs from killing each other. They may have stored weapons of use to us here.” Raeis nodded, and without saying a word, they pushed the heavy wooden doors apart, revealing a dark room behind, a small armory. Very little of use was contained inside, save for a few broken scimitars, and shattered spears. Morgoroth had become disheartened at this sight, and turned to leave the room, and continue with his search, when he heard a crash behind him. Raeis had been prodding through a stack of battered crates, when a few had come tumbling down, smashing into broken shards and sharp splinters on the stone floor. Contained within the debris of the crates, were quivers of arrows, and a few small bows, suitable enough for the Elves. Amongst the ruins of the other crates, were a few long knives, and so these were taken up, and split between the two Silvans.

As the two began to make their way out of the dilapidated, and nearly collapsed room, the heavy thuds of an orc were heard rushing into the courtyard. By the time Raeis and Morgoroth had forced their way out of the room, and into the corridor, the horrendous sounds of the orc had died off. The two began to make their way to the large wooden door that separated the dark air of Mordor, from the dank, blood-filled air of the Tower, when they spotted one of the three dwarves. He was rushing down the stairs, obviously chasing the orc who had fled out into the courtyard. Morgoroth made no motion to alert the dwarf, and simply let him continue his fruitless search for the now-gone orc. When the dwarf had passed, the dark Elf turned his attention back to the search for some form of garb that he could shroud himself in. Raeis must have known his thoughts, or had been prepared for the same task, for no sooner had the dwarf left, that she had begun making her way to the courtyard. For the second time that day, he could only follow his new accomplice.

Reaching the doorway into the courtyard, Morgoroth halted. The heavy, ash filled atmosphere that made up Mordor, hit him like brick. He had become accustomed to the relative cleanness of the Tower, and the open, yet dirty air of the Black Lands, was something his nostrils could not take. Reaching into a pouch on his hip, he pulled forth a piece of tattered cloth. He wrapped this around his face, much as he had seen the Haradrim do. The cloth, that now surrounded his face, managed to filter much of the dirt in the air, and he was able to take a step into the courtyard once more. He soon caught up to Raeis, who was pilfering the bodies of the orcs foo some form of protective wares. She had cast aside a few leather cuirasses, which had been too large for her torso. Skimming through these, Morgoroth took up one that had looked his size. Upon putting it on, the leather was soon found to be close-fitting, and allowed for a greater deal of freedom in his movement. From another orc body, he gathered a cloak, which he draped over his shoulders, refraining from using his hood. Raeis soon found some garments of her build, and quickly put them on. When all was said and done, Morgoroth dragged his tired form over to a corner of the yard, and sat himself down, seeking a bit of rest. He draped his new bow across his knees, and drifted into a dazed, dream-like state, preparing his body and mind for the torturous journey ahead.

[Kransha]

Brór wandered, slowly, throughout the area of the dusty, dirty, smoky room of the tower, still eying the stairwell nearby suspiciously, walking circumspect and cold. Dwali squatted not far off, still digging through the limp, twisted clumps of dead uruk that were heaped about all over. Brór stooped over, dragging his hefty mace upon the ground and letting it bounce across the floor wistfully. Soon, he picked it up, and stuffed it into his armored belt, behind the newly taken breastplate of burnt, charred steal and a hauberk of chain mail. He leaned down, his fingers curling around the deformed staff of an ax which he lifted curiously.

The ax bore, yet again, a resemblance that Brór dubbed uncanny to his ancient blade, a nameless weapon, cold and jagged as the ice upon the ivory-capped peaks of the highest mountains. He had swung that ax for many years, more than a century’s half he’d used it, cleaving countless orcs in twain and worse. When it had been given him as a child, he’d sat with a retrospective look upon his barely bearded face and an uncharacteristically pleasant twinkle in his shady eye, staring at it, his gaze overrunning its depths, its dimensions. Where was that now, that youthful pleasantry and naiveté? Alas, he knew where it was. The Tower of Cirith Ungol had stolen it from him, taken it unnaturally and unfairly. The ax he’d held, weighty back then, had fallen in the dust with a silent thump, left as a reminder of his failure there and now. He had never failed, not in combat, or even with his dulled wit, but he was still a failure as much as any other loathsome fool imprisoned. Now, though, his cynical reverie ended with the sound of echoing footsteps below. As his glued gaze pried itself from the ax, he looked glumly, but suddenly with more verve, to Dwali.

“You wish to follow, do you not?” Brór murmured, a smile again worming its way over his pursed lips. The smile did not materialize, though it was as forceful as it could be, and Brór’s look stayed a cold, slate hue of careless emptiness. But, thankfully for both dwarves, their meeting had at least tempered the shadow of pessimism with a sliver of sunny light, that of companionship, which was a merry thing for their kind. Walking forward and clutching his newly looted ax tightly in a wrinkly, creased palm, Brór continued coyly. “If you wish to hold your thoughts in, you shouldn’t plainly wear them on your face, lad.” He seemed strangely to be chiding the younger dwarf, though his smirk was still as invisible as ever it had been.

“Aye, I wish that.” The other dwarf said, standing from where he’d been silently, meditatively squatting and looking back at his peer. “But, I’ll wager you wish it as well.” The rumble, throaty and raspy, that beat heartily in Brór’s chest might have signaled a fierce, dwarven laugh, but naught came out. Instead, the very edge of his mouth elevated, suggesting a vague grin as he clapped the lad on the shoulder, striking his left hand, now in a tight gauntlet of dully colored metal shards riveted together, against the pauldrons strapped to Dwali’s upper arm. “I would be a false dwarf if I said I did not.” He said, his voice swelling as he pulled Dwali forward, and the two of them rushed, gallivanting down the winding stairs towards the first level of the tower and the courtyard. They were there faster than either of them had expected, and sprung out lithely into the courtyard, breathing in quick, stolen breaths as they took in the sight of two figures. Both were elves, nearest the door, one male and the other female. The dwarf duo headed speedily to the male elf, shadowy in gait, who sat upon the earth, nearly motionless. Though Brór knew not what he was called, the elf’s name was Morgoroth, and the female elf was called Raeis.

“The fleeing orc, you saw him?” Questioned Dwali subtly, his eyebrows peaked slightly with no otherwise changes in his more wizened features, which were reminiscent of some aged thing of more years than he. Brór still looked to be the oldest, of course, and older than the elves and men, for he had seen more days than the man, and more of time’s winds than the elves, though they were older than he. Both dwarves looked almost incredulously at the elves, one sitting and blankly staring in the yard’s corner, and the other still rummaging diligently through the orc corpses, which lay strewn messily across the rent tiles of dark, blood-spattered stone. The first, handling the bow leaned against his bent knees, looked up darkly at each dwarf. “Yes.” The Silvan Elf, whose name Brór did not know, said quietly, “He passed and fled.”

Now, many dwarves strongly disliked elves, elves of any kind, Silvan or no, though that’s what elves these were. The elf, though probably much older than Brór in years, had all the look of a fellow who’d seen many less. That alone was enough to infuriate Brór, but he dismissed that fact years ago. Elves had worked continually alongside him during his stay in the tower and prison, so petty prejudices were easily dismissed, but now they returned. With freedom came new feelings, and with expanded boundaries came renewed hostilities. Were these wretched beings going to wallow here and allow that orc to escape and inform others of his repugnant kind of the freed prisoners? That was foolishness and stupidity. Though Brór was brooding, even as he spoke, he could not abide this. He knew, deep down, that his dormant dislike for elves was making his mind exaggerate, but now that there was no orc whip to crack down upon his back, he didn’t care.

“And you did not give chase?” he said, fiery hostility renewed in him as he spoke, his fist clenching involuntarily, “You let him pass and did not even try to follow?”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis watched the other Silvan elf curiously for a moment, frozen in her work a few metres away from him, a vixen pausing momentarily in scavenging to watch another, unknown fox further away - strange and yet familiar, and whether a friend or foe was yet to be decided. Looking at him closely, she saw his eyes droop and his whole face seemed to relax - asleep? A memory stirred within her of the meditative trance the elves could sink into, a peaceful void of real thought, entered by dreams and memories of past and sometimes of future. In the years of her captivity, when no moment could be counted as safe, Raeis had barely if ever been able to rely on the security of doing this, for at any time she could have been interrupted whilst vulnerable by the orcs. Besides, her nerves were so frayed now that she barely even knew if she would be able to enter that state now anyway, and had reverted to the dull, black void that men called sleep.

The elf shivered suddenly as she realised how very like the Haradrim the male elf looked, draped with black cloth across his face and wearing their leathers, a bow of their making across his lap...why, if the orcs were to see him now, what would they know him as but another of the men? All of the rest of them would be instantly recognisable as prisoners but...

An idea suddenly hit Raeis and she wondered why it had not hit her earlier - the simplicity of the plan was incredible. Yet it would work. If yet there were orcs or Haradrim around, ready to block their escape (and woe betide them if they did, she added darkly), they would instantly stop them...or they would stop prisoners. But if they were all the wear such clothes, covering face and ears and wearing the right garb, saying nothing...

Who would know the difference?

Raeis allowed herself a simple smile of happiness, surprising herself at the feeling. It was brought on not to spite her captors, to laugh at them as they tormented her, for that had been it's only purpose in her captivity - no, it was brought on by feeling. Happiness. Relishing the feeling with wary satisfaction, the female elf settled on her knees and lifted a long knife from the stash in the corner - obviously where orcs had left their weapons to be easily and quickly picked up without hampering them as they went about whatever despicable business they chose to amuse their small minds with. Strangely though, this one was in a sheath, although it didn't seem to fit well - it wouldn't properly settle into the sheath, part of it sticking out awkwardly, dents made on two sides at the top of the sheath where it's rude tenant had been forced in. And where the sword was crude and marked from ill treatment and use, the sheath was oddly elegant - Raeis tilted her head hesitantly to look at the marks on the side. To her astonishment, she found them to be runes, although not ones that seemed familar - they were not the angular, ugly, crude etchings the orcs sometimes made, and nor were they in the elven script that Raeis remembered. They seemed to mix the two - elegant but tarnished, tainted, marred in some way...

"I think this sword would fit the sheath better."

The hesitant voice sent nerves tingling all the way through Raeis's body and she actually jumped. Spinning around with snake-like speed onto one knee, she whipped the sword out in front of her in the vague direction of the voice. The sudden, quick movement caused the sheath to shoot of the end of the ill-fitting sword, flinging itself away across the stone courtyard to clatter loudly on the stone. The man who had spoken gave a startled squeak of surprise and ducked to one side, surprisingly fast for a mortal - for that was what Raeis now saw him to be. He was short and stocky, and his freckles and large eyes made him seem child-like, although the obvious muscles in his arms and legs made it obvious that he was nothing of the sort. At least, not physically....there was something very juvenile about the fear in his eyes as he looked at the elf. As Raeis rose and moved forward a step, her sword still level, he shuffled backwards quickly, staring up at the immortal with simple fear.

For a moment, Raeis caught herself enjoying the rush of power and with a shock of anger at herself she dropped the sword, the clatter resonating throughout the courtyard as she did so. Taking a step back from it, Raeis walked around the weapon, her flecked blue eyes never leaving it, then they darted back to the man's face.

"Who are you?" she asked, curiously.

"Jordo," he replied promptly, every inch obedient. Raeis was surprised at his simplicity, but there was something harmless in it. However, when he raised the sword again, she couldn't help taking a step back again. He turned it around quickly and offered her the other end, even though it meant he was holding the blade. Raeis hesitated, then took it tentatively, careful not to harm his hands but ready to move if he attacked. No one would cause her pain again, but this simple, kind mortal did not deserve pain either - indeed, something in Raeis stirred to protect him almost. Almost.

Taking the sword, Raeis scurried to the other side of the courtyard to pick up the beautiful sheath again, and slid one into the other carefully. Surprisingly, Jordo had been right - incredibly so, for the sword seemed to actually match the sheath. Neither were perfect, of course - little could stay untarnished in a land of evil. But beauty is always seem in union, and these two fitted perfectly. With the unfamiliar feeling of happiness again coursing through her veins like adrenaline, Raeis looked up to see that a few dwarves entering the door. Short, stout little men, built like barrels that had seen thin times - not exactly menacing, but she felt herself clench up at the sight of them, the deep set emnity between the two peoples arising subconciously.

The dwarves seemed to feel the same way. They entered stiffly, swaggering a little, and one approached Morgoroth, waking him with the clanking of his axe as he audaciously began to question the elf. Raeis could not hear the first words he said, but she heard the next as the dwarf rose his voice.

"And you did not give chase? You let him pass and did not even try to follow?"

Raeis immediately felt the hostility in the dwarf's voice and felt it rise within herself in response. The sword slid uneasily out of the sheath, grating against the sides, but Raeis didn't flinch, her hand perfectly still as she raised it to the dwarves.

"Do not threaten him," she said, softly, an edge of danger to her voice. "And do not threaten me. What is it that you seek?

[CaptainofDespair]

With an obviously hostile dwarf standing above him, and with the animosity between the two races already embedded in both minds, Morgoroth knew he must watch himself, for he walked a very fine line. Raeis however, did not seem to see it this way, as she rose to protect her comrade. With blade in hand, she came forth like a serpent, ready to strike. The young Dwarf did not notice her at first, and by the time her voice had made her presence known to him, he would have had his head splattered on the walls and cobblestone floor of the courtyard. But Morgoroth could see the fiery intent in Raeis’ eyes, and he rose quickly to stop her. “No!” he spoke as he grabbed her forearm, keeping the blade just out of reach of the dwarf’s head. “Our quarrel is not with each other. We have more important matters to attend to.” He let forth a heavy sigh as he pushed his way past the trio of dwarves.

Raeis was still in shock as she began to follow her immortal compatriot. His willingness to protect those that had threatened him startled her, as well those in the vicinity of the occurrence. Even the dwarves had expected that he would have allowed for their brethren’s death. Yet, even with this showing of kindness, or mercy, neither party still wished to associate with the other, and they went their separate ways. Raeis soon managed to catch up with Morgoroth, as he made his way back into the darkness of the Tower. Yet following her this time, was the slave Jordo, who had not wanted to be left alone in the courtyard. He watched the elves move with their naturally imbued grace and elegance, and was entranced by it, drawn into their world for a fleeting moment.

The pair of elves, followed by Jordo, who still kept to the darkness that pervaded the corridors, slowly meandered their way through the Tower. Morgoroth had the look about him that he was searching for something long lost. After futilely searching a few dark, empty rooms, The Elves began to make their way back to the courtyard. As they neared the doorway, the immortal male gave a passing glance at the stairs.

The dark Silvan suddenly stopped at the base of the stairwell, and he turned to meet the gaze of his female companion, who wondered why he had stopped. “We will rest here for a few moments. The stairs will be a task to climb when we are still so weak from our imprisonment.” As Raeis moved to take a seat on the stairs behind him, Morgoroth noticed the newly freed slave lurking in the shadows. He knew the boy would not understand his own native Sindarin, so he refrained from using it. In place of it, he used the Common Tongue, which he spoke with equal fluency. “Come forth from the shadows which conceal you, young one.” Jordo was quick to obey, though he did not fully know why he did. As he stepped out into the shadows, his freckled face was revealed to the Elf, who stood stone-still, scanning the now freed slave’s face. “Tell me your name,” the Silvan demanded. “Jordo,” came the reply from the man-child. “Do not be frightened. Come, rest with us. There is a long, harsh road ahead of us.” Jordo walked towards the stairs hesitantly, still wary of the Elves, and still quite dumbstruck that they had granted him a seat by their side, let alone see him in the shadows of the Tower. But finally, with a hint of suspicion still glazed on his mind, he sat down next to the female Silvan.

Raeis continued to wonder for a few minutes why he had decided to head up the stairs, when the courtyard would prove a more bountiful search for more wares. Finally, she gathered up her thoughts, and sought to inquire to this. “Why must we go up the stairs? Out there . . . ” she pointed out past the heavy, wooden doors leading to the courtyard. “It is easier to acquire what we need out there.” Morgoroth stared at her for a moment, deciding upon an explanation of actions. “When I was first captured, I had with me a special set of weapons. Two long knives and a sword crafted of the finest elven steel are what was taken from me.” He paused to take a breath, and then continued with his answer. “When I was transferred from Cirith Gorgor, those were shipped to Cirith Ungol as well. I am hoping, however unlikely it may seem, that they are still contained within this place, somewhere.” He motioned to the stairs. It is time we set off now. The Elf stood up quickly, as his short rest had revitalized both his body and spirit. He reached out his hand to Raeis, to help her up off the narrow stairs. She held back a moment, unsure of the Silvan’s intent, but finally, she took his hand, and took to standing once more. Jordo had not been resting like the elves, for he was invigorated by his new freedom, and could not contain his energy while sitting down. But nevertheless, the party was readied, and they began their climb up the stairs.

[alaklondewen]

Everything happened so quickly. Lyshka stood frozen…her new blade was limp in her hand as she watched the Orc crossing the courtyard. The beast moved too quickly for his pursuers, and although the other woman made an attack, she was thrown to the side by its bulk.

The Easterling was too far from its path to be able to easily catch up to the Orc, and she was not comfortable with her aim. If he was close she could jump upon his back and slice him open, but that would not work from this distance. Knowing the danger they would all be in if the creature escaped, the Easterling watched silently with bated breath.

[Himaran]

"Do not threaten him." At that particular moment, Dwali decided upon the seventh reason he disliked elves; they were overconfident. The Silvian who had spoken to Brór actually meant to say 'Quit looking at me wrong, or I'll run you through leave your mangled corpse in the courtyard.' Or at least, it seemed so to the young dwarf watching his new friend confront the pair of elves before them.

But at any rate, it appeared that Brór was looking for a fight; and if the current conversation continued unchecked he would be receiving one. The elves were in physically stronger state, and would probably be the ones to survive in the event of actual combat. Thankfully, the male elf mumbled something to his companion, and the pair moved on into a different section of the tower. "Quite helpful, those elves are," said Dwali. "They ask who we are looking for, and than leave before we can tell them. Quite helpful indeed." Brór merely nodded, and they continued their search, wondering if a possible feud been overcome or catalysed.

The dwarves wandered though the dark passages of the tower, eventually returning to the courtyard. They had lost all trace of Dorim, and could only hope that he had found the Uruk and survived the encounter. "Perhaps we should look for Grash," suggested Dwali. "I want to get out of this cursed tower. And by now, either Dorim or the orc is dead; unless he escaped." Brór nodded in agreement, and although both were worried about their companion, the pair slowly made their way back through the tower to the meeting place.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor had been looking for additional weaponry when he was alerted by Grash's screams. He quickly whirled about to see what was wrong. As he did so he saw an orc running towards the gate. Zuromor ran as fast as he could towards the orc and saw a woman in the orc's path. She had managed to slow him down but had been tossed aside. It seemed the orc might be getting away and Zuromor had to do something

As he ran after the orc he saw a dagger protruding from the back of an orc just ahead. He stooped low as he neared the downed orc and ripped out the dagger while he ran. He hefted it a few times and then he threw the dagger with all his might. The orc ran just outside the gate as the dagger seemed to stop in mid-air for a moment before falling back down to earth. The orc had escaped.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The female elf walked ahead of Morgoroth, the stairs not being wide enough for two to safely walk abreast, three long knives held in one fist, protruding like metal claws from her hands, a sword in the other, and the elven sword in it's sheath tucked carefully under her arm. She wondered at Morgoroth though - he would search all of Cirith Ungol to find one knife, if it were possible, and then would leave happy. All it would take would be a length of steel branded with a few careful marks, and he would be happy. Raeis barely remembered the love of weapons she had had in her past life, the existence in Mirkwood whose reality she was unsure of - not being a warrior she had not had regular use of them, but had been skilled with bow or sword in practise, loving the feel of the metal warming beneath her hands, the silver sound made when she spun a sword through the air or loosed an arrow... Since then though, all she had known of weapons had marred that love, as the hatred borne by their wielders destroyed her features and her life.

So it was gingerly that she held the weapons in her hands: the careful wariness of one meeting a dear, lifelong friend who had betrayed the other, now coming back with a promise of help.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Raeis looked around with a furtiveness created by habit. Seeing no one there, her heart jumped inside her - abandoned?!

"Hai?!" Looking about, she called softly for anyone else.

[Durelin]

Climbing long winding stairs, Jordo found his mind winding and twisting with them. It wandered from the cold stone walls that surrounded him, finding peace of mind in doing something. Each stair was something to do; it kept him moving, and so kept his brain focused on something simple. The simplicity of doing work was all that Jordo knew to be peaceful. Suddenly he found himself staring down at his hands. They were held out before him because they had nothing better to do. He allowed himself to actually take interest in the fact that they were not being controlled by a hard hand and a stinging whip, forced to do work and watched closely as they did their best to comply. It seemed that his hands were finally able to move freely. He smiled slightly, feeling happy for them. Sharing in some kind of joy, his mind got lost in a strange warmth, and he didn't bother to find his way out of it.

Then all of a sudden he found he had reached the top of the stairs, and he looked up. But too late. His body hit something warmer and softer than the chilling walls around him, and his face was covered by long, soft blonde hair for a moment before he stepped quickly back down a step. The elf whirled around, a long knife at the ready. He had not made a sound when Jordo suddenly bumped into his back, but the man now squeaked in surprise and fear. Morgoroth had gotten a safe distance from his supposed assailant and been prepared to kill before Jordo could even let out a frightened yelp.

The elf sighed, partially in relief, but mostly in exasperation, as he saw who he had been prepared to kill. Jordo had trouble meeting those dark green eyes. The quiet pressure made him look down at the floor and fidget with the helm that was in his hands as he had not liked the feel of looking through those makeshift slits for eyes. His mind began to feel that he was looking out through someone else’s eyes, and hoped only that they were not menacing yellow slits. A shiver ran down his spine, and a tingling spanned his skin. He did not like the feel of this crude leather armor on his bare skin, either.

The man glanced up quickly, and though the eyes were not frightening or unfriendly, he knew that there had to be some kind of punishment awaiting him. He had done something wrong. The focus on him made him feel that he was in an unwelcome, unwanted position. He wanted the eyes to ignore him again, wanted them to leave him alone.

“Be alert, Jordo. And remain close behind.”

Morgoroth suddenly turned, and ran to the corner at the end of the hall. Jordo followed as quickly as he could, but was careful not to run into the elf this time, as he stopped abruptly to look down the next hall. He let out a heavy sigh once more.

“She is not there. Let us hope she has only gotten ahead of us.”

The elf began to run again, and Jordo did his best to obey Morgoroth’s former instructions. “Come. Quickly.” And the man did his best to comply with these, as well.

[Novnarwen]

His forehead was covered in sweat and so was the rest of his body. Still running after the orc, he realised that the armour, which was heavier than first expected, slowed him down. Long ahead, he watched one of the women trying desperately to stop the orc, but naturally she failed. As he ran along, more slowly for each step, he felt the bit from the rat giving him repeatedly the feeling of being on fire. Clenching his teeth, not wanting to seem weak, he ran on trying to catch up with one of the others.

If you cannot run faster than this, how do you expect to win the first prize? If you cannot even show them that you are strong, how can you later convince them? If you cannot even make useful friendships now, how can you ever? If you cannot even throw your blade at the orc ahead of you, and thereby gain trust amongst these pathetic prisoners, how will you gain it? If you cannot even manage this, how do you expect to get away from them? If you cannot even make yourself useful now, how can you when you return to Him?

Not being able to runmore, he dropped dead and fell to his knees. Not wanting to admit that his health situation had altered while being imprisoned, he put all his effort into rising again. One . . . two . . . three . . . he counted, frowning. Knowing for certain that his future, (if he had any), depended on this; his will, he got up. He would pretend as nothing had happened. It was true, what the voice in his head had said; how could he later convince them that he was strong, if he was nearly dying now? If anyone of them had seen him, he would say that he had tripped or that the air of the Land of Darkness made him sick.

Rising his head, his nostrils being filled with new air, he saw to his despair the orc running through the gate. It wouldn't matter if he couldn't walk much further. Their journey would be very short. With this in mind, Rhând knew that he could either pretend as they were getting out anyway, trying to convince them by doing something which indicated that he was still up for it, or he could suit himself and go back to his cell where he would probably stay for thirteen more months if he didn't die before that time had passed. Considering that latter for a while, he questioned himself: would he survive long enough to get another chance of escaping, or would this be his first and only chance?

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash’s heart fell as he saw the orc disappear through the arch and down the Road that none of them could follow. He cursed their luck and swore in the BlackTongue. “Thrack! Granka-rûk slog búraz nratal!” He whirled about to where Aldor stood and began indicating that he should go back into the cellars. “Go, go,” he said, “must be gone. Must be gone soon. Gather food, gather water – no more time, no more time.” He turned to where Zuromor was standing, crestfallen by his failure to stop the monster. He rushed to his side and seized him by the arm, pulling him frantically toward the inner doors. “Come, come” he urged. “Orcs will know now. Know we are gone.”

Zuromor delicately removed himself from the grasping hands of the smaller man and looked at him sternly. “I understand our situation,” he said. Grash turned then to the women. He had been surprised and impressed by Darash’s display of courage and skill, and as he beheld her now it was with new eyes. He moved to where she stood and addressed her with greater reverence than he had with either Aldor or Zuromor. “Come. Must gather food, must gather water. Must leave now. Orc will bring more orcs.” He knew that she could not understand him, so he pointed to the cellar doors and indicated with hand gestures that they needed food. He turned also to the Easterner woman. He did not know what tongue she spoke so he tried both the Black Speech, and his fragmented version of the Common Tongue, bidding her in both to return to the cellars. The two women regarded him coldly, with hostility even, and he resisted the urge to take hold of them, as he had done with both Zuromor and Aldor. It struck him for the first time that there was something oddly familiar about each of them, and although he was in a near panic to get them moving, he allowed himself the brief luxury of examining their faces. The Easterner had the look of a hunted being – it was one that he knew well, having grown up with it on all sides. But there remained yet a streak of iron in her gaze, particularly when she looked upon himself or the other Men, although he fancied that perhaps she was somewhat less wary toward him. The other, Darash, was an altogether different matter. Her height and beauty suited her, as did her bearing which was – if Grash had known the words to put to his feelings – regal. She regarded him with pride, but it was the hauteur of one who was in total control of herself, and who was used to exercising command over others. Recognition of this was a shock to Grash, who to this point had associated the idea of authority only with the whip and the iron hand of the orc. It had never occurred to him that there might be another way to command. This was a mystery to him, but apparently not to Darash. It both awed and, at the same time, scared him a little. He almost bowed to her as he spoke once more, this time attempting to project deference. “Come, come. To the cellars. Food and water, then we go.”

He saw that the women understood and was delighted when then appeared to comply, joining the Men as they moved back into the cellars of the Tower. But not all the Men were going back underground, for Aldor was once more at Grash’s side. “I have sent the three Dwarves with the others,” he said, “they seemed happy to be together again. But what of the others? Where are the Elves and the other slave?”

Grash looked about the courtyard but of course they were not there. He then looked up at the Tower looming above them, as did Aldor. “Thrack!” Grash cursed once more. He turned to Aldor, “Go. Get others to gather food and water. I find Elves, bring them down.”

Without waiting for a response he headed for the Tower, but as he began to climb the stairs he heard a foot upon the steps behind him. Looking back he saw that Aldor had followed him. Aldor smiled. “We must not split up too much in here,” he explained. “There might be more enemies about.” Grash nodded and accepted Aldor’s company, for what he said made good sense. Perhaps Aldor would be a good person to have at his side, after all.

[Himaran]

The two dwarves, upon meeting with Grash in the tower, began to make their way down into the depths of Cirith Ungol. Victuals were the company's next concerns, and would prove to be more difficult to locate than weapons and armor had been. Neither dwarf had any idea where the "kitchen" could be found, if one existed at all. Orcs were sustained by the same foods as other beings, but were fed on far less appealing fare; and who knew where it was kept. "There must be storerooms somewhere," said Dwali as they tramped along the dimly-lit hallway. "Probably down in a pit somewhere, like everything else."

The dwarf's first statement, (the more optomistic of the two, surprisingly), turned out to be the correct one. They soon arrived at a door, which was apparently locked. "Not a problem," stated a confident Brór, who raised his mace and brought it down on the lock. It virtually shattered, and Dwali moved to enter the room. But the door would not budge.

"Must be locked from the inside," muttered Brór. Then suddenly, they both arrived at the same inevitable conclusion; for if the door was barred from the inside, an enemy waited within. Or more than one, perhaps, but the warriors cared not; they wished more for revenge than feasting and wine. The entrance was blocked by thick wood, but steel would prove the victor; as Dwali's axe quickly made several cuts through the door. Brór backed up, and hurled himself forward, but the gate only shook. Then the younger dwarf took a few steps away, turned, and with a look of rage so deep and agonizing that it penetrated every figment of his being, charged it. The door virtually flew off of its hinges, and collapsed onto the floor inside the chamber.

The dwarves stepped inside the room slowly, crouched and expecting a wave of resistence to leap out at any given moment. But nothing came, and they soon began to look for other things besides orcs. "This must be the storeroom," stated Dwali triumphantly. Sure enough, sacks of food and skins of water were lined up along the wall; sadly, there would not be quite enough for the entire company's journey out of Morder. At least, not a journey without hunger.

"We will have to make several trips," said Brór. "And find out how much Grash wants to take with us. It may weigh down the group out in the mountains, if we ever do manage to leave this tower." They were turning to go, laden with several heavy packs, when Dwali was heaved forward; landing on his face with a heavy sack on top of his already weakened frame. Brór dropped his burdens and swung out his mace, watching a small orc circle him with blades at ready. The dwarf charged, and achieved surprise as he knocked away the orc's longer scimitar. But the creature, knowing that he stood no chance against the larger and more ferocious opponent, turned a ran.

Suddenly, an axe flashed up from the ground like an old-fashioned trap; burying itself deep in the orc's chest. A mace also connected with the fleeing beast, and its head landed on the floor several paces away. Dwali tugged his weapon out and stood, patting Brór on the shoulder. "I guess we both got our revenge, friend." As if in agreement, a loud rumbled shook the chamber. Exchanging strange looks, the dwarves hefted their packs and exited the room without another word; making for the meeting place.

[Bêthberry]

She stood watching the man Grash race upstairs to collect the others. Not again had he derided her about the food and water. She nodded to herself: he could learn. He has native cunning, she decided, for he was sharp like the leopard. And he had understood the disaster of the orch getting away and was trying to move them all quickly. Perhaps she could work with him after all. This other long pig, though, the one called "Ahldhor"--trying out his name in her mind--she did not like him. Shiftless like carrior-eaters.

Darash. Darash. This name she tried out in her mind as well. He had called her this before, she remembered. Kwenye drasa she said to herself, breathing deeply and feeling her shoulder sore where she had fallen on it. She stretched out her arms, feeling the sensation of the break in her bones even though now mended. She wondered if he knew these words, or why else had he taken them for her name? Darash she said again to herself. It will do; she would answer to it.

"Leshkiya," she called aloud to the other woman, trying out the name she had heard. The woman looked into her eyes and understood. They began to call to the others to return immediately to the cellar, to bring their weapons and clothes.

The orch had escaped, he would tell others they were free. They must hurry, she thought, as she and Lyshka and the others found the storeroom where Grash had directed them. She looked over the foods, sniffing jars and touching loaves which were not very different from the foods they had fed her in the cell. She packed some away but refused to taste the water she found in bottles and large kegs. It smelt of iron, like a spear after being fired in flame. This was the water she had seen the orc drink which deranged their minds even more. This she would not touch. She took an empty leather flask, for she would fill it with fresh water once they had found a river.

They had even less time now to escape. But the others, these strange people, the tall ones and the short ones, they were forgetting their purpose. She shook her head and called out to all the slaves who were assembled in the cellar and then she even risked calling out up the stairs. "Harrree, harrree," she commanded. "Leevah." It was the first time she had ever used words of their language on her tongue. It felt strange but refreshing, like the herb limbaya at home. She would learn more of this language, she decided.

If they were able to escape. She waited impatiently for Grash to return with the others.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash was only two or three turns up the stairs when he found the Elves. They were speaking to one another in their own language, and though he could not understand their words, the very sound of their conversation gave him an odd kind of comfort. For a moment he was almost able to forget the terror and panic that had come over him in the wake of the orc’s escape, and he stood frozen before them. The male turned ageless eyes upon him and did not speak, and in that moment Grash felt as though he were a child again. He shivered, and the calming thoughts few from his mind, for this feeling reminded him of the one thing that all people knew of Elves – that they were immortal, and that they kept this immortality by stealing the lifeblood of others…

Aldor came up behind him as Grash spoke to the Elves. He gestured down the stairs with as much urgency as he could, saying, “Come, come, hurry. No time, no time for talking and looking. Orc has escaped, will bring others. Must go now.” For a second it appeared as though the Elves were going to ignore him but then wordlessly they began to descend. The female regarded him with a wary, questioning gaze, but he might as well have been invisible to the male Elf for all the attention that he gave the Man. Relieved that he had found them, Grash was turning to go when he noticed that other slave, Jordo, standing quietly in the shadows. Grash turned upon the Man angrily, for he needed speed from everyone. “Hurry!” he said roughly. “No time to hide. Come now or leave you here to be peeled by orcs!” Jordo’s face took on a look of genuine terror and he seemed to shrink into the wall. Grash felt a wave of emotion that he could hardly understood, for it had been long since he felt sympathy for anyone. That last time he had felt it, he had lost his mind with rage, and that is what hand landed him in the cellars. His mind went back, unbidden, to that day when the orc had attacked the slave woman. He felt once more the heft of the scythe in his hands, and the jarring crunch that came through the wood when he had severed the orc’s head… He reached out to Jordo with as comforting a gesture as he could. “Come,” he said more gently. “Come with Grash, we must go.”

Jordo seemed to relax somewhat, but his eyes moved to the Elves. The female had turned and was looking back at the Men. She waved to Jordo, who broke for her as though he were a hunted thing running from a predator to its small hole. Grash sighed; at least they were all moving in the right direction at last.

As he and Aldor followed the others down the stairs, the other Man spoke to him about the Elves in a low whisper. “I can see that you do not trust the Ageless Ones,” he said. “I’m not sure that I do either, but they are reputed to be great fighters and to have magical healing powers. I think they will be good allies in our escape. Still,” he said, as though a new thought were occurring to him, “we might do well to keep an eye on them. I’m sure they would not betray us to the Enemy, but with Elves, well, who knows? It’s said that they only really look out for themselves. They are much like the Dwarves in that, I fear.” Grash knew nothing of Elves or Dwarves, and Aldor’s words went to his heart like cold iron. He had, to this point, only been concerned with escaping the Tower and then getting by the Monster that lurked in the tunnel. It had not occurred to him that there might be dangers from within the group of prisoners…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Novnarwen's post

Unexpectedly, a new chance for him to convince Grash was presented to Rhând. The skinny Haradrim had watched the elves (and one man) carefully as he and Grash had approached them. Two elves, both proud and some would say fair, had stood before them and looked hesitatingly at the two men for a moment. Not till after Grash had told them that they should go and meet the others, had they gone. But during those few seconds they had stood still, the look in their eyes could not be wrongly interpreted. It was clear that the elves were most hesitant towards both Rhând and Grash. Instantly, it struck the Haradrim that he could use this. It would be easy; Grash had looked the elves into their eyes himself and knew exactly how they felt.

The minute the opportunity became obvious to Rhând, he seized it. Glad that he had got another chance so soon, he restrained himself from storming to Grash’s side and tell him what he had on his mind. He made his move, putting up a serious face. He made Grash slow down for a moment, looked around being certain that not the elves were listening. Choosing his words with care, he expressed his uncertainty when it came to elves in general. "I can see that you do not trust the Ageless Ones," Rhând said, with a tone that implied that he completely understood Grash's feelings, but had clearly seen the doubt in his eyes just earlier. Discovering, to his satisfaction, that Grash seemed to listen, he hoped that he had managed to make the other freed prisoner doubt the elves even more. It would certainly pay off one day.

Just seconds later, they had gone through the courtyard. Rhând walked a few paces behind Grash now. If he was going to pull this through, he would have to be on the surface a silent man, who spoke little, but acted well. Underneath the facade, he would have to be the good friend of the leader, who Rhând guessed would be Grash, of whom he would trick and cheat. This way, he could control Grash, and through Grash he would be able to control the other ones who trusted Grash. The Elves, even though they were sceptical now, would soon be outnumbered when the dwarves turned against them. Deep in thought, still feeling quite ill after running after the orc and collapsing, he was greatly surprised when the sound of what seemed like an earthquake disturbed him. Looking around, alarmingly, he found himself trembling. The whole ground trembled.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Fordim Hedgethistle's post (cont'd)

They reached the courtyard and passed through to the stairs. When they were halfway down there came to Grash’s ears faint cries that sounded for the world like children’s voices. He paused and saw that the Elves too had heard the sounds. There then came a rending crash and splintering sound that shook the very foundations of the Tower, and the wailing of the Silent Watchers that had accompanied their every move was suddenly quieted. The silence was profound and eerie, and for a time they stood in wonder of what had happened. Grash was the first to recover himself. “Go, hurry,” he said gesturing them on. “I go and look, see if it’s more orcs.” Without waiting for a reply he rushed up the stairs and once more looked out the door. He was shocked to see that the gate lay in ruins, and that the Watchers had been thrown down. He looked hopefully at the ruin to see if there were some way through the rubble, but it was hopeless: the stonework had fallen almost straight down from above, creating a new barrier as impassable as the old. With a sigh he turned and went down the steps to the storeroom.

Grash was delighted to see that all of the prisoners were finally assembled. The Dwarves had found torches and were quickly setting them alight and passing them about. Grash seized one. He noted with equal satisfaction that the woman Darash had organised some of the slaves in gathering food and water. A quick survey of their stores, however, showed that they were going to be on short rations for the next few days. There was little food, and less water. Grash frowned at this, for he knew that there was little hope of finding water where they were going. He shrugged, for there was nothing to be done.

He turned to face the company. They were standing about in loose groups, clear and distinct in their division. The Dwarves were the most openly clannish, huddled together and heavily armed and armoured. The Elves were equally standoffish, but in their apparently sheltering shadow stood Jordo. The slaves appeared to be divided more naturally into male and female. Darash and Lyshka were standing as a pair, while Aldor, Jeren and Zuromor had gathered closest to Grash. All of them had done their best to look like orcs, and with the exception of the Elves – whose beauty could never be hidden – most had succeeded. Grash drew a deep breath before beginning. “We go now, into the tunnel, into where Monster waits and eats people. There is no turning or bend in tunnel – we go out through the Door, then straight straight straight to other side.”

“Aye,” replied one of the Dwarves, one that had armed himself with a huge mace, “but how are we to reach the other side with that Monster that eats people, just waiting for us?” There were murmurs of uncomfortable assent from the others.

Grash frowned. “Not all reach the other side,” he said with a complete lack of emotion. “Some get eaten, some do not. When orcs go through tunnels they take many orcs. Monster comes, eats three or four, sometimes more, but the rest go through. This is why Grash freed you all; could not go myself and get eaten. Now we all go, not all get eaten. For some there is escape, for others there is also escape, but not from Mordor.” He smiled at his own dark joke. “Come,” he said again. “We must go now, come!” He opened the Under Door. “Into Monster’s tunnel, go now, or stay here and wait for orcs.” Without waiting for a reply, he plunged headlong into the darkness.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor was the first to run in after Grash. With his torch in hand he walked closely behing Grash, expecting to see some horrible beast to come bursting out of some corner and attack them. He had no idea what this monster even looked like, let alone how to get past it. All he knew was the her name was Shelob. He had heard the orcs talking about her "having her way" with some of their own. He had respected Grash for freeing them but when he had told them that he only freed them to be monster fodder, he began to distrust him. None of them knew if he worked with the enemy. He decided that he would keep a very close eye on Grash.

THe tunnel was dark and their torches barely lit the walls around them. It had an eerie glow that pierced down to the very bones. "Grash, how do you expect to live through this? You said you freed us so you would be able to leave. What if you are one of those who are eaten?"

[CaptainofDespair]

The dark, immortal elf male stood, watching, and listening, to the clamor ringing about him. Tee dwarves, clad in their iron shod, orc armor, stood together, as if this unity might save them from the death that lurked in the Tunnel. He smirked at this sight, and continued to scan the motley group that had assembled itself in the dark, dank corridor that would take them to Her. The humans had sectioned themselves off once more, but this had been foreseen. "The Race of Men will never unite..." he murmured to himself. As he continued to sweep the area with his mysterious, brooding eyes, his mind was lured to gaze into the gateway of the foreboding, pit-like entrance of the Tunnel. Thoughts of a death soon to come swept over his mind like a flood of misery and suffering. But he caught himself, and ended his dark trance prematurely. He spun around, and met the stare of his counterpart.

"It is time," he spoke, in a cold, seemingly spiteful voice. "The Tunnel awaits us, and She will welcome our presence. We should not..." He paused, searching for a distinct word for their current situation. "...Disappoint Her," he continued after his brief lapse. "Come, we go."

Morgoroth turned round yet again, and began to walk into the Tunnel entrance. Raeis followed, with Jordo not far behind her. As they made their way into the passage, the dark, creeping air swept over the trio. All around them, cobwebs of ununsual size began to make themselves known. With only a small torch to guide the way, a sense of dread soon inched its way into the minds of those within, for none knew when the Lady of the Tunnel would strike, ensnaring those hapless enough to tread in Her Tunnel.

Thoughts of death, and a bleak future for Ea, enveloped his mind, as he wandered into the narrow, almost prison-like passages. Raeis and Jordo followed closely, watching their step, for many jagged rocks and pitfalls dotted the landscape of the Tunnel. His mind wandered, as he did, from thought to thought. The atmosphere of the tunnel was not conducive to happier thoughts, only a deepening gloom was present as they made their way between the stalagmites, and tattered and torn webs of the rocky corridors. "This will prove a most interesting situation," the dark Elf muttered to himself.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Durelin's post - Jordo

“Some get eaten, some do not..." those words were all Jordo's brain could handle for many moments after they were spoken. And the man who spoke them were all his eyes could see. He stared at this man named Grash, the one whom he had obeyed when the creaking of metal had announced his freedom. But now his eyes could not acknowledge the man as someone to be obeyed. His mind cringed in terror as it realized what his eyes were doing. They were defying! Only his soul was interested in what was seen. His mind disregarded it as foolishness, and a dangerous foolishness, at that. But then the movement around him brought his eyes away, and he felt his mind relax, though it remained on the alert.

He watched Grash enter this tunnel, somehow ignoring his own words completely, and entering this pit of darkness - a pit of darkness even standing so close to the fires of Mordor - which he may not exit, which no one was guaranteed to exit. Jordo of course could not see this as something to admire, if courage it was. But he would not see courage or any other trait in someone, either. Another man followed him immediately, carrying a torch. Jordo almost followed this man, carrying precious light, but then he looked at those he stood with, who he found security in obeying.

The male elf spoke in a voice that made Jordo flinch, wanting the elf to command him so that he could show that he would be good. He felt as if all the spite in Morgoroth's voice was directed to him, and it frightened him to no end. Even that man Grash did not frighten him as much as this elf with the dark hair. He missed the elf's first words, but the rest were enough. They stung him like no orc whip had ever done, choked him like no ash ridden air ever had, and chilled him so deeply, deeper than any screams of the dying. "The Tunnel awaits us, and She will welcome our presence. We should not...disappoint Her." She...he wanted to scream at the knowledge that he found in his mind, memories of orc's speaking about a 'she' who was more than a nuisance even to orc kind.

Morgoroth entered and Jordo of course followed, almost bumping into Raeis as he did. He quickly muttered an apology, and looked up from the ground into the female elf's eyes only to see her smile at him. He smiled back, recognizing those eyes. But then the recognition faded as he saw himself back in his cell, alone. Raeis was making her way into the Tunnel now, as well, and so Jordo followed. In his first few steps he already had the feeling that something was watching him, and he felt little better knowing that others were slowly finding their own reasons to enter the Tunnel.

~*~*~

Amanaduial's post - Raeis

Raeis glanced over her shoulder at Men as she hesitated on the edge of the tunnel. Despite her apparent voluntary distance from them, Raeis did not mean to deliberately alienate herself - she was not afraid, but they made her wary. There were few now who didn't, and besides, it was evident that they didn't trust her. The fear that flashed in the dark man's blue eyes and the resentment in Aldor's told the elf that much.

Turning to Jordo, she smiled slightly at the man-child. He hung back at the edge of the tunnel, fear showing unrestrainedly on his childish features as he gazed warily into the tunnel. She held out a hand tenatively to him, gesturing for him to come. After a pause of only a second, he obediently came, darting close to Raeis's side where she stood on the edge of the tunnel. She smiled at him and touched him lightly on the arm in some awkward gesture of comfort, unsure of how to reassure him - unsure even of why she felt she should reassure him, for what business did she have with him? He was a Man, like those others who hung back away from the elves, the distant mortals... But Jordo was different, obviously. His simple trust in Raeis, although he knew nothing about her, made that very clear, and it somehow reassured Raeis as well: not everything in the world automatically turned it's back on her.

"Don't speak," she whispered to him, using the Common Tongue rather haphazardly - she had begun in Sindarin, then realised he would not understand. Usually it would have been a slight to her pride to use a different tongue for the convenience of others, but she barely noticed, seeking only to make Jordo understand. Ignorance is bliss had never proved right for Raeis, certainly not in the last few years - knowledge of what you were up against was far more useful. "Keep close to the group, stay quiet. Hush hush." She held a finger to her lips like a small child's nanny and Jordo subconciously copied the gesture, bringing a stumpy digit in front of his mouth and smiling tentatively at the elf.

She nodded, then turned back to the gaping maw of the tunnel. Steeling herself and holding herself straight and proud, the young female elf took a deep breath and stepped in, feeling as if she was going underwater - and the world into which she walked was so alien that it may as well have been underwater. Cobwebs floated with eerie lightness all around them, lit ethereally at this stage by what little light filtered in from the tunnel entrance. Huge rocks lay scattered, as if merely pebbles, knocked by a careless foot, before seperating into a rat run of caves and tunnels, a weaving mouse run, a warren. But no warren was ever on such a huge scale, no cobweb ever so large, no carelessly knocked 'pebble' large enough to crush a man.

It was like stepping into a giant's lair, and suddenly, Raeis felt smaller than she ever had before, dwarfed by what was in front of her. Her eyes peered through the gloom more easily than the others, allowing her a little more vision than their poor, weak eyes afforded them, but little help it did her; for once, Raeis was quite prepared to say that knowledge made her feel no better: she suddenly wished she had no idea of what was further on in the tunnel.

The group subconciously clumped closer together, men, dwarves and elves moving slowly and fearfully, each not admitting that they needed the others but taking solace from the prescence of the others.

Like it would help when She came.

[Novnarwen]

There was a strange attitude amongst the members of the company. None spoke, or at least not loudly. The darkness, the smell and the whispering of the wind; could there possibly live a creature in here? Rhând listened eagerly to the sound of several pairs of feet tripping and the sound of their heavy armours as he had nothing better to do. He wondered if anyone of them realised that they might walk into something just around the corner, which could end up being their last moments; their deaths. Grash had said it himself. The Monster would kill . . .

Rhând had already decided that he would not be the one who didn't come out at the other end of the tunnel, and the other side of the Gates. He would not be the one who was eaten by a female monster, even though she was gruseome and terrible. He would not be the one who would meet his death now. Surely, a man, very much like himself, would make it out of these tunnels, even if there was a monster. With these thoughts in mind, he started preparing mentally for the inevitable.

The darkness grew with every step they took. Only the torch Grash held firmly in his hand, lit up so that they could see their path. However, as the tunnel only bent one way, they knew where to put their feet. But this was not what Rhând concerned him the most; it was not the tunnel he wanted to see clearly or the cobwebs. He wanted to see Her when she showed up. Shaking, both by the anxiety, and the pain, from the bit on his neck, going through his body, he tried focusing on watching out for anything unusual. However, it pained him and he couldn't stop thinking about it. When touching it, he felt a huge lump. Not huge maybe, Rhând thought to himself going slower due to the pain. But it is something . . .

Not taking heed to anyone at the moment, as the pain grew within every second, he was unfortunate enough to bump into someone. The noise from the armours hitting each other made everyone turn towards Rhând and the person he had bumped into. Silent, they stood for a while listening to the echo which made its way to all of the corners of the tunnels. Rhând, alias Aldor, swallowed. He turned to meet the person he had bumped into. Looking upwards, he found himself staring into a couple of dark coloured eyes. He recognized them instantly as the two eyes which belonged to the male elf. You filthy traitor and disgraceful creature, Rhând thought. When looking at him more closely, seeing that the rest of the company turned their attention to the tunnel again, Rhând made out the ugly features of the Elven kind; the pale skin, the ears, the height and their pride. As the feeling of hate towards the elf arose inside of him, he hoped She would single the male elf out, take him and eat him. Rhând smiled a peculiar smile as he thought of the elf being eaten; the cries, eyes being filled with pain as She set her teeth in him and the horror in his eyes. It would be a terribly short journey for the male elf, Rhând would see to it.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The others followed Grash into the tunnel, as he knew they would – for what else was there for them to do? They quickly passed down the winding corridor carved by the makers of the Tower in ages past. Its walls were smooth, and Grash wondered at this, for he did not know of the ancient Men who had founded the Tower before its capture by the Dark Lord. They soon reached a low wall that ran across the mouth of the corridor that they had to scramble over. The Elves fairly leapt over the barrier, but the others had to climb as best they could. The Dwarves gave one another what aid they could in their crossing, but did not offer their hands to the Men. Aldor was quick to mount the low wall and help Grash and the other Men onto the other side. Darash and Lyshka, Grash noted, refused all aid.

When they were assembled upon the other side there were two ways. One lay to their left and sloped gently upward. There came from that tunnel a faint breeze of foul air from which they determined that it led to the tunnel’s exit. Some of the company were perhaps tempted to go that way and avoid the Monster, but that direction would only have led them back to Mordor. The only way to escape were they to go back from the tunnel was along the road to Minas Morgul… Steeling themselves, they headed into the impenetrable gloom of the Monster’s lair.

The tunnel ran straight and broad so it was easy to find their way, but there were many openings on either hand from which came noisome smells and foul airs. Grash led the way bearing one of the torches. The flame, which had seemed so bright in the cellars of the Tower, was but a flickering will-o-the-wisp in the pall of this realm, or like the poisonous glow of a corpse candle. As they walked on, the air grew thick and heavy, and closed in about them all choking their breath and stilling their hearts. When Zuromor spoke to Grash, his voice sounded alarmingly loud even though it was barely a whisper. “Grash,” he asked “how do you expect to live through this? You said you freed us so you would be able to leave. What if you are one of those who are eaten?”

Grash merely shrugged. “Maybe I do get eaten. Maybe I do not. If I go through tunnel alone then no escape at all. This way, perhaps I do escape.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment in which Grash could sense the man working up to another question. It was a matter of indifference to Grash whether he would ask it or not, so he simply plodded along in silence. “How many do you think will be taken?” Zuromor asked.

Again Grash shrugged. “When Monster takes orcs, she takes three of four. But orcs nasty krattûk beasts, they not taste good, I think.” He smiled darkly. “Many here taste sweeter than orcs, I think,” he flicked his eyes back to where the Elves strode, and behind them, the Dwarves, their dark forms barely visible through the pitch. He looked back into the dark that ran on before their feet. “Sweeter than Grash, I think. Sweeter than Men.” And again he smiled.

He heard a sound almost like a snicker and looked behind him. Jeren was walking at his back, but his face was serious and fixed. Grash wondered if the Man had heard him speaking with Zuromor…

[Bêthberry]

Darash turned her eyes from the shadows of the courtyard to the deep gloom of the tunnel. Though no one could see, the muscles on her neck quivered. But that was all the evidence she displayed of her fear. She had never been underground, never crawled through rock and dark and places where offal hung to fill the air with putrid scent. The group trudged on for she knew not how long, time being lost in the winding of the lair. They were climbing, she thought. The air seemed empty except for its stench. It hardly filled her lungs. She willed herself to breathe deeply, for she would need to gather her strength. And thoughts.

She watched Grash walk on ahead, the torch lighting the way. She recalled his words.

"Not all reach the other side," he had said. "Some get eaten, some do not."

As she walked over the smooth, cold stone, her feet unaccustomed to the orc boots, her hand followed one side, testing the walls as she walked for their strength and texture, as if she were learning the place. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Grash.

Grash has watched the movements of the orcs and noted them well. He is a cunning leopard. He has seen the herds gather and knows that the weak ones fall. But this is all he knows; he is an animal, not a man of the Amazigh. He sacrifices life like animals.

She kept these thoughts to herself, for this was not the time to challenge him. For now, it was enough to follow him cautiously, warily. There were enough of them here, many hands, many swords, to ward off this foul beast they spoke of. Why plan like the orcs and animals do, for some to fall? The way of these northerners was despicable.

A rumble in the bowels of the tunnel made Darash shake her head of these thoughts. She began to form thoughts of this animal, this beast, this monster, recalling what little she knew of it. If you know the animal's way, she reminded herself, you will know the way to fight it. She hefted the bags she carried, put a blade in each hand, and thought about how to speak to the others so they would have a strategy for all and not just for some. She would teach this Grash something.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“Sweeter than Grash, I think. Sweeter than Men.”

Jeren heard the words and rolled his eyes, scoffing lightly. However, this small noise echoed and brought a quick, sidelong glance from Grash. Jeren made his face serious and still as stone until the man turned back forward. I think that if she is hungry, she will eat whatever she gets. If she will stand the rank of the orcs, she will eat both Dwarf and Man. Or Man and Elf, whichever she gets first. She will not get me first, at least…

The Southron man kept these wicked thoughts to himself as the group walked the tunnel. It is well that we go toward the beast, Jeren thought. We are too many in number as it is. The Dwarves will slow us down, they are stubborn. The females will slow us down. Jeren strayed momentarily to the left, lifting his hand and letting it gently drag against the dimly lit wall. The damp, rocky wall grated against his fingertips, and Jeren withdrew his hand when the wall opened up temporarily into another shaft.

Suddenly, Jeren felt a tingle in the back of his throat. What the -- The Southron man's eyes squinted and his brows furrowed. Soon, Jeren broke out in fits of hacking. His exhales brought coughing and his inhales were difficult and wheezing. Jeren ignored everyone's attention and glances, focusing on the procession of the thick, nasty air into his lungs. He still was unused to the disgusting air. Cough after cough Jeren tried to stifle.

"Silence! No sound from you, too loud!" Grash hissed, and Jeren glared coldly at the man. I'll rip your throat out and then you can see how you like it, Jeren thought bitterly, though he did try harder to quiet his hacking...he just breathed less.

"When does the tunnel open?" Jeren whispered softly to Grash, though the words echoed once again and he knew the whole company could hear his words. Jeren's voice came out rough and broken, and he fought through another fit of his rebelling throat and lungs.

[Novnarwen]

"When does the tunnel open?" he heard the Southron say.

If you don't shut your big mouth very soon, we won't come to then end of the tunnel at all, Rhând thought miserably to himself. The echoes the other Southron, Jeren, had made when 'whispering', roared through the whole tunnel. The sound of his coughing too, made Rhând doubt they would ever get out the tunnel alive. This Jeren had caused too much noise. Surely, if there was a monster, which Rhând himself was starting to believe, it would certainly hear them if they weren't quiet. On the other hand though, it would be a good thing that people got annoyed with this Southron's behaviour. It would be a great accomplishment to himself, even though he hadn't done anything. He looked at the Southron for a moment. Yes, he would certainly be hated. The more mistakes he made, the more the others would hate him. Rhând, too, would help them hate the Southron even though he was a Southron himself. It surprised him that he hadn't realised it before, but it was clear to him now; Jeren would definitely be an important piece in this puzzle. If he were ever going to escape from these prisoners, and bring them back to their cells, Rhând would need a prisoner who was more hated than himself: Jeren. Rhând, himself, would of course avoid being hated, but if he was unfortunate enough to make a mistake, it was good to have someone in the company who absolutely no one liked.

Being more careful now as he went, not to bump into anyone, (certainly not Elves,) he laid his eyes on Jeren. He wanted to observe him, wanted to learn more about him. What weaknesses did he have? What strengths? Rhând gave a peculiar smile at this, as he didn't know if a full-blood Southron had any strengths. On the other hand, he reproached himself for underestimating another. It could be dangerous in a situation like this, but it would have to pass this time. How could possibly a Southron like Jeren, who found it convenient to cough in a tunnel where there was supposed to be a monster of the worst kind, do anything right? Yes, by the look of him, Rhând thought, he seemed dumb, ignorant and as all Southrons quite boring.

Following the dim light from the torch Grash held in his hand, Rhând was able, due to great concentration, to make out the tunnel's form; how it bent and so on. The cobwebs, which he came to notice even more than before, were terribly big. What was this place anyway? he wondered. He had heard of great spiders, but this size?! It seemed so surreal, but he knew that it was probably something of that kind which lived here. He bit his lip, feeling his neck getting stiffer and stiffer. He would have to do something about it, when coming out of the tunnel. He couldn't go on forever with the big lump. However, as he thought about it, it was probably just a matter of time before it got better. How much worse could it get? He thought to himself. He felt the need to curse, and he did so, but under his breath.

[CaptainofDespair]

The coughing and hacking that emanated from Jeren, had become quite an annoyance to the finely tuned ears of the dark Silvan. The noise echoed from wall to wall, and it seemed to shake even the finely strung webs that had been woven into the corridors by whatever brooding monstrosity of a long forgotten age, that lurked in the passage. The webs themselves were peculiar, as they seemed to reflect a light that did not exist in the darkness of the Tunnel. Not only that, but it seemed like the creature that had woven them, had arrayed them in a way that forced any passerby along a certain, well-worn path.

The march through the Tunnel was slow going, as many pitfalls and cobwebs hampered the efforts to continue forth. Every once and awhile someone would trip over a pile of orc bone left behind from one the creature's previous meals. None of this worried the elf. He knew his naturally imbued grace and dexterity would give him advantage over the others, who continued to bumble around through darkness. To the Mortals within the party, this was as quiet as they could get, but the fair and graceful First-born, the Children of Eru, were much more adept with stealth, and proceeded along much more softly careful of their surroundings. The clanging of rough orc armor could be heard as the dwarves carried on towards the rear, bumping into the walls blindly in the dark, and causing undue clatter.

Morgoroth was on edge however, as he knew the creature would come for her meal eventually. So he began to take precautions against such a horrid demise of those he had taken under his wing. Raeis and he walked side by side, and kept Jordo to the center, protecting him from an ambush that was likely to come soon. He kept his bow at his side, with an arrow at the ready, prepared to sing its deadly song in the uneasy dark of the Tunnel.

Besides the eerie light produced by the webbing, nothing else could very well be seen. Only the light of the slowly dimming torches would provide any artificial light. Yet, the torches would soon fade, and with them, any hope to prevent an ambush. This is what She was waiting for, the time when all lights go out...

[Kransha]

Bror looked warily from side to side, the orbs clouded beneath his hanging, furrowed brow, which looked as heavy as the savage weapon he clutched in each hand, both metal-shod and bound up in thick gloves of chain mail. His beard, frazzled and unkempt, was whisked over his drooping shoulders by the subtlest of breezes, the last, he feared, he would ever feel. He did not care for wind, and had not appreciated the gentle tranquility of daylight in the past, but now felt more than ever that he missed it dearly. In this dark, dank land, this seemingly impassable tunnel, with lurking shadows to overplay those that simply augmented the sinister atmosphere. For some time, at the tail of the motley party, the dwarf trio had traipsed slowly deeper into the tunnel, to court whatever doom the others would and face it alongside them, no matter how much tension the entirety of the group was suffering from, and had been for the duration of their 'adventure.'

Elves and men were all around him, or at least before him and ahead. They still looked segregated purposefully into their own units, but had formed a strange, muddled clump to be near each other, only for the sake of individual safety. Some might trust one another, but most did not trust anyone save themselves and one or two others. Dwarves trusted dwarves, elves trusted elves, men trusted men, and friends trusted friends, but no alliances had been made in earnest, which left the group uneasy. The three dwarves were as uneasy as the rest, and perhaps more, as they did not share any bond with the other races present.

The dwarf at the head of the three, Bror, was, as the other two were, half accustomed to the darkness. Years in the ominous fog of Cirith Ungol had manipulated his eyes’ former prowess. He was used to the darker shades and hues of these lands. But, his past life, the one left behind, left him with a second aspect of sight into the darkness, when he’d lived in a dimmer time, but brightened by happiness. He could see all around him, the rocky crags on the damp cave wall, the countless spider-built threads of cobwebs that hung above, with an assortment of dead and decaying creatures suspended from above, with a pestilential aura lingering around each corpse of orc and animal alike. Bror looked up and around, his nose wrinkling sensitively. He began to walk faster, jogging awkwardly in his heavily armored outfit, and soon had Dwali and Dorim pacing far behind. He weaved with some slight nimbleness past the elves and the men until he could see the back of their accidental leader, and he who had granted Bror his freedom, the man called Grash. Hurriedly, Bror sidled up to him. The man turned slowly, his face as slate as ever, as Bror began reluctantly to speak, ignoring anyone else who might be nearby, focusing unanimously on the man called Grash.

“Man…” he paused, reminding himself swiftly of the man’s true name, or the one he’d told his ‘allies,’ “Grash…you spoke of the beast in the tunnel earlier…you said that not all of us would ford this last obstacle, but some would, and that is why you freed us…” he paused again, his tongue held back with his words as he was unsure how to phrase his question, something he’d been considering for a long while, “Do you truly think that you will be one of those?...Do you trust corrupted men and prideful elves so much that, in this time where you hold onto life in this place of death, you would trust them to assist you...and each other…”

Grash looked at him with resilient lack of emotion and posed a brief question, still walking into the depths of the darkness. “You not trust elves and men?” Bror didn’t look back, but looked to the comfortable uniformity of the tunnel’s wall for consolation in whatever he thought. “No,” he said soon after, which didn’t surprise the younger man, “…no, I don’t. Neither do my kin. Elves serve only their own kind, and men serve only themselves…Were I one of them, I would not trust dwarves…It is hard to trust anyone after such emotions have been gouged from your mind.” He thought back to more painful days, days where he’d wished he had the strength of mind to run onto orcish blades and embrace a death with open arms.

The man nodded soberly, as if he understood better than Bror, which the dwarf severely doubted, and looked to him with a calm face. “You not trust…or you not want to trust?”

Bror looked at him darkly, but answered. “Both, I think…Answer the question!”

Grash turned from him too, still walking, but slower now as darkness closed in around them as the tendril-like legs of the keeper of this cave, sharp and unmerciful. He looked back barely a moment later, speaking as philosophically as a man with his waning oratory talents could. “Don’t know if I survive; maybe live, maybe not, but some get through...I want get through, but not get everything I want, not here. Some get through, some not, but some still get through. They go on, they get out. All might get through.”

The dwarf who he spoke to looked frustrated by Grash’s seeming evasion, but accepted the answer as either carelessness, or maybe misplaced optimism. He continued, digging deeper to get the reply he really desired. “But…if you have the opportunity…would you squander it in place of putting false trust in false allies? All our lives are at risk here, but the risk for some is not as great for some as it is for others…Some will help others and, if you run first, they will be the ones taken by Her.”

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka walked carefully in the thick, oppressive darkness of the tunnel. She kept one hand on the smooth stone of the wall and the other firmly gripped the knife she snatched from the Orc corpse. The ominous words of those around her worked themselves inside her head, making her tremble, but she still held herself together rigidly. She squeezed her teeth together tightly, making her jaw protrude on either side of her thin face. Every step she placed with caution, expecting, anticipating the foreboding attack.

For many months, the Easterling had dreamed of her entrance into this tunnel and her meeting with the mighty Shelob. Sitting in her cell, huddled in the dark, cool corner, Lyshka pictured herself walking to her timely death with her head held high. She would simply throw her arms out and cry, “Ak agnash skûg agh ak agnash dûthk!” The beast would then take her in her surrender and bring her the death that would bring an end to the bitterness life brought.

That is how she dreamed of it. But now…now she was free. Free. The idea created such a strange, surreal…even numb sensation in her mind. Lyshka was now free in the tunnel that held the creature she had been tortured by the simple thought of it.

She turned the knife slowly in her hand. She had not pictured herself armed in her dreams. A slow awkward smile crossed her face for a brief moment as she considered the possibility of actually escaping this horrible place. The moment was quickly gone however as she passed an open passage on her left. The stench was heavy and she gagged. Her concentration was broken and fear gripped her once more.

Instinctively, her free hand reached out and grabbed the other woman’s wrist tightly. The Easterling’s hand trembled, but she found strength in the other. The woman turned to Lyshka, meeting her gaze. Lyshka almost expected her to lash out at her, but the woman studied the Easterling’s face in the pale torch light and simply nodded in understanding.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor continued to walk down the dark path and had been listening to Grash and one of the dwarves talking. "All our lives are at risk here, but the risk for some is not as great for some as it is for others" He had heard the dwarf utter these words, and he felt something stir within him, he felt words leap to his tongue as if by instinct. "Life is precious to all. No one person's life is more important than another's. And though you do not trust this group, and I think it's safe to say that most here do no trust you, we are all in danger here. This hidden beast might eat us all if we do not stand together. Why must we be segragated? We should all forget the past and worry about the present. We must stand together, at least until we get past her. What say you?" Zuromor held out his hand to the dwarf in a sign of allegiance.

He had no quarrels with any of these people save that he did not know any of them. But he believed what he said. They would have to stand together. Rivalry would destroy them all. He hoped they would all understand.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Unaware of how annoying it might be to the others, Grash responded to Jeren’s question with yet another shrug. It was the way he had learned to reply to any request that was made civilly: so used was he to the barked commands of brutal masters, it was as though he was confused by any other mode of address. “Do not know where tunnel ends,” he said to the Man. “Never been through tunnel. Only, have I seen orcs come and go and hear them talk about it. But it is journey of many hours, many long steps.” He lapsed once more into silence and wondered about this Man. There was something about him that disturbed Grash in ways he could not put into words, not even to himself. It was the same kind of feeling that he had when speaking with Aldor. He wanted to trust them both, and felt as though it would be most natural for him to join with them, and yet there was an odd reluctance in his spirit. In an odd way it was the opposite of his feelings when speaking with the Elves. He knew that they were not to be trusted; indeed, he had begun to regret freeing them at all. If it had not been for the thought that they would prove the most tempting treats for the Monster he never would have let them from their cells. And yet it was as though there was an air about them that made him feel…content. He shook his head to drive away these dreamy ideas. He had no time for the spells of magical beings. His life was defined by the harsh realities of brutal experience. And what experience could be more brutal than this? Some would be taken by the Monster, some would not. To this point he had only considered it a wild gamble, but perhaps there was a way of bettering the odds in his favour…

He turned to the Men, Jeren, Aldor and Zuromor, and spoke to them quickly and silently. He fought to keep the echoes of his voice from reaching the others. “If we fight together – we four – then maybe we escape monster together. Leave Elves and Dwarves to be eaten. Maybe we take women with us. Women need help from men for difficult tasks. Need our protection. Yes,” he said as though he were realising something for the first time, “it would be good to take women with us.”

Before the others replied, the Dwarf Brór bulled into their group. At first his questions confused Grash. Was the Dwarf actually asking Grash to form an alliance with him and his folk? The very idea was preposterous, for everyone – even Grash – knew that one could never trust a Dwarf. He had heard all his life of how the Dwarves had betrayed their alliances with the Elves in the Old Days, and attacked them seeking to steal their treasure. The orcs knew little lore, but these stories were every fresh in their mind as they took great delight from the dissension and mistrust that existed amongst their enemies. Grash had also heard about the wars fought between the Dwarves and the orcs, and all of them had been over treasure; both kinds of folk seemed to pleasure in wealth, and both sought to live in the same kinds of dark caves and tunnels. To Grash’s mind, there did not seem to be much difference between orcs and Dwarves.

He replied to Brór’s questions as evasively as he could and felt quite self-congratulatory as he did. He knew that he was at a terrible disadvantage in this situations insofar as he had little experience dealing with other people, but he was learning quickly that it was important to keep much of the truth to one’s self. Already he was regretting having told the others about his plan for survival in the tunnel – it would have been better to mislead them about the monster in some way, rather than admit that some would be taken this day. He was lost in these thoughts when Zuromor moved toward the Dwarf and offered him his friendship. Grash did not know what to make of this, for he had thought that the Man was on his side. Grash’s head began to ache with the pressure of trying to understand what was happening. His life had been torturous but simple: do what the orcs said or be punished, trust nobody, rely only on himself. With freedom, he found, there were new challenges and complexities the likes of which he had never imagined. It was no longer enough to think only about himself, he had to consider the inner workings of others. He did not know if he could do it…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In another part of the tunnel, she sat in the agony of her defeat, weaving about her a web of despair and hatred. Never had she felt the bitter sting of metal within her beloved flesh, and never before had she been denied her prey. The two nasty little creatures that had eluded her were the smallest of morsels, and yet they had proved the dearest of prizes. Her precious eyes still burned with the agonising memory of the light that had pierced her mind, and her body quaked with rage and pain as she sought to staunch the steady trickle of ooze that came from the wound in her belly, and from the end of her lovely leg where her foot had been lopped off. She cursed the fool who lived in his Tower and his pretensions to rule this land. It was his machinations, she was sure, that had brought those creatures to her realm. They were undoubtedly spies of the bright-eyed immortals, sent by them to destroy the Dark Lord, and in her malice she wished them success. Let them defeat Sauron and then seek their escape from this land. She would be waiting for them, and then she would crush and destroy and devour.

As she sat in her darkness, contemplating her revenge, there came to her senses strange airs and an odd rumour of intruders in her tunnels. She shifted slightly and directed her attention toward the main tunnel above. Somewhere up there was a large group of folk. She tasted the airs greedily. Men there were, and Dwarves, and another taste that had been absent from her lair for too long…Elves. Poisonous saliva began to drip from her fangs and mix with the pool of ooze that came from her wound. Such meat was sweet and sustaining. If she were to recover her strength she would need a sustaining meal, and the group that moved through her tunnel would provide that.

Her great limbs creaking as she moved, she slipped through the hidden paths of her realm, quickly squeezing her vast and shapeless bulk through the narrow ways of her lair. She kept herself hiddem from the beings who had dared in their arrogance to enter her darkness, for they were many and she was wounded, but the terror of her passing sent shivers through their succulent flesh. She would make such a meal as she had not made in this age of the world, but to do so would require cunning and cruelty.

Fortunately, she was the mistress of both…

[Himaran]

The sensation of being hunted is both interesting and terrifying, although the latter description is slightly more accurate. As Dwali moved slowly through the infinite dark of the tunnel, he could not help but feel like a deadly creature was stalking him; creeping unseen somewhere close. Perhaps above me at this very moment, waiting to strike. And then it will all be over, the conclusion to this dark tale. Ignoring the possibility of impending doom, the dwarf turned his attention to the ongoing conversation around him.

“But…if you have the opportunity…would you squander it in place of putting false trust in false allies? All our lives are at risk here, but the risk for some is not as great for some as it is for others…Some will help others and, if you run first, they will be the ones taken by Her.” Bror’s blunt statement was true, and no member of the company spoke. It seemed that each individual was contemplating which type they were… one that sought for personal survival or that of the group as a whole. But Dwali could be silent no longer.

“But what no one fled, hoping to escape on his own? What if we all fought together against this beast that seeks to consume us! Then some might die, yes, but all would keep their honor.” There was no reply. The group continued walking, know that soon, all their questions would be answered.

[Kransha]

Bror looked up coldly at the new member of the conversation, and the only besides him, now. His left brow cocked simply, gazing up into the honest face of the man. He could not, would not trust men, and would not trust elves, and they didn’t trust him or each other. All the mind’s workings were reduced to rubble in this place of darkness and pain, for no one could think straight when faced with such overbearing, dreadful odds. But, this human seemed set in his goal, however strange or foolhardy it might seem. He put his gauntleted palm and open hand up with veiled reluctance, and shook the hand extended to him, but as no sign of allegiance. He only needed to rely on those who he could trust; he didn’t wish to be bound to them in alliance, for such an act might doom him to their fate. It was all he could do not to instantly pull his hand away, as if the hand that held him was a serpent, clinging to him with venom-wrought fangs so as not to be cast off into the surrounding abyss of shadow.

“I don’t misplace my loyalties, boy.” Bror growled back as he removed his hand, at first hostile with unconcealed belligerence in his gruff, raspy tone, but soon relaxed his grim attitude into one of understanding, and reasoning as he considered the man’s words. “Trust is hard to find down here, and you are right about it in what you say. I don’t trust you, you don’t trust me, and no one trusts any other. I think universal trust, that which you speak of, is a petty impossibility…” Now, though, as his disillusioning speech continued, he saw a sliver of truth in his counterpart’s ideals and was forced to grasp them. “But, I have nothing else to do…Any man who at least tries to extend his hand in friendship shows an admirable quality or two…For now you can trust who you want, and you can trust me if you truly desire, but when she comes, all alliances are rendered useless…Do not think folk who hate each other will help each other in the face of danger.”

“I disagree with that, dwarf.” Zuromor replied briskly, but with some disappointment at not truly recruiting the dwarf to his noble cause. “When she comes, you’ll see.” Bror nodded, again reluctantly, unwilling to even admit to the possibility of being wrong, and ripped his hand away at last, turning on his heels from the group of men and muttering sarcastically as he headed towards his kin, “Indeed. I’m sure I shall.” And as he said thus, he walked slowly, and cautiously, eying the other members of the escapee party with care, towards the other dwarves of the company not far behind.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis froze suddenly, stopping midstride in the darkness so that if anyone had been too near to her they would have ran straight into her. Around her, the musty silence was oppressive, the cramped spaces hemming the elf in, making her feel claustrophobic, the caves of the ancient monster within radiating their disapproval against the footsteps of one of the children of Eru. Arrogance of the elf that would step into Her chambers…

The others did not seem to sense the sudden shift in the air, and continued their endless prattle, talking to each other in low voices of how the elves would betray them – fools! Each was far younger even than Raeis, but did they not realise she could hear them? Every word was listened to by the elf, soaked into a mind twisted by pain and a half-madness, held and stored like a spider holding a fly…

Another shift in the air. In the depths of Shelob’s darkness, something moved again, a dangerous shift of silence. Raeis fell into a crouch, her back against a wall as her pointed ears pricked, seeking out the sound once more, trying to find some direction in the echoing, disorientating void that seemed to surround her, distorting all sense of space, her dark eyes staring wildly into the darkness for some sign of light.

Still the Men and Dwarves seemed to notice nothing, their weak senses rendering them deaf and blind.

“When she comes, you’ll see.” The noise of the dwarf’s noisy bray seemed violently loud in the darkness and Raeis winced at it.

“Shhhh….” The hiss escaped her lips quietly. Around her, the others turned to her, curious as the what had made the strange, silent elf speak. Raeis’s eyes continued to stare into the darkness as she spoke again, her voice a whisper, her lips barely moving.

“Something stirs – the air shifts…” she looked up at them. “She is moving.”

There was a second of silence then one of the dwarves scoffed disbelievingly at her, almost laughing. “Pah! ‘Something stirs’…” he mimicked Raeis’s voice, his lip curling distastefully as he looked down at her. “Think you can take us in so easily, elf? You mean to scare us, to make us afraid and trembling, so you can call her and bring us to our deaths-” The dwarf was almost shouting in her resentment when another, one of the women, the tall, bronze-skinned one, interrupted, letting a harsh ‘pcha!’ sound escape her lips, although whether it was a word or simply a noise, Raeis couldn’t tell. At the moment, she didn’t care. She looked up at them again, her eyes focusing this time on the Southron woman who had silenced the dwarves.

“She knows we are here,” she stated quietly.

As if the great spider had heard, a sound suddenly echoed throughout the caves – a rock falling, the crunch like breaking bone making every one of the escapees jump and spin around, looking for where the noise had come from. Raeis didn’t move, but the carved elven sword was in her hand from her belt in a moment, her eyes flashing. She hastily offloaded the other weapons, the knives and one of the two swords, onto the ground in front of her, motioning for the others to take them. She held back the other sword though, pushing it towards the tall woman without a word. Another rock fell and a small, high sound echoed through the darkness. Raeis closed her eyes fearfully, then opened them and stood slowly, sword ready in her hand.

“She knows we are here,” she murmured again softly.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

It seemed that the elf-woman was right. She did know. The sound from deep within the tunnel came like an answer to an unspoken question. Zuromor approached the dwarf whom he had talked to earlier. "You should not underestimate the Elves, especially if you think of them as your enemies. Though it seems now we will see our answer." Zuromor turned so that he could see all of the party. "Stand in your small groups if it be your will, but surely all of you can see that all of us might escape... if we work together. Stop fighting amongst yourselves, for if ye continue that when she comes..." Zuromor trailed off and seemed to be thinking of some horrific event when he began to let one possible senario play out in his mind's eye. What if the would not band together?

"Death waits for those who are not willing to stay their hate and vanquish evil when they see it. I have long waited for a chance to slay those foul orcs that kept us prisoner, and I am sure all of you have to. Let us slay this dark beast, together! Then we shall have a revenge that will taste much sweeter than slaying any orc. We will be free. No more orcs ruling our lives. Surely that is worth fighting along side those who you do not completely trust. Especially when your feelings come from hatred born ages ago. Let go of that hate and fight. She will not fall easily."

With that Zuromor walked over to the Elf-woman and grabbed one of the small knives she had lain about and secured it in his belt. He looked at her and for the first time he felt something he could not explain nor understand. He felt at peace, yet he felt torn. He did not feel pain, but he felt a strange sort of nausea in the pit of his being. He felt himself blush and then he turned away and braced for her coming.

[CaptainofDespair]

The great spider Shelob, last of Ungoliant's spawn, was preparing to unleash armageddon on the party. With their own deep running divisions, she would be able to bring them down, one at a time, methodically, torturing those survivors with 'who would be next?'. Yet, she had been wounded earlier. She would take all these intruders into Her domain, and devour them, as atonement for her previous failure.

Morgoroth sat, unmoving, against a wall. He listened to the sounds emanating from the vast deep of the Tunnel, and he understood. He knew she would come, it was only a matter of time. He had hoped she would stay her hunger, but it seemed she was moving, readying herself to strike. The disunity that spread itself like a virus through the former prisoners, would be her greatest asset. But one of the humans had tried to rectify this, at least partly, but he was alone is his plea for a call to a united front. None of the others seemed willing to strike up a temporary alliance, to deal with the threat of Shelob.

And so the Elf stood up, slowly, from his position against the wall. He continued to listen to the reverberating echoes coming from the inner most parts of the passages. He gracefully made his way to one of the dwarves, the one who had 'questioned' him earlier about the escaping orc. “Ah, master dwarf, it seems we are at an impasse." The dwarf was startled at this, and he turned quickly, with a knife drawn. Morgoroth slowly placed his hand on the blade, and began to move it aside. "We cannot be killing one another, at least not now. It would be unwise to weaken ourselves for Her coming." The dwarf answered only with low-pitched grunt. "I propose we settle our differences, and unite, at least for now, to defeat the wretched creature that stalks us all." The dwarf stared at the Silvan for a long while, and finally spoke. "I will need to speak with my brethren."

Morgoroth, with a bit of hesitance, turned from the dwarf, and carefully made his way back to his place against the wall. It would provide him with a vantage point throughout the corridor. There, he prepared himself for Her coming, and hoped that the barriers that divided the group, would collapse, and they would defend as one.

[Bêthberry]

"Something stirs--the air shifts."

Listening intensely to what the elf-woman had said, Darash strained to hear what she had been hearing. Then that dwarf with the mind of rodent had rippled the silence like a stone breaking water's surface. Darash had felt too great contempt for the dwarf's poor strategy to speak more to him than one word of derision. That, at least, had worked to silence him. She strode over to the elf woman with the burning eyes and looked deeply into her face, seeing beyond the scars and sensing something there, something she found familiar. There was knowledge there, no, more than knowledge. There was wisdom, a wisdom like to that Darash knew from her own people. For the first time since her captivity, Darash sensed she was in the presence of one who might share some common understanding. With a slight, honorific bow, she accepted the gift of the sword and took her place beside the elf as the man Zuromor spoke.

When he was finished, they were three, elf, man, Amazigh. Darash silently began humming a song to herself, 'Umbella dareya umbella hadaryeh. Ushalla ngange." Then she stopped, listening as the rock groaned. The torches flickered heavily as the air became heavy with foul vapours.

"Grash, we learn about monster. Tell fast, how she? Tall? big? Many arms? Kill with running or crushing? Soft belly? Scales?"

They looked at her, questioning why she broke the silence. Raeis looked at her and nodded approval. Zuromor found the heat in his face, the nausea in his stomach abate as he realised what strategy Darash implied.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

This was not how he had planned it. The prisoners had come to a halt in the middle of the corridor and were speaking amongst themselves. Darash, backed by the Man Zuromor, was suggesting the madness of seeking to defeat the Monster as a group, while others were speaking in small groups, clearly trying to make allies to help them survive the coming attack. The Elf woman crouched against the wall, clearly near collapse from the terror of the airs that Grash could feel coming toward them from the darkness. Surely they must know that to fight was impossible, only flight and speed, and even then only the swiftest could hope to ever see the sky again. He shook his head and muttered under his breath. What was he to do? He had to get the group moving again, and quickly, but what little order existed amongst the prisoners was evaporating within the horrid reek of the enclosing darkness.

There came upon them then a freezing terror unlike anything they had ever known. For each it was as though their worst nightmare had come into the waking world and now approached on stealthy legs. The very darkness took on substance and choked them, taking the vision from their eyes and minds so that they were all of them little more than blind and naked animals, quivering in cold place that would destroy them with its very indifference. Grash gasped for air and reached out to catch himself against a wall, choking on terror. Instead of rock his hand met flesh and he felt a hand take his own. It was strong and gave some comfort, but he felt the shiver of mortality that thrilled the other’s flesh as it did his own. Forcing himself to see again, he looked into the eyes of Aldor. It was as though he were looking into a window that had for the first time been opened to the outside world. In an instant, Grash saw the naked terror of a soul in torment and realised that Aldor had to this point been hiding much about himself, but in the extremity of their fear his barriers had fallen and lay about him like broken glass. Aldor forced the words out through a throat clenched by the air it tried to breath. “Run,” he gasped. “We must run…”

Grash nodded and tried to move but he was powerless to go anywhere, for her overwhelming will had come upon them. The company could move only their eyes, and what they saw approaching them through the darkness filled with loathing. In the darkness behind them there loomed up a vast shape, like a void into the pits of nothingness against the pitch of her realm. They heard the slow creak of her mighty limbs and the rasping noise of her great body as it dragged along the ground. But most horrible of all were her eyes. Thousands of them glared at them in clusters about her head, and from them there came a cold and baleful light of hunger and merciless hatred of all that drew breath and lived.

But as helpless as they felt, she was still wary, for they were many, and she was wounded. She would not risk an open confrontation here in the passageway, so she used all her will to cow and terrify them now, to drive their minds into the blackness of panic that overcomes reason, before letting them flee where she wished them to go. She would drive them before her to their end, where she would feast mightily.

Suddenly freed of their immobility, but seized still by the animal terror of the monster, the company turned and fled headlong down the passage. None there were who could resist the terror of that moment, so great was the will and hatred of she who followed them, none save perhaps the wisest of the wise. They ran headlong into the eternal night of her realm until they came upon a vast web of incredible size blocking the straight way. They slashed at the cords of the web with their weapons, but she had not taken such care with a web in many years and it defied steel and iron. They turned about to face the onslaught, and Grash tried to lean against a wall so that he would have something at his back other than the terrible web, but he fell into darkness. He landed upon a gently sloping floor, and scrambling to his feet he cried out for the others. “This way! Come! Another passage! Come come!” He turned and ran into the smaller way, down and down into a reek so terrible that it brought tears to his eyes. Some of the company followed, while others, wary of this new route, so clearly laid out for them, tried to stand their ground, but the terror of her approach came upon them like a wave and they could not withstand it. They turned and fled into the narrow way after the others.

On and on they ran and after a while the horror of her approach lessened, but it did not go away. Finally they stopped, panting and gasping for breath amid a noisome reek that clogged the air with a putrid taste so vile that every breath was a labour. Grash leaned against the wall, and felt not stone beneath his hand but a pulpy softness that writhed and squirmed. He spun away and help up his torch. At that instant the blindness that had overcome them all was lifted and they looked about at a sight that threatened their very reason. Hung about them upon the walls and roof of the tunnel were hundreds and thousands of vile creatures. Whether they were the spawn of the monster that had driven them here, or merely loathsome creatures that had some into her lair seeking the dregs of her feasts none could tell. Like spiders they were, but larger, some reaching the size of the largest rats that dwelled in the dungeons of Cirith Ungol. They were black and covered with fine hair, and the company could plainly see the poisonous glint of their stings, and hear the dreadful clicking of their jaws.

For a moment they stared in horror at the living, writhing mass of legs and bodies that hung about them, but there was no time to decide what was to be done, for like a pack of wild dogs that had been awaiting the command of their leader, the creatures swung toward the company upon their webs, seeking their tender flesh with their legs and stings and jaws…

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

As the horrific creatures charged them all, Zuromor courage took hold on him. But he found he was not afraid of getting himself hurt, but he feared for the elf-woman. He did not want such vile things touching her. Yet at the same time he could not understand why he wanted to protect her.

Without thinking Zuromor Jumped in front of her and hacked one the attackers in twain. He turned to her and he felt light-hearted. It was as though nothing was attacking him and he felt himself smile. His smile soon turned to a fierce scowl as he again swung his blade and began to strike at any foul creature that came near her. He would protect her.....no matter the cost.

[CaptainofDespair]

The scampering, scurrying creatures could be heard clacking their hideous fangs together in the darkness. They moved with precision and timing, slowly encircling their prey, and choosing those that were weakened or separated from the group as targets. They formed a great mass as they did this, creating a horrible black ocean of anguish and torment. Should they managed to bring down any of their intended prey, a terrible, brutal death awaited them. Being torn limb for limb, and hearing their own bones break as the beasts pulled them apart, would be the the unfortunate victim's end.

Morgoroth was unlucky, for he had stayed behind, to guide Jordo, and protect him from Shelob. As they fled down the corridor, Jordo had become separated, but found a defense among the other slaves and prisoners ahead, where as the Elf lagged behind, covering the escape. And now he was fully cut off, and his only shelter was a low overhang. There he perched himself, attempting concealment over overt defense. The creatures would find him eventually, but he would live for awhile at least.

Watching from this point, he could see the others finally coming together, though rather slowly. The group realized it needed to survive, and to stand together was the only option now. Yet, try as they may to unite, the creatures were far better prepared. It would take cunning, and brutal determination to see them through the hordes of the Tunnel.

[Kransha]

Brór Stormhand knew that sound, that horrible, incessant, unending clacking that beat with a furious rhythm, not sounding together but in multitudes like vile locust swarms buzzing about in the shadows above. It infuriated him even now that they lurked above and descended only to strike. Like goblins they were, dwelling in the shadows and waiting until the moment most opportune to dive and strike. This incensed Brór, and he knew that, if ever his time had come to fight, now was it. He did not heed the words spoken to him by any and chaos reigned soon after. The hurried party scattered, but stayed at least in some group. Some moved left, some right, some frontward, some backward, all every which way, but Brór knew where he would go. Dismissing his kin, Dorim and Dwali, he ran as fast as his legs took his through the band, towards the small, beastly spiders that alighted on the ground and hung just out of reach, tantalizing him to hit them with his blade and club. Nevertheless, he cleared the group, and dove into the mound of dark, pestilential monsters, seeking either their death or his.

He hacked and bashed, thwacked and smashed, and hammered away madly at the creatures as they tried in vain to swarm him. His inflated ego, which bloated more after each sickening sound that signaled the demise of one beast, told him he was doing well in battle, but it was his mind’s false hope and that alone. Three more went down, ground into the gasping dirt and damp rock by his cragged cudgel crushed and his swift ax sliced in twain or more. Their corpses on the earth seemed swallowed up by the oncoming hordes that moved steadily towards him, their fragile, stick-like legs pattering gently on the cave floor around as they rushed to get behind him, or to some vulnerable side. They would leap at him through the misty shroud of their webs, trying to bite and taint his blood with their putrid venom, but he was armed, and heavily armed at that, like a wall of rough-hewn stone he stood, statuary in the sea of arachnids. But, though he stood firm, he was almost lost. Through the writhing mass of spider flesh, he saw none of the other prisoners. He was sure that some, in their arrogance, had stayed behind, or moved there, to battle the cluster of monstrosities, but he could not make them out. The orcish armor he wore stabbed at him as much as the puncturing teeth and claws of the spiders did, galling him to wear it and darkening his sight.

He knew now, now more than ever he had known that he was lost. He brought the hefty ax down mightily, cleaving a final spider in two with a revolting sound, but his weapon seared as water to fire through the monster’s hide and was borne into the rock below, which grabbed onto it, latching its remnants of webbing onto the prongs of the ax and pulling it. As Bror attempted to unsheathe it from the earth in one swift motion, another spider took its moment to lunge, pouncing viciously on Brór’s stray hand. Through the rings of his male the beast’s darting fangs went, piercing his tough flesh beneath, but only for a moment. He drew his hand away, leaving the ax where it lay to be assimilated by the spiders, and clutched his hand as the tight armored gauntlet fixes upon it held in the blood, only causing him more pain. He tore at the metal glove to no avail, but abandoned that cause a moment later in favor of fighting his assailants, clubbing the next spider that leapt back towards his kin.

The dwarf, standing amidst the clacks of fangs and the hisses of beasts, heard only doom’s drum in his ears, covered by a heavy-handed helmet of the orcs. He could see nothing, save the spiders and the jutting rocks. Many hanging roofs of stone sat around, coated with webbing, a desirable hiding place, but he could not flee. He was surrounded, and his kinsmen, even if they desired to help him, could not reach him. Who, besides them, would bother risking life and limb for the dwarf? It didn’t matter now; Bror didn’t blame himself, though his sense did, as his heart was busy with its own agenda. He had wanted to die here, sooner or later, and, as he’d told his kin, hope was still its same illusion. To have good humor was a way to go about death that Bror had once excelled in, and would again. When the last spider drained the life fluid from his empty skull, his dead face would wear a defiant smile, though he could not muster the expression. He dashed, headlong, forward, and plowed into the fray renewed.

Suddenly, his dimmed eyesight caught in its cone the sight of a figure, a figure upright, though crouching, which lurked darkly beneath the canopy of stone nearby. He yearned to know who he saw, but he could not tell. It was no spider, for it had but two arms, clasped about itself. But, in a flash and an instant, in between the clicks and clacks of spiders wanting his death and ingestion, he recognized the figure. He looked just as he had the last time he and Brór had crossed paths. It was the darker elf, Morgoroth by name, though Bror did not know what he was called. The last time Bror had accosted that elf, he had been similarly crouched in the courtyard of the tower, looking as lonesome and desolate as now he did. With this realization came more dissolution. This elf, of all elves save the single female, who had nearly come to blows with him, was least likely to help him. He despaired again, but not for long. If the elf’s eyes were open as they seemed to be, they would see Brór’s glory and demise - or more, if that elf saw fit to take part. For now, Brór was content to die, not beneath the stars, but beneath the likeness of stars, the glittering eyes of his enemies…

[CaptainofDespair]

The carnage and immense reek brought about with each demise of the horrid, and disgusting, creatures at the hands of the bloodlust crazed dwarf, was outlandish. For the moment, they seemed to smell worse than their bite was, but that soon changed. The creatures swarmed about the lonely dwarf, who's only comrades had abandoned him, biting and stinging the armor and flesh of the poor, woe begotten defender.

The dwarf fought bravely, for all his insane lust for death. Yet, even for his great strength, the black devils brought their wrath unto him harshly, and he could not withstand it much more. He nearly collapsed under their weight, and deadly jaws. but he rose once more, and fought them yet again, driving them to the ground. His dwarven comrades still stood motionless, occasionally batting away the minions of Shelob who came forth to greet them.

From his dark alcove, the Elf watched this cycle for both the scuttling enemy, and his fellow freed prisoners. Then as the Elf turned to his thoughts, he saw the embattled dwarf fall to the ground, while clusters of the vile beasts poured over him, as if a flood gate had been released. His end seemed near, and as the Elf turned his head to look away from an imminent death, something stirred in his heart. He felt pity for the dwarf, and without hesitating, he rose from the relative safety of his hidden spot, with bow and short sword in hand. He leaped down from his vantage point, softly landing on the ground. He instantly drew his bow, and fired a salvo of arrows into the spidery mass that the dwarf encapsulated in. Three of the terrible beasts fell off immediately, curled into balls of dead matter, pierced with Haradrim-made arrows. With a swipe from his blade, another was dispatched, collapsing to the floor, spewing a rancid mixture of blackened blood, and a caustic gas. Morgoroth thrust his hand through the remaining creatures, who were now preparing to counter the Elf’s intrusion., and caught hold of the dwarf, and pulled him from the heap. “Come master dwarf, we should not tally here long.” With that, the Elf led the beleaguered and wounded dwarf back to his alcove, fending off counters from the spider menace, all the while taking the venomous bites and stings of his abhorred and sinister enemy, in defense of the dwarf.

The alcove offered not only safety, but a place of which to rest peacefully. The spiders for some odd reason, would not climb the wall, as if they could not. Perhaps they had not fully developed themselves, or found no need to, and it was simply faded out of their gene pool. But whatever the case, the two were safe. Morgoroth laid the dwarf down in a small niche, to better protect the wounded fighter. “Stay yourself here master dwarf, you are safe now.” Without saying another word, the Elf moved in a crouched position towards the edge of the wall, and peered out into the crawling, writhing black abyss that was the spider horde. And the others were still yet surrounded and outmatched.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka spun slowly around, taking in the horrific scene. Now that the crazed dwarf had been removed from the immediate danger, the terrible creatures turned their full attention to those still left standing in the center of the room. Thousands of sparkling eyes looked over them, while anxious fangs dripped with poison at the promise of a sweet meal.

Stepping backward, Lyshka hoped to have her back covered by one of the other prisoners, but as she moved, her hair was lifted and she felt something sharp graze her scalp. The Easterling snapped her head around. Her gaze met the belly of one of the beasts, and she cried out in surprise. At the same time, she swung her arm and threw the creature across the room. It landed out of the light’s reach, but she imagined she heard a thump against the far wall.

Fear gripped the woman. Her heart pounded in her ears, and her breath was shallow. Using her Orc blade, she stabbed another spider that came too close to her feet. It’s black blood oozed like the growing shadows in the darkness, and the stinch that rose caused Lyshka to cover her face with her knifeless hand as she coughed the fumes from her lungs.

[Durelin]

Jordo had been frozen in a horror that he had not known since his escape from his cell in Mordor, from his cage. If his mind was not so filled with fear it would have realized that he had finally acknowledged his finding freedom an 'escape'. Not that his mind would understand that this was an improvement to his soul. With peace of mind, his thoughts would insist that it marred his soul, while his soul would listen with interest. But his mind was not at peace, and his soul was finding its old tarnishing torment. He could not find a scream in his throat to let out the fear that roiled and writhed inside.

The snake in his gut even spoke to him. Sometimes it whispered, other times it screamed, and he obeyed. If he obeyed it, it would leave him alone. If he obeyed it, he would feel no pain. One word was all that he needed to hear. The word would be one of wisest counsel, and would free him of those many eyes and many legs. The snake had no legs, and Jordo didn’t think it had eyes either. It didn’t need to move, to run, when Jordo could run for it. And he did, as it whispered frantically in his ear: Run! Fast, my friend…no time, my friend… Run, catch up with mamma!

Jordo ran to the nearest shadows, for once finding them a haven. His eyes darted, but he saw nothing. He heard screams and the grotesque clacking of what his eyes had seen to be a mouth. A set of crushing jaws that waited to bring from him his own screams of pain. It was the voices of those in fear and agony that twisted his soul into the snake, and it continued to slither in his stomach. His ears strained to hear what went on in the dark around him, though he fought to shut it all out of his head. Once it was in his head, he would not hear anything else.

He kept moving for some time, racing through shadows, feeling alone while still feeling that he was being watched. As the darkness rushed by him, he felt as if it was closing in behind him, folding in on itself, swallowing up anything that was not already of the dark. It was almost as if he could feel a rush of air each time the darkness folded like snapping jaws, trying to catch Jordo from behind. Thinking of jaws, his legs strained to move faster. But soon he gave in, as he knew he would never outrun the shadows. And she he curled up in them, still and quiet, and finding some sort of peace.

He stood there for a moment, listening to his breathing, focusing on it. The focus should of course always be on himself; long had he been concerned for his well-being, concerned enough to forget others, especially since the death of his mother. He heard not the noises of approaching people in fear, each one rushing to escape his or her own death. And Jordo forgot that his own death was chasing him, as the shadows had caught up with him. He suddenly felt a something large hit him, and he was on the floor, unable to get up for the people that ran over him and around him.

He curled up into a ball, and squeezed his eyes tight, hoping for the darkness to protect him once more. Jordo tried not to be in the way. Why was he always in someone's way? No one liked having someone in their way. They would punish him for being where they did not want him to be. And he felt pain, as he was kicked and stepped on, and finally a large booted foot hit him in the forehead. Soon the pain was lost in the darkness.

[The Perky Ent]

"This is it!" Dorim said under his breath. He knew, it would either be him, or them. Right now, he didn't care either. Taking his ax, Dorim took a deep breath and plunged into the vat of spiders. As one by one, spiders crept up on him, his ax dropped down on them, swiping spiders left and right. It was as hard keeping them off as it was keeping liquid off you under water. Constantly, they'd jump and land on Dorim, giving him a mere moment to get them off.

Finally, after about five minutes of fighting, an abnormally large spider jumped on Dorim's head and took him down. As hard as he tried, the spider wouldn't come off. It seemed it would kill him. Warding off other spiders, he couldnt' take the one on his head off. "You infernal creature!" Dorim said, as two spiders jumped on his stomach. Screaming, Dorim used all his power to knock them off. In a moment, the others saw several spiders fly very high into the air and come back down.

The rage inside Dorim was so powerful, that spiders slowed down as they approached. Dorim would not go down easy.

[Himaran]

The battle raged all around, bodies and weapons entwined with spiders and crawling legs. Grash's company put their scavanged weapons work in quick order, hacking their way through the mass of attacking arachnids. The beasts were like nothing Dwali had ever seen -- far larger than a common member of their species but much smaller than the projected size of Shelob... if that was truely her name. Perhaps the stories are all wrong... there is no Shelob, just these fat horrors. It was all a rumor, fabricated by the orcs over time. The dwarf continued to muse, fighting through the crowds of snapping predators and keeping near Dorim. His confidence grew as enemies fell all around him, and the walls began to clear.

Huge spiders, hah! Children's tales, orc legends, it makes no difference. Shelob is but a -- "YAI!" The Dwarf's mental rant ended with a vocal scream, as two of the spiders fell off the ceiling and landed on his face. Without the use of his eyes, Dwali was virtually helpless... and so he ran. Straight through the unseen swarm, groping at his covered features. He was able to pull one off and smash the other with a fist before realizing that he had dropped his weapon, and was on the same token surrounded. The axe, almost invisible in the dimly lit cavern, was over twenty yards behind him. More importantly, however, the spiders were closing in; and the dwarf had nothing with which to defend himself.

Then Dorim was there, tossing Dwali a small axe and charging into the horde of opponents. The pair ripped through them, scattered the dead to both sides. After reaching Dwali's axe, they turned to look for Bror, but he was nowhere in sight. "We'd best hold here until he shows up," suggested the younger dwarf, axe swinging in a furious patern. His companion agreed, and they continued to fend off the spiders before them. Where are you now Shelob, Dwali thought in a taunting voice. Is this the terror of the passage?

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis blinked in surprise as one of the Men leapt in front of her and, rather than attack her as she had expected from the hostile behaviour and harsh looks she had recieved since their escape from all of the men, he slashed viciously behind her. The elf ducked to one side as he did so...and heard a strange sort of miniature scream as a beast that had been lurking behind her fell dead, sliced in two. She looked up at the Man and, despite herself, she smiled at him, words not coming fast enough. A strange, bright light came into his green eyes as she did this and he flashed her a bright white grin back before turning and launching himself with a fierce energy at anything that came near them.

Why the Man had done that, Raeis didn't know, and for a moment, she stared dumbfounded at his back where he stood in front of her. Kindness had become something rather rare for the elf - a memory, an enigma which she had come to regard with suspicion. What was his motive? But still, he kept going - and in his position and his vigilance against the beasts which assailed them, he was effectively protecting Raeis as well. She allowed herself another smile, a quiet one, all to herself, then turned so that her left side was facing towards the man and her back to the cave wall beside her - a gesture of trust, for she since an 'interrogation' procedure in which the orcs had pressed the blade of a heated sword against her face, she could no longer see out of her left eye, save occasional, half-glimpses in black and white, seeming to work independantly from her right eye. As she began to fight against the beasts, using both her sword blade and the butt of her sword to fight them away from herself and the Man, she saw him glance at her, an expression of shock flitting across his open features. She didn't return his gaze, keeping her eyes on the foes.

Although she fought like a wildcat, her sinewy body moving fast and agily, using sword, hands, and even feet to counter the black spiders, and beside her the Man did the same, Raeis could feel herself being moved backwards. They were trying to stop her, to oppress her again. Push her back and make her feel small? The elf felt anger rise anew in her and she gave a fierce yell, throwing herself right into the fray. She heard the Man who she had fought beside cry out in surprise but paid no attention: the spiders were all around her now, and she had unsheathed the other knife she had kept, wielding it in her left hand. It wasn't as accurate, but what did that matter - they were all around now, no matter where she struck, she would hit something. Whipping out both arms viciously, the elf sliced through the fray in a sweeping arc across her whole body, teeth gritted fiercely and head thrown back, seeming to emit some power from inside like the warriors of Old. The spiders seemed to recoil from her touch, the touch of one so clean, full of the light of Eru, but only for a moment - they had advantages in numbers against the elf.

Nothing would have stopped her until she went right down, so completely in her element as she was, until her bare foot stubbed against something soft and warm and she stumbled backwards. The spiders swarmed forwards over her and she cried out in anger as the writhing black mass flowed over herself...and Jordo, the man-child who had attached himself to her. Once again, a fierce protective instinct hit her and she threw the spiders off her, dragging Jordo behind her with adrenaline-fuelled strength and she threw herself into one of the alcoves, behind the fray, hidden by a pile of rubble.

In the momentary respite, she propped Jordo against their impromtu barricade and looked him over, noting his breathing was infrequent and irregular, and the freely bleeding gash above his forehead. She shook him fiercely and he emitted a quiet whimper, but still she shook him again, panic-stricken. He will not die here - none of us will die here. We have escaped our captors - no monster's lair will finish us now! The vehement thought caused her to shake him again, slapping the side of his face until finally his eyes flickered open unsteadily. Raeis smiled down at him in relief - unaware of the huge, dark, many-legged shape that had begun to loom over her, it's shadow moving towards her and the other escapees...

[CaptainofDespair]

The great tidal surge that had become of the horrid monstrosities, continued to pound against the weary, but now united survivors, as the surf beats against the oceanic wall. Only their spur of the moment decisions to stand together, had been able to save them. Had they remained divided, the incessant assaults of the wretched, abominable creatures, would have flooded over them quickly. But despite their valor, the creatures continued to pour through openings in the walls and floor of the great cavern, which was soon becoming a death trap. The carnage that was sown throughout the room was immense, with the crumpled and broken bodies of the beasts littered the floor.

Morgoroth watched carefully from his darkened perch above the floor, as the spawn of the Tunnel pressed forward, on all fronts, surrounding each of the beleaguered refugees. The plan the creatures used was brilliant, from a tactical standpoint. The Elf, being safely hidden from the creatures, or at least not enough of a threat to them, was able to study this. The creatures constantly sacrificed their own, for the greater good of bringing down the prey that had wandered into their lair. This was all done, not out of stupidity, but of evolutionary genius. The creatures used sacrifice to gain position, and enhance their capabilities to attack from all sides.

But the Elf was not only watching the creatures swarm about the cavern. His eyes perceived in the dark, the entrances of which the creatures used to enter this feed ground. Few of the creatures used the small openings in the floor, save the less mature, and less deadly, foes. The older, larger, and more vicious of the kind, used opening in the walls. The immortal slowly began to devise a plan to end to assaults, not by overwhelming the creatures, which would be impossible, but by cunning and guile. The idea would be, to use the larger rock littering the floor, and those hanging from the ceiling, to block the creatures means of entering the room. But without the proper tools, his plans could not go into effect. Only the dwarves had enough physical strength to wield the tools necessary for this task. But the dwarves did not, or would not trust him, or his elven plans. But luck was with the Elf, for the Bror, the Dwarf he had rescued from the countless hoards that had planned to devour him, was regaining his consciousness.

The Dwarf awoke from his short slumber, induced by the poisons of the enemy, to the sounds of battle raging. He had known he had gone done in the fray, defending himself from the creatures, but he had expected his comrades would have saved him, not the tall Elf, whom he had words with outside the courtyard entrance. He was still slightly stunned, and a little sore, as the poison’s anesthetic powers had faded. His vision was initially blurred, and wavy, and he stumbled as he tried to gain his balance, whilst he was getting up. He looked up at the Elf, who had rescued him, and he his first thought was not one of thanks, but of curiosity, intertwined with a mix of hate and disgust for the haughty elf. But as he realized what the Elf had done, he began to change his attitude, if only temporarily.

The Elf sat motionless, listening to the dwarf moan and groan as he came back to his senses. He waited for the dwarf to recollect his mind, before he spoke. “Ah, you are awake once more. Good...we have a matter to discuss.” the Elf still did not move. The dwarf stared at the immortal for a few brief moments, and replied, “What business is there, other than the slaughter of these infernal wretches?” At this, Morgoroth twisted around at his waist, still hunched over, and met the gaze of the dwarf. “Our business pertains to this, and I will make it brief. You see, we cannot kill the beasts, for they will come endlessly. So we must kill their source of entry.” He paused, and watched Bror’s look go from one of curiosity, to one of confusion. The Elf continued to elaborate on his plan. “The creatures enter through holes in the wall, which you cannot see yet. If we can shut these up with the large rocks that are arrayed about the floor, and that hang from the ceiling, we can plug these points. Without them, the larger, more dangerous foes cannot bring battle to us.” The dwarf nodded, trying to follow Morgoroth’s hastened speech. “You and your brethren are the only ones that can put this plan into play, so I am counting on you to bring this plan to them, and secure its use.” The dwarf nodded once more, and moved his parched lips to speak, which were now tainted with a black stain from the poison that had entered his blood. “I will do this,” he replied to the immortal’s plan. “But I will need to get to them first.” Morgoroth scanned the dwarf, and then smiled wryly. “Come master dwarf, to the field of combat we go.”

Morgoroth knew as soon as they set foot below, that the spiders would surround them, and hack them to pieces, so he set about distracting them. He removed his bow from its place on his back, and set an arrow to rest upon it. He aimed it carefully at the ceiling, and fired, setting about a flash of bright sparks, that blinded and dazed the spiders, which were accustomed to total darkness. With his distraction in place, he leapt down from the alcove, with Bror close behind, who had seen the mind of the Elf, and guessed his plan. Together, the two, side by side, drove through the confused hordes, and making for the most narrow point, they fought to make way to their comrades.

[Kransha]

Brór had never seen an Elvish mind before. In truth, he had not ‘seen’ it, with eye or mind or heart of his, but, as the elf pulled him from the fray of beasts and their kin, he’d seen a morality and a humanity he’d not seen in an Elf before that date. As well, when speaking, in their manner, Elves such as Morgoroth let their minds be slates to be read, not as open books were, but as a volume in which only a single page can be read, leaving one grasping for more. It was not displeasing to him, nor was it desirable, or thus desired, but affected him in a stranger way, souring and sweetening his rabid mood all at once, calming his lust but inflaming his pessimism, as if it were trying to change his very nature. It was dark, as he’d suspected in the corridors of Dark Elf’s soul, but bore an uncanny light to it. The Elf was projecting to him, to no one else, just to him. This elf, Morgoroth, had saved his undeserving life and, as much as Brór despised his kind, he could not help but be appreciative and grateful, though he never showed it. His face was a pale, pallid, and devoid of lively color as ever, but held a gentle gleam reflected in the dank pools of his eyes and a younger hue in the cloudy grayed hairs of his long, untamable beard. He felt, again, in his step and his look, a vigorous, youthful light that seemed to course and lance through his very veins, fording each river within in him in a second’s span. He knew at once that the Elf could be trusted, regardless of his prejudices (perhaps not all Elves, only this one), and hurried to accomplish the task he’d been assigned.

He now ran, slashing with a renewed reservoir of righteous fury aflame in his eyes. He hacked unmercifully, but now more lithe and quick, waltzing nimbly over the crawling, spluttering things that scurried around, above, and beside, following on the heels of Morgoroth as best he could. He pounced on the spider attackers continually, bashing in their shells of hides with his soaring mace, which rent the air up with its murderous grunts of crude satisfaction as the venomous shrieks it induced. He made his way, with Morgoroth swerving most nimbly from side to side, flanking him mostly and, with his singing bow, abating the assailants. Brór, meanwhile, located the greatest hills of earth and mounds of stone to uplift. He surged against them, sheathing his mace in a mere instant, latching it awkwardly to his side, and plowed full force into the jutting rocks, cracking and swaying them only. He cocked his trembling head to his companions, who were battling doggedly toward him, and cried out at the top of his gasping bass to them, with a powerful thunder in his throat again.

“Come, brethren! Dorim and Dwali, rally and fight! To me! To me!”

He pushed, his muscles straining, his armored arms plastered with the sweat of great toil. At his side, the noble but shadowy elf fought with what weapons he had, quelling the rampage of the beasts as they came, dodging and snaking about them to let their lunges shoot astray and their deadly fangs find solace only in the rock-hard earth of their cave. Morgoroth was a welcome distraction as Brór, his two eyes closed tightly and reddened as if the force of his new labor taxed every aspect of his existence. Slowly, the jagged crags of boulders and stones began to be uprooted from the tunnel floor, rolling off into cradling niches in the rock. With swift, clenched fists, Brór jammed his hands into each stone, rolling them slightly forward. The ploy was unsuccessful, but the rocks did manage to crush a number of hapless arachnids, squealing incoherently beneath their inanimate destroyers. He pushed onward, kicking and stabbing with his arms and legs, flailing madly to hamper the voracious creatures, he bashed at the boulders and chunks of earth, continuing to flatten and annihilate many more spiders, but still, he got no closer to any goal.

Suddenly, the rocks moved with a painless, delicate ease as Brór brushed ignobly against them, nearly slumping upon them in his weariness. He thought himself beleaguered by foes as he felt the air around him hot with the breath of living things, but, as his eyelids peeled open with a decaying crack, he took in the sight of his comrades, Dorim Stormweaver and Dwali, pressing themselves, unhesitant, against the rocks. A quick chorus of spider screams rose from the tunnel and its pitch tone echoed all through it as the three dwarves rolled one great stone and those that clung feebly to it towards a maw in the tunnel floor from which the spiders were issuing. As spider climbed the rolling rock and thrust themselves on the dwarves, swift arrows, alight with tails of sunlight, caught them in their skyward paths and threw them to the ground. They were the shafts of Morgoroth, fired in quick succession. They downed the spiders attempting to waylay them, to their gratitude. Pouring their concentration and their inherited strength into each step, the trio at last had the boulder of debris hovering a body’s length from the door in the earth. Just as a new tidal torrent of spiders surged up in a column from the hole, the rock fell, swiftly turning, and trapped them in their hiding spot beneath, wailing in evil protest.

The dwarves backed up, circumspect, and again drew their weapons, rolling stones with their movement to slay more creatures. They needed now to find new ammunition for their scheme. They hurried on and back, letting Morgoth’s bolts continue to afford them much needed time to uproot more. They heaved the rocks up, pulling the makeshift weaponry up with great strength and heaving each piece towards the most congealed masses of their foes, crushing and maiming many, sometimes overwhelming another entrance. As Brór sprinted readily onward, he turned with an almost gleeful look to his brothers in arms, who swiveled about him, batting haphazardly at the horde of enemies. Brór’s sudden uproar alerted them again, causing them to turn, still battling the multi-legged fiends.

“Go, my kindred,” he cried loudly, brandishing his cudgel in the dark air to signal to all who could see or hear that were now within, “and let us bring the skill of the Dwarves to this fight. Let Spiders vile try as they may, for if they slay us here, we shall drag them unto the depths before our breaths have been spent!” As he spoke in a raucous roar, passionately echoed by Dorim and Dwali, though still lost in the shadow, the war cry of the Dwarves was full and deep in his mind and his chest, flaring out as the sulfurous and tormenting flames in the breath of a dragon would. It felt as a hearth in his sole, rebuilt and lit with fires to illuminate all the darkest depths. “Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!”

[Novnarwen]

Trapped in a circle with some of the others, facing the cruellest and most disgusting creatures of the Dark Land, Rhând grabbed the hilt of his sword and charged towards their attackers. Having great difficulties in keeping up with the ferocious battle, he threw his sword from side to side. From the sound and the feeling of thrusting the blade through flesh, he knew that he hit some of the creatures now and then. However, not being used to this kind of weaponry, (in fact not being used to any weapons), he thought he was doing a splendid job so far.

It scared him immensely that he felt exhausted after a few hits, and he was utterly terrified by seeing the dead monsters. It had never occurred to him that this could be so tiresome. He wanted to sink down on his knees; he needed rest. Knowing, naturally, that that would be suicide, he fought on. Alarmingly, he looked around for more enemies and more of the prisoners. He realised, that many of them were far more experienced than himself. This, he realised, bothered him terribly, because he knew he would have to be very careful. Getting into a warrior's way would be highly dangerous. Such experienced men could easily end his life.

“Come, brethren! Dorim and Dwali, rally and fight! To me! To me!”

A voice, masculine, rang in Rhând's ear and made echoes in the tunnel. Seeing clearly who the cry belonged to, but not being able to understand what the voice had pronounced, he gazed at the Dwarf with great surprise. At the dwarf's side was no other than the elf Rhând had bumped into when not paying attention to where he went. It was the elf Rhând was very tempted to kill. Why were they together? Were they not enemies as he had thought? Just earlier, while walking in the tunnel, before they had been attacked, Rhând had heard Zuromor offer his friendship. And now, the elves were joining the dwarves too. What about Brór's statement then, about not trusting neither men or elf? Had it been a trick? Why would they trick him? A thought so frightening, even Rhând felt his heart grow cold, struck him; perhaps they knew who he was! Maybe this whole thing was a scheme. They were after him, all of them! How could this happen? he wondered, not knowing for certain what to think anymore. But why hadn't they killed him off sooner, if they knew he was an Easterling and not who they first had been tricked into believing? Gritting his teeth, thrusting his sword into one of the beast's flesh, he said some foul words feeling the rage rise inside of him. All this stupidity! How much more was he to suffer? If they knew, it would surely be over. There would be no way they would let him live for long. He would have to escape as soon as possible. He would have to survive this, get out of the tunnel and leave them the second night under the sky.

Seeing to his left that there was a little crack in the wall, he sprang unnoticed in. It was just big enough for him to get a fair view of what was going on, without necessarily being spotted himself. Bathed in sweat now, shaking and trembling, he cast his gaze over at the dwarves who came darting towards Brór and the elf. He could seize this chance now. If they had figured him out, nothing mattered anymore. What was there to fight for? The prisoners would get their hands on him as soon as they were out of the tunnels. Shivering, and as a lightening the feeling of insecurity ran down his spine as well. What if they waited for the monster, the big monster, to take him? Rhând looked desperately around. The big monster, the spider, could be anywhere; waiting for him. They had arranged it. They had arranged for the spider to take him out of the twelve others! Those cursed filthy traitors! You shall pay . . They hadn't only betrayed him, by leaving him to the spider, but they had betrayed Him as well. There was no punishment that could make up for the damage these prisoners were about to cause. They had to die, one by one. With these thoughts in mind, he grabbed the dagger he had hidden from the others. "My darling, make the elf pay this time . . ," he whispered slowly as he held it in firm grip.

Praying to Him that he would hit his target, the elf, he breathed heavily half closing his eyes. How wonderfully well he would feel after ending his life, he thought happily. Not reluctant about the future event, he lifted his arm above his head, aimed, and . . . What was he thinking? He had already decided that twelve prisoners were the least he could do for his Master, and now he was about to kill one of them. What was driving him insane? Was it the air of Mordor, the beasts surrounding him, the current company or his fright? He could not afford this absurd behaviour. Filled with reproach for even thinking of letting down his Master, yes he would surely be letting Him down if he killed His prisoners, he hid the dagger again. The prisoners, all of them, should with Rhând's help return to the Master healthy and alive.

Still the thought of the others being aware of his lies lingered in his mind, suffocating him slowly.

They had found him in his little crevice. He would have to run for it.

[Bêthberry]

Darash snorted the foul air out of her nostrils as the blinding cloud was lifted, to show the malevolent creatures dangling in front of them. Then she watched as everyone seemed to disperse, the dwarf to run madly into the midst of the beasts, to be pulled away by one of the elves. Lyshka at her side swung a blade into a creature and its black blook spewed forth. Raeis was shaking Jordo, trying to get him to move.

"Anansi si-lay-na, si-lay-na-bom," Darash spoke aloud, in defiance of the trickster god she knew from her people's tales. She looked quickly around and then called out, "Ray--iss, Lysskah, Grrash, come, see, heylph." Then, without waiting for them to reply, she acted, hoping they would understand what she was doing.

With one hand, she grabbed Grash's arm, pulling his torch closer to her. Then she opened one of the dried gourds she had taken from the orcs, showing a yellowish clumps of soft rock.

"Surverah, surverah," she said, and held her nose while pointing to the dangling creatures who were gaining on them.

Then Darash pointed to her sword and knife and to the torch and to the rocks, while pulling the cloth orc tunic she wore underneath the leather jerkin. She began to rip it into pieces, then wrapped one about her face, covering her nose and mouth. She gave strips to Lyshka, and Grash, two to Raeis.

"Fashtah, fashtah," she insisted, taking the second one from Raeis and tying it around Jordo's mouth. Lyshka began to understand what Darash wanted, and began tearing more cloths for face masks and handing them out.

Once Darash had her mask in place, she stuck a lump of the soft yellow surverah on the sword Raeis had given her. She held the rock close to Grash's torch and suddenly the rock flared, emitting a terrible stench. Then Darash walked forth into the creatures, swinging the flaming sword in their faces, twirling the smoke around them. As she did so, the creatures began to spasm, twitching, and then slowly they rocked back and forth on their strands, hanging dead. As Darsh moved forward, she held one hand over her face, turned away from the flaming sword, to warn the others that the smoke could poison them also.

Lysha and Raeis, their faces covered, understood what to do. They grabbed more of the yellow sulverah from Darash's gourd, impaled it on their weapons, and flamed them next to Grash's torch. Slowly they, too, moved out among the clicking, deadly creatures.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor had stared at Raeis as she charged the enemy and still did so as she repelled them with the toxic gas. She was indeed an amazing woman. As he watched her he again felt his heart grow light and he began to daze away into strange thoughts. Soon he found himself helping them slay the other spiders. He positioned himself next to Raeis and stared at her every chance he recieved. SHe must have seen him for she shot him a confused glance and said, "What is it!"
"Oh it's nothing......I just ...uh thought I saw one behind you that's all...*ahem*. Excuse me." Zuromor walked away all together embarrased and cursed himself for being so stupid.

Zuromor kept himself busy by searching for more spiders so that he could think of things to say to Raeis. He didn't know why he wanted to but he did so all the same. As he walked about he heard a familiar clacking sound. He looked up and for a blink second he could have sworn he saw something very large moving about. But as it was so dark and no one was being heavily attacked anymore he though nothing of it. After all that supposed monster probably wouldn't want to fight us now....right?

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

I hate spiders, I hate spiders, I hate spiders…Jeren repeated the words to himself, his dark eyes wide as the horrendous creatures crawled towards the group. The fear in his heart was written upon his face, but none would voice it, least of all Jeren himself. Everyone was afraid. Jeren did not fear much in the world, and perhaps it was not even fear that the Southron felt for the creeping, spindly-legged things. Perhaps Jeren just found immense disgust in them, driving him to irrational distaste. They are smaller than I, they are smaller…they are probably more afraid of me than I am of them.

Looking at the numerous, vicious creatures advancing on the former prisoners, Jeren began to doubt his previous sentiments. The Southron tried not to show his distaste and disgust for the spindly creatures, and became ever thankful for the dim lighting in the tunnel. He did not want anyone to know his weaknesses.

Several spiders made their way towards Jeren, who began to kick at the things without any other rational thought. He just wanted them off of his feet and away from his legs! He saw pieces of cloth being passed about, and Jeren's brows furrowed in befuddled confusion. He tore a bit of his own fraying tunic off and used it like the others had...as a mask of some sort. Jeren looked over someone's shoulder into the torchlight to see if he could tell what the woman Darash would do. He could not quite tell who stood before him, not from his or her back.

Still, Jeren was not blind to the spider creeping ever towards the person's calves. It was a hairy one, and Jeren's stomach squirmed to see it creeping quickly along the tunnel floor towards the person in front of him. The Southron wanted to bolt, but there was nowhere to go. Drawing his sword, Jeren began to hack skittishly at the spider that crawled towards the leg of the other former prisoner. Jeren's heart jumped when he saw the black blood seeping out and the eight legs twitching placidly.

Jeren looked up from the dead creature just in time to see Darash shove her sword, tipped in some yellow rock, into Grash's torch flame.

[Novnarwen]

Rhând

He didn't understand what was happening. From the little crack in the tunnel wall, where he had stood seconds ago, being very near to ending the male elf's miserable life, he hadn't paid attention to what some of the other members of the company were doing. As the creatures had found him in the crack, he realised he would have to run for it, but then something odd had happened. Without hesitating, he had run, but stopped as soon as he was halfway towards the women and Grash. The creatures had suddenly stopped in mid air, twitching. Rhând coughed as a cloud of smoke passed him, and he came to realise that the others had covered their mouths. Being paralyzed with shock, he stood calmly watching what was happening.

"Cover," the prisoner said pointing at his cloth which covered his nose and mouth, "with cloth!" Grash continued. When hearing those words, the Southron finally managed to tear himself away from the twitching creatures going towards the four of them. He was handed a cloth, which he bound hurriedly to his face. He turned around, and paced back and forth, leaving the four; the three women and Grash, alone. Greatly confused about how the situation had developed - from almost dying in the crack, to being able to walk amongst the creatures as if they were harmless - Rhând looked questioningly at Grash. But, as expected, the man didn't return his gaze.

Seeing the women, he noticed something. What were they doing? Not being able to see too clearly, due to the clouds of smoke, he only spotted the women taking something in their hands. He took a step closer, being immensely curious about their doings. Perhaps it had something to do with the creatures’ odd behaviour and the cloths each of the prisoners wore. He frowned, feeling a bit annoyed by the cloth itching. Yes, they were certainly doing something. It had to be them, who had caused the creatures to drop dead and the smoke to appear. Yes, the women were polluting the air! Ha! Brilliant! With a smirk, no one could see, he saw them touching something. The colour of yellow became clear through the dim light from Grash's torch, and Rhând realised that he wasn't as far from the women as he had thought. If they were polluting the air with this yellow looking thing, these women were smarter than he had first expected. However, he could use this. This yellow surverah, as he heard them call it, was deadly; at least to the creatures. Surely, it was quite dangerous for them as well. Why else wear these silly masks?

It might not too dangerous for them now, but it will when I get my hands on it. Satisfied by the discovery of a new weapon, he approached them.

One thing bothered him about his sudden approach. It would seem suspicious of him to mix, purposely, with the women since they had this newly discovered weapon. Instead, he looked at them and smiled, pointed at himself and down the tunnel. With another grin, he stalked off in the other direction. If I find a way out of here, I may gain some friendships. If I find nothing, I might be able to cause panics, and then I will make my move. He grabbed his sword again, drawing it slowly out of the sheath. Silently, he walked on. It was darker now, as he didn't have a torch to light up the way. He held his left hand high, placing it on the wall, feeling his way forwards.

He felt a draught. It felt like a wind compared to completely still air in the tunnel. "A way out," Rhând, muttered to himself, still quiet and careful.

For each step, he felt the draught getting stronger and stronger. Soon, a dim light could be seen in what seemed like an end to the tunnel. He ran quickly, but stopped instantly as he discovered a cobweb. He lifted valiantly his sword, and with great effort, he hit it with great power. "Oh!" The Southron let out a sigh, as he fell to the cold ground. "The spider .. It is really true." Feeling quite miserable, he got hurriedly to his feet. He had to find the others, let them know about this, and cause panic.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The foul and acrid smoke of his flaming brand made Grash choke and splutter, but doggedly he followed Darash about the tunnel, attempting to drive off the last of the creatures. All about them lay the lifeless forms of the monsters, some crushed by stone and sword, some twitching out the last of their vermin existence amongst the ooze of their fallen mates. A stench beyond bearing came from the corpses mingling with the reek of the company’s torches to the point where they were near choking despite the rags that they wore about their mouths. Gasping for words, Grash took hold of Darash’s hand. “Come, come,” he said. “Monsters gone, must go, go now.” The woman wheeled upon him, pulling her hand from his grasp. She looked upon him with such hauteur that had Grash been anything more than a slave he might have taken offence. But as used as he was to a life of submission, he could only bow his head before her and avert his eyes.

One of the Dwarves stood forward. He was bloodied and covered with grime and dirt from his labours, but there was a fire in his eye that Grash had not seen before. He recognized the Dwarf as the maniacal one that had charged the beasts as though he cared nothing for his life. Brór spoke thickly through the smoke. “Which way do we go?” he demanded. “Back the way we came to the monster and her trap, or onward into the depths of these tunnels and we know not where?”

It was the Elf woman who spoke next. “We cannot go far, or quickly. There are some who are wounded.” She pointed to where the Man Jordo, more a boy really, lay with his back against the wall of the tunnel. Grash was surprised to hear her speak in such a tone of assurance. He looked at her to ask if the boy could be carried, but she dropped her gaze away from his eyes, seeming to falter before him even as she seemed ready to grow in strength. Both Morgoroth and Zuromor stepped forward in support of the Elf maiden, but it was Zuromor who spoke first. “The Lady is right,” he said. “We must not task the weaker members of the party.” Morgoroth almost looked surprised to have been cut off by the Man, but with his impassive and distant Elvish air it was hard to tell what was going on within the depths of those ageless eyes.

A silence fell upon the company as they looked about from one to the other. Some few looked to Grash, but they were far from the majority. “I believe that the decision has been made for us,” a voice said from the shadows. They turned and saw Aldor emerging from the darkness of the tunnel lying in the direction from which they had fled. “I have scouted up a bit and found another web blocking our escape that way.”

“Can it be cut?” demanded the fierce Dwarf, Dwali.

“I think not.”

“No,” Morgoroth’s voice came into the darkness, “not by any weapons that we here possess. The malice of she who wove them is greater than steel and iron.”

“Then there’s only one way to go,” concluded Aldor, who then looked at Grash and said “We will follow.”

Grash was a bit surprised by this, but as the others seemed to accept once more his leadership he saw no need to counter Aldor’s assumption. Seizing his fast dwindling torch in one hand he turned and trudged down the tunnel. Behind him, Morgoroth lifted the boy Jordo in his arms, while Dwali and Dorim between them supported Brór who seemed to have become a bit unsteady on his feet.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Her rage at the failure of her spawn to bring down the meat was boundless, and she hissed and spat to herself the most venomous curses she knew. Scuttling through the dark fissures and cracks, her great limbs creaking and her mighty body folding and squishing to conform to every jagged edge of rock, she moved through the eternal night of her realm to where she would spring her final trap. She had not thought that the entire company would fall in the tunnel, but she had thought that at least a few of them would be overcome or weakened, making her assault less risky. Be that as it may, she would come upon them as they were, for she needed meat.

A stab of white pain lanced up through her abdomen as the open wound on her underside caught the wall, and she let out a screech of surprised agony, so unused was she still to the sensation of pain. Hatred of all that lived and breathed flooded her mind so completely that everything else was gone. She would crush the meat with sting and fang and then feast upon their living flesh. Great gobs of spittle fell from her mouth and stained the rock beneath her.

She came to the small crack in the roof of the mighty cavern and squeezed her great bulk through it. Below her, the prey entered from the tunnel. She watched as they tried to take in the expanse of the cavern, but their pitiful eyes could not pierce her darkness sufficiently to see. They felt about the walls, finding her webs blocking every tunnel and crevice, denying all means of escape. She felt their fear rise to a fever pitch as they sensed her presence, and like small, terrified animals they grouped together in the middle of the room, seeking shelter and comfort in the face of their horror.

The time had come. Her hunger was so great that it could no longer be denied. Dropping quickly from the roof of the cavern, she moved toward the meat, her many eyes glinting in the dark with her ancient hatred and lust…

[Bêthberry]

Darash was stunned by the man's response. A chilling memory of unwanted touch had frozen her arm when he had grabbed her hand in the near-dark mirk of the tunnel and she had reacted instinctively with disdain and repudiation and disgust. Yet he had then bowed his head before her and withdrew. She felt warmth pulse back into her arm, the mended join in her bone throbbing as her skin and muscles thawed, the frigid, insensate reaction dissipating bit by bit. Once again Grash had surprised her. His unexpected response was completely at odds with her experience of these northern jackals. Instead of beating or taunting her, he had shown her deference. Yet he was their leopard, striking out ahead of the vultures for fresh possibility of freedom. But she had little time to reflect more upon the matter, for others were coming forth, needing help. The pigmy man called Brór demanded movement while the elf woman cautioned the need for help.

Then Lyshkya gently prodded Darash's side and nodded back towards the gourd with the small lumps of suverah. Darash looked over in time to see the smooth Gondorian called Aldor put his hand into the gourd and withdraw some. Instantly, she was alerted to something odd, for they no longer had need for the smoking stones to repell the vermin and he did not light it. Instead, he pocketed it and moved off, towards the sticky, sweating walls of the cavern. Darash looked around to advise Grash, but he was off talking with another of the male prisoners. She looked back at Lyshkya and shrugged. They both decided to watch this man.. Then she blew out the smoking cinders at the end of her sword and rolled the suverah in the dirt, ensuring it was dead, before she replaced it in the gourd, which she packed away with her bags. She was hungry but the smoke in the air was stunting her desire to eat, so she did not touch the other bags she had picked up in the cellar. And she was sweating in the heat of the underground rock and the stiff leather of her orc jerkin was sticking to her body.

The she and Lyshkya had shouldered their swords and marched forward with Grash. Once in the large cavern, their footsteps bounced off the rock and thudded off the taunt webbing which hemmed them in. This time, they were a group, the slower ones catching up with the scouts. But the sweat of their previous fear had barely dried when a second wave of terror came creeping upon their minds. Then, suddenly, a huge dark stench broke away from the cavern's ceiling and landed near them, nauseating them. Many eyes glinted at them in the darkness

[Novnarwen]

“I have scouted up a bit and found another web blocking our escape that way.”

This statement didn't get the reactions Rhând had pended on. He had expected that some would panic, even go and check it for themselves. Now, they made ready to go the other way, apparently the only way, out of the tunnel.

He saw the women stepping away from the gourd. Were they leaving it behind? The others were ready to go. He on the other hand, was more eager to get his hands on some of that suverah. What an advantage he would have if he managed to get a hold of it? It was tempting. He would be able to knock all of them out; meanwhile he went to get help from the outside to bring them back to Him. He grinned under the cloth covering his mouth. Looking around for someone watching, thinking they were all too busy trudging down the tunnel, he waited for an oppertunity to make his move. With his eyes, he followed them closely. First went Morgoroth, who seemed to be bothered lifting the silly and incompetent boy, Jordo, meanwhile the dwarves went after. He saw them walking after the torch Grash bore. Hesitating for one second, thinking about what the consequences would be if anybody spotted him, he realised at last how important this would be for the rest of the journey.

Tip-toeing, ever looking over his shoulder to see if somebody had stopped and was looking at him now, he grabbed the cloth covering his mouth and ripped it. Satisfied with the result, he bound one of the parts on his face again covering his airways. Looking at the other part of the cloth, he grabbed some of the suverah from the gourd and laid it in the cloth. He turned around. The women! They looked his way. As they noticed Rhând looking at them, they turned quickly around and walked on. Had they seen him? He wondered nervously, taking the cloth with the sulverah and hiding it in his boot. Shaking with anxiety, he ran as fast as he could after the others. If the women had spotted him, he would have to take care of them. Women weren't useful to Him anyway.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Her mouth and nose still covered with cloth and her eyes narrowed against the smoke, Raeis supposed she probably looked like one of the Haradrim, and felt a bitter smile twist her mouth. How strange - a Southron with fair skin and pointed ears! And the Light, if any still remains within me...

She caught the man on her left, Zurumor, looking at her and turned her head to return his gaze with her good right eye, eyebrows raised questioningly. He looked away immediately, looking down at the ground then up at the ceiling, as if anything was more interesting than the elf. Underneath the dark cloth covering her mouth, Raeis felt her mouth twist into that bitter smile again. Was she really so hideous that he couldn't look at her? She would have anything other than pity. Yet something of her face certainly seemed to fascinate him - a freakshow then, like a stunted pigmy, dancing for bronze coins and the amusement of others in some sleazy tavern...

The thought made her angry and she walked faster, moving out of step with the man as she looked away from him, brushing her short, scruffily cropped hair behind one ear, covering the side of her face with her hand. But as she did so, her foot stubbed against a crack in the ground - a deep welt in the dirt, an irregularity that made her stumble. Instantly, the man was at her side again, catching her arm as she staggered and steadying her. She looked up sharply at him, her eyes fierce as she glared at him...but in his green eyes, she saw nothing of pity or arrogance - only kindness and...was that fear? No, not fear, but something close - as if a wild animal caught in a sudden light, or a small child amazed by the twinkling of a jewel or bauble...Awe?

Awe...in the back of her mind, a nasty voice laughed as soon as Raeis thought of the word. Awe? You imagine he looks at you in awe, ugly elf? Awe, awe, awe...like the cawing of the carrion crows. Ugly elf, awe leads to awful - far more appropriate...

Raeis stood up straight, twitching her head slightly as if to discreetly dislodge the voices, knock them off-balance. Zurumor still had hold of her arm, and she stayed completely still, watching his hand until he noticed and removed it slowly. "Apologies, Lady - I...I was...w-watch your step," he finished awkwardly, looking away again. Raeis continued to regard him steadily, her eyes raising to his face, but this time he didn't look away.

"Thank you." Her voice was soft, and still harsh from abuse and disuse, but from the man's look of surprise, it was as if the Valar themselves had come down and spoken to him. Do Men even know of the Valar? Raeis found herself idly wondering and made a note that maybe she would ask this man, Zurumor.

Feeling eyes on her, she glanced to the side and saw Morgoroth. He looked away instantly, so quickly that Raeis was not sure she had not imagined his gaze, but at the same time she knew she was right. The male elf was a strange, silent being - quite like herself, she supposed. But was she as intimidating? - all the Men avoided the male elf, casting fearful glances at him...and at Raeis, she now realised. Was she really intimidating. I hope so, came the venemous reply of her tortured mind and she smiled as they turned into a massive cavern. But even as she did so, she heard a screech - a terrible sound of pain and shock, a noise that seemed to rip through the eardrums like the air itself was tearing. The others looked around, back the way they had come, for the tunnel made sound seem to come from no direction at all and all directions at once, but Raeis didn't follow them, staring forward the way they were going into the cavern that lay in front of them, a space so vast that it seemed to the eyes of those who had spent years within a few square feet, that the whole of Minas Tirith could fit inside it. The wind of the sudden movement of something vast ahead ruffled her hair, whipping it around her face and the others turned also, stepping back a few steps unsurely, hands on their blades, moving into a small group in the centre Zurumor glanced at Raeis as if she would know what was happening - although she knew that he knew as well as she did what had stirred.

"She has found us," she whispered simply, her eyes not moving.

As if in recognition, a creeping, screeking noise, like the laughing of a nightmare sounded surreptitiously from above...and the whole ceiling seemed to dislodge itself and scuttle towards them. Raeis seemed paralysed, unable to move...until the huge shape dropped from above as if it would land on them.

Released from her coma, the female elf screamed, yelling almost incoherently at the others to run. Grabbing hold of one of Zurumor's hands, she did exactly that, sprinting without thought back the way they had come as the nightmare beast landed - anything to get away from those myriad evil eyes and that terrible skreeking laughter, like the sound of every nightmare she had ever had...

[CaptainofDespair]

Whispers, whispers in the dark. A multitude of voices had sprung up in the shadowy pass of the Tunnel. Yet, only one heard the voices, the Dark Elf. As he made his light, graceful steps through the corridor, following the torchlight of Grash, he could feel the air brimming with these voices, the thoughts and words of the long dead, who now stood an unseen, ghostly guard within Shelob’s domain. They hailed from a time that had long passed, yet they spoke of the present, and of Her. The Elf stopped his procession, and he listened intently, hoping for some signal, even a dire omen, of what was to come. But the voices had stopped their whispering within the shadows, and blended into a horrid, piercing scream, one of pain, and of death. It was known then, that she was now near, and that Death’s Hand had come to claim its victims.

The horrid spidery child, last of Ungoliant, hid in the craggy ceiling of the Tunnel, peering down upon her victims. They moved slowly, through heavy gloom that she had carefully woven through her many centuries of inflicting a painless pain, and a nameless fear. Yet, she was not whole this day, for she was injured, and her eyes were flooded now and then with memorial pain, one in which she had lost her prey, and had been wounded in her hunt. Her bloated body slowly contracted, and expanded, squirming to fit the ceiling from which she hung. And now, she was prepared to strike, to finish the game that these intruders had started. She would be their end, and the songs of their lives, and the torment that she would inflict upon them, would remain with her forever, an intangible, yet amusing companion. And she would paint a gruesome motif of their blood upon the walls that adorned her inner chamber, a bitter reminder of what can happen to those who stumble upon her world.

As the company moved through the shadow-veiled pass, they were unaware she was silently waiting. And now, she sprung her trap, and she leapt down from the ceiling, and her game was now fearful. They noticed her not initially, but when they gazed upon her, they fled. Now began the last leg of the amusing game she had bred in her darkest, most inner sanctum of her mind. She would let them flee again, but this time, there would be no escape, and no weapons strong enough to wound her, as had been done by that tiniest of prey.

The Elf had been aware of her presence for sometime, as the voices had gathered about him, screaming and hissing their dreadful, sinister omen. And unlike the others, he was prepared. He had readied himself for her coming, and had begun weaving a plot of his own. And as the others fled around him, he strode quietly amid the chaos and disruption that had overtaken the rest of his company. He no longer feared death, but welcomed it, for he was dishonored, and now sought to regain what was lost to him. And so he calmly waited for Her to come to him, and then he would spring a trap of his own upon Her. It would be one so wicked and vile, that even She would not lay claw or jaw upon him. But still, he needed time to implement this plan, for his calculating nature required time for such a grand scheme. And so he withdrew, as the others were, but unlike them, he sought not the safety of company, but a distraction, one that would keep him alive until the time was right.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Raeis was amazing to Zuromor. So hard and cold yet brave, fiery, and enthralling. As they all walked along Zuromor kept thinking of the feeling of her skin. Even after all she had been through, she was still beautiful. But further on they all heard a gut-wretching scream. Raeis openly stated the obvious. She was upon them. Zuromor looked at her for assurance, but only saw what he had already known. He drew his blades and waited. But as the great mass looked upon them Raeis screamed and dragged Zuromor off with her. If the situation were different he would be extatic. He would defend her at all costs!

Onward they ran and it seemed an eternity, but twas in vain. They ran straight into a massive web. Raeis struggled to free herself as did Zuromor. It seemed as though their end was near. Looking deep into her eyes and courage, love, and strength flowed through him. The thought of such a fair creature being killed at the foul thing's feet......no he could not allow it. He pulled and twisted with all his new-found might and he suddenly fell hard to the ground. He leapt to his feet and together Raeis was freed. They both spun around and all that could be seen was Grash's light.....and a multitude of eyes twinkling as diamonds in the rough, directly in front of them.

[Amanaduial the archer]

There was no way out: the way they had come was blocked, and now Raeis realised it was not mere coincidence. The webs that blocked their way down the tunnel glistened delicately, the strands thick and generous, oozing gently and slowly like thick honey, tantalising to the elf's hungry mind and beautiful to her good eye - diamonds and jewels of every colour seemed to glisten in the dim light from where they had entered the tunnel, the light twisting and refracting inside the web prettily. So beautiful they were almost ugly.

As she stared at the webs, holding out a hand towards them tentatively but not touching them, a shiver ran through her as she realised how calculated it had been.

The spider is no mere animal or insect... She has intelligence on her side.
Aye, so do we.
We? What, a scattered group who are at daggers with each other already. They would not stop at killing each other - how do you think they can rally to kill the spider?
We can form allegiance.
An allegiance?! An allegiance, ugly elf, is that what you say? And when have dwarves and elves ever come together succesfully? And as for the men...

Raeis shook her head violently to dislodge the voice that she fought with inside her fractured mind. Once it had been her companion, her friend even - some company to stop her from going insane, a prescence that had arrived suddenly one day after weeks of loneliness near death, uncaring. It had saved her, and she had cultivated it's prescence. But now...she scowled, annoyed. It had become irritable and nasty in the past few days, especially since the escape. It didn't like having her free to talk to others - it was jealous. But why should she reassure it? She had others now, she didn't need some snappy voice in her mind, telling her what to do, insulting her...

Others, ugly elf? The voice was always there, lurking at the edge of her thoughts. Others to talk to, is that what you think? Others like the man beside you, you mean? You see how he sneaks looks at you. He thinks you awful, remember, ugly elf? You thought so yourself. Think he can replace me, abandon me for him?! He is just a Man.

Raeis scowled fiercely and shook her head again a few more times, turning around, refusing to answer the voice. It had a way of making utterly impregnable arguements - why, she even remembered thinking he had thought her awful. No, wait, that wasn't what she had thought...the elf strained her mind to recall it exactly, but failed.

"Lady?" The little, scared voice from her left provoked a glare from her destroyed eye and she saw the fragmented view of the man again. He is watching me again! Again! Has he no shame that he shows his pity and disdain so obviously! The thought upset her, although she wasn't sure why - she didn't want all this company so suddenly, all these people confusing her and turning her voice against her...

"Raeis, what about the....the Spider?" he asked, coming around to her front so that she could see him more clearly through her good eye. She looked at him in confusion for a moment, trying to work out what he was saying, before her good eye widened as she remembered. The spider...of course...she turned around quickly as a scream rent the air and she realised that she and Zurumor were alone at the end of the tunnel: the others were all in danger back there. A sudden flash reel of their faces ran through her mind and appealed to something more humane inside her, a part of her that she thought had iced over, and the tenderness that lay beneath the ice had died within her years ago when the world had turned it's back on her. But it was still there, still alive, and although she had not been with them long, the elf realised she knew these people too well - maybe they weren't much, this ragged group of weakened creatures from the depths of Mordor from every corner of Middle Earth, but they were all she had. The elf's jaw suddenly clenched fiercely in determination. They were all she had, and this time, no one would take what she had from her.

Turning to Zurumor, she withdrew her sword from where she had jammed it in the ragged piece of cloth that sufficed as a belt and gave him an unsure, fierce smile. The man seemed relieved she had returned from the vagueness that had held her and drew his own long knife - the knife she had given him. Nodding to him, she turned back down the tunnel and began to run back to hell.

As they came to the entrance of the cave, the elf dropped suddenly to a crouch against the wall, and behind her Zurumor did the same, so that they were merely a bulge in the wall, two ragged, lump-like shapes in the pitch black - boulders, for all means and purposes. As their smell would hopefully be masked by the others, it was as good a disguise as any in this place. But they were not the only ones doing it: on the other side of the tunnel, Raeis saw another two shapes crouched, noticing them only by the fact that one was shuddering, shaking silently in fear. But the other was utterly still and Raeis realised that it had noticed her as soon as she had it - their eyes met, and Raeis realised that it was the copper skinned woman, Darash. The woman was not like any Raeis had ever seen before, even in her captivity, but she instantly commanded respect: every inch a warrior, despite the injuries she bore, especially on her arms. Somehow they only served to make her more magnificent. What Raeis did not realise was that her view of Darash was probably similar to what the other Men had felt when they had seen her and Morgoroth: an awe and wonder at the unknown. But unlike the Men, Raeis felt no fear towards this Woman.

In a smooth movement, the woman unsheathed her sword with barely a sound, her black eyes still locked with Raeis's gold flecked blue ones. Raeis raised her sword as the woman did the same, and touched the point lightly to her forehead. The woman did the same, and Raeis felt something intangible formed between them.

"Are you ready?" she whispered to Zurumor. The man nodded, and as he did so, Raeis felt him take a deep breath, feeling the air whisper along her sparsely clad back, so close was he. She paused for a second, enjoying the moment of closeness to another being, feeling that finally she was not alone.

But you will be if the spider gets them, ugly elf, the sulky voice in her mind reminded her and she jolted back to the present.

"After three...." Holding up three fingers so that Darash would hopefully be able to see them, she held the woman's gaze again and tucked them down one after another. One...two...three!

Throwing herself to her feet and into a run, Zurumor, Darash and Lyshka doing the same at the exact same instant, Raeis gave a fierce yell and threw herself at the spider's side. As she got close, it turned it's huge head and Raeis saw the glitter of the multitude of beautiful eyes, shining with fierce ugliness and, without a thought, stabbed her sword with all her might towards those eyes...

[CaptainofDespair]

Only a dark mind as the Elf had could contrive such a malicious, and calculatingly sinister plan as he had. Wandering aside the slick, inescapable walls of the passage, he went unnoticed, as he had hoped. To an eye untrained in the ways of the Elves, one would have thought he was brooding over how to die, but this was not so. Deep within the cold crags of his mind, the Immortal conceived the final strands of his plan. But he was not alone to his thoughts, for those that were now dead spoke to him. They whispered faults of the past, those they had committed in their defense, and those they had seen fail. Yet, mere words were not enough for he who is ageless, and the ghosts that now haunted his mind began to project visions, visions of death, into his eyes. He saw not the omens of a death soon to come, but that of a most magnificent way of escape. The Elf smiled, his face contorted to a wry, evil smile. He snickered in the darkness, and he secretly laughed at his plan, as it began to unfold in his mind.

Soon, he began to murmur his dark, insidious plans to himself, but they were not so audible that any who stumbled upon him would here his near silent words that fell from his lips as if a spring had arisen upon his lips. “She will meet her end by her own devices,” the Elf muttered as he strolled along the walls which now appeared as if they had some ancient gloss painted upon them. But now, there came a reply to his rambling. “Yes, she shall, and we will be the guide.” Morgoroth was confounded, for now those that had spoken to him from their graves within the Tunnel, now responded to his plan. “She is intelligent, but she has one weakness she cannot hide, her Pride,” The voices began to hiss as they muttered this to the Elf. “Her pride will be her fall, it will,” muttered one voice. And soon another spoke up, uttering its dire words in a cold, raspy voice. “Aye, it will, and we will watch, and laugh at her faults and failures. And soon, she shall join us, and no longer be the Mistress of the Tunnel.” Upon these words, the voices began to laugh in unison, a dark, cold laugh, one weathered by time, and amplified by death.

The Elf was now content that the voices he heard were in fact those of the victims of Shelob, and not his own. He began to pace to and fro now, seeking the most perfect of spots of which to initiate his plan. His was distracted now, and he heard not of that around him, save for the vehement hisses and thrashings of Her. He heard her cries in the dark, and he gloated over what was soon to come. He knew the others would attempt to harm her, but success would be minimal, for she would not withdraw for long from any strings they brought to her. Even an the song of the arrow striking an eye would not suffice. And if she retained any weaknesses, she would protect them to her end. Nor did they have weapons strong enough to pierce her hide. She was an unstoppable behemoth, and would crush her enemies one way or another. Or that is what Shelob herself thought. The Elf knew better. For every creature, no matter how strong, has at least one weakness, and for some, it is more deadly than others.

All his plans were now in motion, and for the moment, they coincided with Her plans. He would let her force him to where she wanted them, and he would bait her into falling into his trap, and then, the fate of the Great Spider would be sealed. But he would need bait, and he thought of the perfect tantalizing treat for the spider. But he quickly struck back to his original course, and began to hunt for items he would need. The Elf began to collect the devices of his enemy, the broken strands of webbing that dangled from the ceiling. The webs glittered in the darkness, and seemed to sing, as chimes do in the wind. He took in this song, and it comforted him slightly, for they would soon sing a more beautiful song, The Hymn of Death. After he successfully pulled each of the strands he needed from their secluded position in the rafters of the high ceiling, he began a curious endeavor. He proceeded to weave the strands together, forming crude ropes of the immensely strong and durable web. In only a few brief moments, he had woven several of this web ropes, and soon put himself to the task of fusing them with the shaft of his bolts. But he did not expend all of this material on his feathered shafts. He saved a few for himself, as a precautionary measure, and he stored them out of sight, under neath his cloak, hooking them to his belt in tightly wound loops.

With his primitive, yet effective contraptions in place, and readied for use, he sat himself down upon a large rock, and waited for her coming. Those who were ahead of him, were either fighting Shelob for their lives, in a twisted and demented version of roulette, or they were already dead, and she was preparing them for the trip home, binding them in her webs for transport to a safe feasting area. In either case, she would soon be coming his way. Those behind him had come upon an immense, and seemingly unbreakable web. They were trapped as well, like rats in a maze, with only one way out, through Her. She would get them soon enough, as if it were a mere routine for her. And then there was the Elf, alone in his hide along the wall of the corridor. In the middle of it all he was, between a route blocked by an ensnaring invention of the company’s defeat, and the horrid beast herself. The eyes of Morgoroth soon began to dart between either ways of passage, and he smiled again, for he now knew exactly where Shelob would be most vulnerable. As so he left himself to his thoughts, and he began to converse with the voices, and they laughed together, for Shelob would not escape this plan wholly intact, and the mere thought of it gave them a dark amusement.

[Kransha]

Bror stood as silent and bewildered witness to a very sudden, and most unwelcome arrival as the mighty spider fell onto her newly found prey, seeking any living being out. Before the dwarves pressed on, at Bror’s signal with a ready and uplifted hand, the first deal was dealt, by the elf called Raeis as she plunged a primitive sword, pillaged from the tower, into the suddenly turned brunt of the spider’s head, her blade targeting and delving into her many glinting eyes. A vague but otherwise horrendous shriek burnt up the air and the legs of Shelob, all up and at the ready, swerved and fell on the elf and her companion, that man called Zurumor who had so earlier attempted to elicit Bror’s companionship, but received only the dwarf’s concealed bitterness in return. The legs fell swiftly, two right forelegs swiping mercilessly at Shelob’s assailants. The elf was knocked adeptly aside as she stabbed the beast, her sword cutting at one leg, but glancing off the plated musculature of the limb as if it were nothing. The elf ricocheted off towards the wall and remained there, possibly unconscious or merely recovering from the wounds received. The man, Zurumor, though, was not so lucky. As he drove his long knife through the crystalline eyes, he was heaved down beneath the spider who swept herself up over his fallen form, to crush or berate him unto his death.

The dwarf now in command had no wish, none at all, to save a man, elf, or otherwise under any circumstance, better to let old Shelob have her prey and use the given opportunity. But, the warrior’s soul beating against his chest forced him on, for now was the best chance to attack the spider, when she was thus distracted. And, deep within, behind that soul, the words he’d said to Zurumor remained. Was there any companionship, and bond between the two, as requested and beseeched? He supposed he would soon see. At the drop of a hand, and a lack of the stealth he had desired, Bror jumped and ran, galloping towards the spider with his comrades close behind. Onward they poured, the three of them all coming from different directions, but even the withered illusion of organization had vanished now as they headed towards the mistress of the dank tunnels. Bror was first, as his legs carried him more quickly then the other two, with more fervent fire and reverberating spring in his step. Soon enough, as Shelob prepared more blows against the man, Bror was able to whisk himself lithely beneath her, prepared for battle. In retrospect, it may not have been the best idea to abandon tactics altogether, considering what happened next.

Bror, shooting upward, practically leapt at the opportunity to strike as Shelob, shifting dangerously on her multiple legs and exposing a softer-looking underbelly. Unfortunately, the underbelly was encrusted by some unseen armor of the spider’s, shielding her might bulk, and Bror’s crude mace, bashing against the stony material, merely glanced and rolled off, causing Bror to stumble into the gravelly earth beneath Shelob. The spider nimbly spun above him, her great legs sliding across the ground of her tunnel and the foremost one colliding swiftly with Bror as he fell. The force of the thin but powerful limb impacting his form sent the armored dwarf careening backward madly. He landed, skidding across a stream of jagged crags until he halted on his back, panting and taking quick notice of the deep dent in the metal plate on his breast. The wind was forced furiously from him by the monster’s maddened blow, and Bror had to grope for air as he threw himself again onto his feet. He tried weakly to continue his passionate rush, but was halted by lack of breath and the lances of pain driven into him. His dully colored eyes turned upward to see Dorim make the next attack, and suddenly widened in horror.

Zurumor was free now of the spider’s grasp, rolled inadvertently to safety. But, the spider had her diminished eyes on new morsels, or victims, as it were, for as Dorim and Dwali came at her, she bore down on them immediately. Dwali was able to evade, though his shoulders and back were battered extremely and he was forced to retreat before his attack, defending himself from the many legs, but Dorim ran headfirst past the legs, towards the beast’s head. Turning from Dwali, Bror, and all distraction, she fell on him immediately, her legs striking each exposed side and her fang-filled jaws tearing open, many spiked tips of her limbs and thin protruding daggers from her head ripped into him, splitting his armor asunder and pushing him down, grievously injured. Inflamed by the sight, Bror was forward in a second, his mace discarded and his hands raised up as if to seek the spider’s blood with his fists. He ran and reached for his comrade as the spider picked the wounded husk up with her many legs to bear him off into the depth of her cave as a meal.

The dwarf, his tension released as a great weight but renewed as well, latched his grappling fingers onto Dorim’s armor as Shelob’s tendril-like legs seemed to envelope him. As the spider slid herself carefully back, Bror tugged forward on Dorim’s limp form, pulling with all his might, digits hooked around the various crevices of his kinsman’s armor. The spider, though, must’ve desired the injured dwarf for a belated meal, and fought to keep hold, her legs not in use stabbing rabidly at Bror as he attempted to wrestle Dorim from her grip. He could not release him, no matter how hard he tried, and could not eternally shrug off the assaults of Shelob as her legs slashed at him deftly while he struggled against her might. He did not care, though, if the spider slew him now, for if he fell it would be yet remembered by those who left the tunnel. If he would leave this dark passage, it would only be with his comrade, living or dead. Otherwise, he was prepared and steeled against the lethal venom that now ran, coursing hungrily through his veins and devouring the last inkling of his strength. Bror continued exerting all his Dwarven prowess, but the spider had nearly won.

Suddenly, piercing Bror’s concentration, a gleaming shaft of light surged past his head, leaving a residual whistle in his ear, and thudded noiselessly into the cesspool of glittering orbs embedded in Shelob’s head, her eyes. It was a blade, rimmed by a veiled aura that stabbed the darkness and the shroud carried by the spider. She emitted a hissing shriek from within, which jarred Bror’s thoughts. She reared back, seeming more annoyed than pained, but her provoked fury distracted her concentration as well, causing the hold of her segmented legs to loosen. Bror, who’d been welling up all his unused brawn for the purpose at hand, fell back with Dorim onto the hard stone, many jutting rocks spearing the mail on his back painfully. He ignored the new discomfort and rolled over as the spider, crying out in her wrath, crashed down onto the earth where he’d been. Hefting Dorim to his shoulder, Bror hurled himself aside and spun, gently pushing Dorim’s nearly bereft body to safety. His uninjured hand dipped down, his fist clenching over the rotten-wood hilt of one of his confiscated orcish axes. His arm surged forward and the axe soared forward over the small distance between he and the raging monster while she moved, leaping angrily across her lair. As her head turned to search for her elusive prey, the blade struck her with ease, near the mark the sword had found. At the same moment, as whatever luck lived on for the dwarves in this shadowy cavern would have it, Dwali, who’d been equally occupied by Shelob’s great legs, was able to loose his own blade into the beast, a smaller, more delicate ax in his grasp finding the same clump of sparkling eyes. As soon as this was done, Dwali, struck several times by the aimlessly flailing legs of Shelob, fell back and staggered to the tunnel’s wall, avoiding Shelob’s fiery wroth.

Roaring and screaming, a most repulsive sound, she backed up, one leg shifting to bat at the axes and bolt buried in her eyes. She had doubtless lost some, but could still see. Luckily, though, the wound infuriated enough to blind her from the actions of those around. Under the cover of her madness, Bror leapt down, wrapping his arm around his fallen comrade, and pulled himself and his companion to some safety in the shadows. She could probably see him still, but the niche he wormed his way into was small enough for her to dismiss his presence there…at least temporarily.

Now, in the shade of more damp outcroppings that were spread out overhead, Bror could see to Dorim and the source of his rescue. He looked warily upward, great care in his gaze, to see Zurumor breathing hard, knelt on the rocks far from the wailing spider, his hand and arm still raised. It had been his knife that pierced the eye so suddenly, his light borne around it. Bror’s mind knew not what to tell him, what thought to process, what feeling to report. He had saved a man, and been save in return, his friend had fallen, as had he, the spider was in retreat but yet on the move. He did not have time for these thoughts, though, for he truly had to look to his brother in arms, who was barely breathing now, blood coursing from his lips just as it was over Bror’s, both Dwarves ravaged. The dwarf beneath him was dying, injured in places to numerous to count and pained beyond reason. Try as he might, no knowledge in Bror’s mind was adequate to repair Dorim. All he could do was look emotionlessly at the other Dwarf.

The venom of the small and great spider was erupting inside him and he could do nothing about it. Dorim would not survive much longer, but both Dwarves were braced for death. But, Bror was determined to get out, or at least to a point where he could be sure Dorim would be taken from this place. If he was to die, he would die here and remain, but all else would at least see day’s light with unseeing eyes. Slowly he dragged his feet and Dorim away from the raging spider, towards the only human he could see with his blurred vision: Zurumor. But, there was still nothing in hi to drive him on, save the blasts of poisoned pain. His eyesight decayed, his flesh aflame, his head and heart pounding but feebly, he fell to his knees near the man and, with Dorim at his side, slumped onto the earth.

[CaptainofDespair]

Screams shattered the placid peace of that had enveloped the realm of the Elf. Horrid shrieking, and the clashes of a brutal, primitively fought battle for survival raged in the shadowy depths of the Tunnel. The acutely tuned ears of Morgoroth sensed them, as a spider senses a disturbance in a web. His mind shot forward, like a missile in flight, and he strained to see with his mind, what his eyes could not. He cocked his head to one side, his hair flowing down over his left ear, and he listened again. The cries had all but stopped, and it was eerily silent, much as the sea is before a great storm. His mind suddenly grew calm, and he nearly went limp, which would have been a painful fall from his perch atop his rock, but in the dark, it would only emanate a resounding thud. His breathing relaxed, and began a strange short of meditation, tuning himself to the Tunnel, with all its secret, almost mystical properties. And as quickly as it had started, it was finished, and his dull eyes flashed open, flickering in the shadows. He rose up from his rocky throne, and hopped down to the damp floor below. His eyes scanned around him for signs of danger, but he perceived none. His eyes darted from one end of the Tunnel to the other. Which way would he traverse, to his rear, to those who were trapped? Or should he march forward, to where his helpless and weakened comrades fought their dying battle? Without hesitating, he turned to himself around, and began his journey to where the dwarves now did battle wit the abomination that is Shelob.

The cavern was quite dark, even to his now well tuned eyes, but he continued to proceed, until at last, after a few short moments of regaining himself, he turned a sloping curve in the cavern wall, and came upon Her. But she did not notice him, for she now participated in a losing battle for the dwarves. Though they outnumbered her, it seemed as it was she who outnumbered them. She had already flung Raeis and the man Zurumor aside, as if they were but a rag-doll a child plays with in their youth. The dwarves were now all that remained of the combatants, and they were losing, horribly. One had already been taken down by the Mistress, and another fought to save him from her ever famished mouth and bottomless pit of a stomach. The Elf continued his silent watch from the shadows, as the struggle continued. Finally, the contest was broken, as blade struck the Great Spider, and she reeled back in pain, just long enough for the dwarf Bror to drag his companion to safety. The Great Spider retreated, but not for long, she waited a few moments, and thus returned to seek revenge, for she hungered evermore. But the pleasant, yet dark and calculating voice of the Elf rang out into the air. “Where do you think you’re going Milady. You and I have business to attend to first, before you get your meal.”

Morgoroth had not anticipated having to put his plan into action so soon, but he calculated it would be wise, and that it must be done to deliver the dwarves from harm, for even a few moments. And so, as the nasty Spider rose up, and prepared to strike down her remaining opponents, an arrow silently sped its way towards her, and struck her in the shimmering pools of her myriad of eyes. She again felt pain, and shrieked a most ungodly noise, one that chilled the blood and broke even the stoutest of hearts. But Morgoroth knew what had to be done, and he smiled in a cruel delight over what he was putting into motion. The voices he had listened to these past few hours, were now cackling wildly, and hissing at the Elf to bring the beast down, and send Her to Them. And so he drew forth the first of his many, specially adapted bolts, and prepared to release it into Shelob. He drew back the first, and the bowstring cracked, and he let fly the missile, with its thin white trailer tagging behind. His refined accuracy, even in the darkness, was near perfect, and the arrows drove itself into Shelob’s unprotected skin, between the knee joint in the rear most left leg. The Spider hissed, and she released fumes of hot air and gas into the air, hoping to stifle her Ageless enemy. Obviously she had not yet realized what exactly had been done to her, for her rear leg now had a string of glistening, white web attached to it. The Elf laughed at her plight, for his scheme was now in motion. He soon released his bolts thrice more, and the spider was struck each time, and now had four strands of her own web, and the four shafts of arrows embedded in her four rear legs. And the Elf had prepared to bring for the next stage of his operation. He stepped out from his shadowy corner, into a more properly lit arena, where the monstrosity of Shelob could best view him. She stood, a silent behemoth of death and destruction, staring at the darkened form of her attacker. But she made not a motion to attack, but rather studied him quickly, looking for a sign of weakness of what appeared to be a wholly new version of foe. And now came the time for his plan to unfold yet again. The Elf lifted up his hand, and revealed within it were for stands of glittering web, Shelob’s web. He smiled at his enemy, and drew his arms up, and the Great Spider looked at him in bewilderment. He summoned forth all the strength he had, and gathering it from every little crevice of his body, and pulled back on the steel-strong rope. Now Shelob understood his plan, but she could not stop it. Her rear legs were pulled forward, underneath of her, and she toppled like a tower which has a weak base. She fell onto her own legs, the ropes already having torn one completely from the socket, a clawless limb. The remaining three were either crushed under her massive girth, or twisted into malformed shape. The muscular armor could be heard cracking and splinter asunder. And the great beast shrieked, and writhed in pain. She rolled forth, flailing her remnant legs wildly about in the air. Now she lay upon her back, her body broken, but she was not yet defeated. With one leg now missing, and three others momentarily out of commission, she would need recovery time. The Elf laughed again at her plight, and he taunted her, but he had not time for such wayward acts. He made his way quickly to the others, and he stooped over them checking them for signs of life. The first he came upon Zurumor and Raeis, who had now begun to regain consciousness. With both on their feet, they took up the task of retrieving Bror, Dwali, and Dorim. Morgoroth looked upon each, and then spoke. “We cannot tarry, though she is wounded now, greater than ever, she can still hunt us. Come, follow me.” Zurumor and Raeis nodded in acceptance of this, and Bror, still dazed began to trudge along. Morgoroth used his remaining energy to heave Dorim’s limp body over his shoulder and carry him. Dwali was able to handle himself quite well still, and refused any aid from the Elf.

With the hideous, ever shrieking form of Shelob to their rear, the group set out to find the others, who had undoubtedly heard the sounds of the battle, and the renewed shrieking of the Spider. They slowly began to meander their way into the depths of the cavern, hoping to find their comrades in arms. None of them could think however, of what was to befall them, when a now brutally enraged Shelob would come back to finish the job, for the horrid cries of pain drowned out all.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash and Aldor scrambled about the edges of the cavern, desperate to find a way out, but every passage, every crack, had been sealed over with the stinging webs of their terrible foe. In the darkness behind they could hear the muted sounds of combat, mixed into a monstrous kind of harmony with the rough sliding of the beast’s body over the stones and the creak of her giant limbs. Grash whirled at the cry of agony and tried to pierce the eternal night of the realm, but all he could make out in the scattered lights of their now discarded torches were shadowy forms scurrying about beneath the ominous bulk of the monster. Grash saw one of the smaller shapes fall and the creature dove for it, but then a flurry of activity seemed to catch her up and Grash stared in amazement as the Elf stepped forward, brandishing his bow. It was madness! He would be crushed by the beast and there was no hope for him.

“Come on!” Aldor hissed in his ear. “Let us find a way out! We can come back and tell the others!” Grash nodded dumbly, but at the back of his mind he thought of the females Darash and Lyshka. They should find them first. He turned to the Man to explain when the cavern was filled with a sound of primordial agony and hatred. They whirled about, reaching with terrified hands to cover their ears in vain attempts to block out the piercing shriek. They stared in disbelieving awe as Shelob staggered back from the Elf, one of her legs now dangling from her body by no more than a strip of her plated shell. How he had accomplished it, they could not tell, but before they could put any more thought into it, they saw prostrate upon the floor of the cavern two forms – two forms that the beast was once again advancing, clearly intending to make of them her easy prey.

Grash stared in horror as she loomed over the Dwarves and in a flash it dawned upon him that it was he who was responsible for their deaths. He had freed them and brought them here, to serve as bait so that he could escape. If he had not led them, they might have been able to find some other path, and while he had no hope that they would have escaped Mordor, at least their deaths would have been of their own choosing and not his. He felt shame, then, but without being able to explain it. Instead, he raced toward them, little thinking what he could do to aid them, but determined to try.

Orcs used others in the way that he had tried to used these Dwarves. And if nothing else, Grash was determined to prove that he was no orc.

The monster had raised herself above the Dwarves, and was readying all her massive bulk to crush down upon them, when Grash reached their prostrate forms. The stench of the beast was overwhelming, choking him and bringing stinging tears to his eyes. He tried first to drag the Dwarves away, but there was no time, for she was about to strike. But then, as though by a stroke of unlooked for luck, Grash saw that she had been wounded in the belly. A small gash, no more than a hand’s width, had laid open her armoured underbelly, but from the steady trickle of ooze that came forth, he could tell that it was a deep wound. Before he had time even to think, Grash drew his sword and thrust it up at the wound. The steel easily passed through the gape into the tender flesh underneath, and twisting the sword about he sought to gut the monster. Again she screamed and threw herself away from her prey, landing on her remaining seven legs and preparing to spring. Grash stood his ground, knowing that hope was now lost.

A flurry of cries sounded and from the side of the cavern flew several forms, led by the copper-skinned might of the woman Darash. They attacked the monster’s legs, hacking at her with all their might. Who they were precisely he could not tell, and he did not have the time to watch any longer. Seizing Brór under the arms he dragged the Dwarf toward the side of the cavern, hoping to keep him from harm’s way there. Aldor appeared and bent to take Dorim but then he came to Grash’s aid. “No no!” Grash said, gasping at the weight of his burden. “Other Dwarf. Bring other Dwarf!”

Aldor shook his head. “He is dead,” he said quietly.

Rhând

Seeing the two dwarves lying on the cold ground, the young Haradrim swallowed. Grash had already headed over, and was now grabbing Brór by the arms and dragging him towards a safe corner in the cavern. Rhând went unwillingly, and fairly hesitant, to take the other. He took the dwarf's hands, eyes filled with disgust, immediately understanding that something was wrong. The petty little creature was covered in blood, and his pale face revealed his fate.

"You darned fool!" Frowning, Rhând looked at the dwarf shaking with anger. Again, it seemed like an impossible task to earn his freedom and again serve Him. Already, there was one man down. And realising that only one night hadn't passed since they had escaped, he sighed miserably. Was it possible to go on for days in this land without the whole lot of them getting killed? The thought of returning to Him with only two or three prisoners out of twelve in total, didn't sound very promising. On the other hand, would this dwarf really be missed? By the look of him, Rhând guessed that he was of no worth, but still it bothered him. "Breathe you disgraceful hound!" he muttered. It became clear to him, however, that he had more concerns. The dwarf was one thing, but he was dead and nothing could be done about it. Then another thing bothered him even more: the women. He would have to focus on them now. First priority, he thought. They knew he had taken suverah, and that he hadn't used it to overcome Shelob. Surely, they had to be suspicious when it came to his behaviour and especially why he didn't use it against the monster. He would have to take care of them as soon as they escaped the spider, before they told anyone else.

Rising from his position, he trudged over to Grash's side, eager to know what had become of Brór. "One more dead fool and my chances will be ruined," he said under his breath as he settled himself down with Grash.

"Bring other Dwarf!” Grash looked at Rhând, or Aldor as he knew him, and pointed at the other dwarf. Stupid twit, Rhând thought to himself, turning his attention to the body again.

With great effort he managed to press forwards that Dorim was dead. He tried to look into Grash's eyes, but it was hopelss.The whole thing, Rhând realised, was so ironic that he was just about to break into a great laughter. If it hadn't been for the cloth, which still was tied to his face, the other prisoner would have seen the gigantic smile of his.

[Himaran]

Rage. It was the only feeling enveloped Dwali's soul as the group moved away from the mammoth arachnid. Anger flowed through his pulsing veins, both at himself and the beast which had caused them so much fear and grief.

Dorim would die -- he was certain of that --and the young dwarf had not been able to stop it. I ran. Dorim attacked. Perhaps, if I had attacked as well, we would both be on two feet right now. It had all happened too fast. In his quick retreat, Dwali was unable to spot his companion's somewhat foolish charge. Adding to his distres was the intervention of the elves; it seemed as though Bror had made several aquaintinces during the battle. The half-even folk must have be-friended him, Dwali decided. Lovely. Now there will be three of them against me, and with Dorim gone... The dwarf tried not to contemplate the immediate future, but instead concentrate on putting one stout leg in front of the the other.

Turning to acess the situation, he found Aldor and Grash kneeling over the forms of the other two dwarves. Bror was unconcious, and Dorim was dead. The lifeless dwarf had saved Dwali's life earlier in the battle, and the horrible feeling of failing a companion entered his already tormented soul. And Bror, who had done so much for both of them, might be dead as well. No. It cannot end this way. "IT WILL NOT!" The others looked up from their work as the dwarf roared out to the enemy at the far end of the cavern. Grabbing Dorim's axe, he abruptly turned and headed back towards the place of the battle.

But then Grash was there, grasping him arm tightly. "No, Dwali. You can't just throw your life away -- Bror may yet survive. Now come, help us; he's in pretty bad shape." The dwarf wrenched away, and made as if to step forward. But then he stopped and dropped to his knees, weapon's clattering on the stone floor. It was as if the energy itself had drained out of him, and Dwali could only cry.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor had attacked the spider and shown the dwarves he stood WITH them and not agaisnt them. More importantly he had saved them. And now as the creature writhed in pain they all ran for safety. All but the dwarf. He who had given his life for his people...his friends. Zuromor cried as he ran. He had not known anyone so brave. The had ran only a short distance when Zuromor stopped and saw a small form crying on his knees. "Go! All of you....find a way out. She will not find you for as long as I can handle." The dwarf looked up at him and understood.

He understood that Zuromor was not sacrificing himself. He knew he might and probably would perish but he would give them time. Time to escape or formulate a plan. He went back to the others and Zuromor stood firm, his sword out at his side. "Come foul mistress! You shall not feed tonight, but my blade shall!" Zuromor ran directly at the huge mass in front of him.

She was still reeling from the previous engagement and Zuromor's words pierced her and brought forth newfound anger. Zuromor swiped at her wounded leg and passed beneath her great hulk. He ran to the far wall and slashed the damaged joint of one of her back legs. His blade cut through what barely held her leg together and She fell for one moment as she tried to regain her balance. Zuromor took this opprutunity and jumped up on her back, jamming his sword into her eyes and laid his body flat against her back and held his blade. He wrapped his legs on her as well as he could and hoped he could buy them some time.

[Himaran]

Dwali watched as Zuromor headed back towards the spider, sword in hand. He seemed as if one marching fearless toward death; not his death, but that of an enemy. And I will take part in its death. For Bror... and Dorim! The dwarf wiped his eyes and, ignoring the protests of Grash, readied his axe and followed the man. It would be his last part in this dreadful tale, most likely; but he was prepared to face that doom. Dwali's entire life had been a cascading waterfall of hatred and loss. At last, he could relieve himself of all the anger... and put it to good use. "Go on," he shouted to the others. "Get Bror out of here. He, if any of us, deserves to see the light on the other side of the mountains." With that, he gritted his teeth and ran.

The sight which soon met his bloodshot eyes was, for lack of a serious description, comical. Zuromor sat perched atop the great spider, as she reared and pranced around the cavern like a bucking steed. The man would, at regular intervals, stab or slash at the beast with his sword; which merely increased the speed of her already frantic movement. A look of surprise mingled with gratitude shown in the man's eyes when Dwali entered his view, and the dwarf wasted no time before calling out to him. "Khazad Ai Menu! For Dorim!" Mixing Khazad with the common tongue, he entered the fray; slashing at the virtually shreaded legs which appeared before him.

The dwarf's axe whirled in a frenzy, as if an intelligent creature. It struck at every moving thing, were it stomach, foor or leg. Dwali then made an agressive decision and dove underneath the arachnid, only to find a stinger hovering above him. It crashed to the ground seconds after he rolled, only to rise and fall again. The dwarf tumbled around in a sporatic patern, swinging at anything which presented itself while evading the possibility of being skewered. But then Dwali's moderate fortunes turned for the worse, as the hefty axe was knocked out of his hand.

Without thinking, the dwarf dove forward, accidentally grabbing one of Shelob's remaining legs. It would have been a surprisingly smart move, had he gripped tighter. Much to his dismay, Dwali found himself thrown across the room... only to crash on a small plateau. He stood slowly, seeing mostly exploding lights and darkness. But as his vision cleared, the dwarf could make out the form of the spider across the room; still reeling from Zuromor's constant assault. Stuck some thirty feet above the stone floor, he could only watch helplessly as the drama unfolded below...

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

As Zuromor battled the furious bucking giant, he caught sight of the dwarf. He held on for dear life and before long the dwarf could be seen soaring through the air. The Great Spider seemed to scream with delight as she ran as fast as she could after her rattled prey. She clambered up the side of the cave and rested what was left of her eyes on the tasty morsel. I have to do something!

Zuromor grabbed his blade and jumped on her head. The startled spider sreamed and reared up, trying to fling the man off her back. Zuromor slipped and began to fall. He slung his arm back and it loged in one of her remaining eyes. As she screamed in agony Zuromor was looking directly at her underbelly. There he saw a spot that oozed. He stared at it a moment and he saw no other alternative. Especially if he wanted to save his.....friend? The thought bewildered him but now was not the time.

He pulled out his blade and ran beneath her as she climbed up to get in position over the dwarf. Zuromor leaped through the air and jammed his blade up into the oozing wound. The spider reared up once again and Zuromor saw yet another oppritunity. He hacked on her back legs and she began to lose her balance. His friend looked around for any way to help and found a huge rock and hurled it at her chest. The beast fell backwards and laid on her back.

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry's post

The great, disgusting bulk of her body swayed back and forth as she attempted to dislodge Zuromor while warding off the feeble blows of the other attackers, who swarmed like mosquitoes. Her every move flung vile, reeking fluid from the wounds and cuts of her body, particularly from her belly. Grash had not succeeded in gutting her, but he had opened the wound wider and now not only her dark blood flowed but the putrid remains of her last, undigested dinner spewed forth. For once her stench was welcomed, for in the dark of the huge cavern, with the torches flung to the wide walls, it was the surest way of knowing where she was.

It had been Darash who had led the roaring attackers against her remaining legs, swords lifted high over their heads to ward off her swings at them, and daggers or other short swords at their waist, ready to plunge a second blow should they be lucky enough to win a first blow. With the floor now slippery with thick ooze, footing was difficult. Several times Darash stumbled as she attempted to hack at a leg or slash and each stumble nearly cost her her life, as Shelob's legs struck out, even knocking her to the ground once, the claw barely missing her head.

Stunned, Darash lay there, trying to determine which way to roll to avoid the roiling mass of spiny form which rocked around, the eyes glittering as Shelob focussed on each attacker seemingly in turn and simultaneously at the same time. Lyshkia was still afoot, slicing at the joint of one leg; she succeeded in severing at least tendons, for the leg suddenly became a flopping, useless drag upon the creature's movements. Darash rolled over finally, her senses returning. She motioned to Lyskia and the two of them coordinated an attack on two of the remaining legs, from opposite directions to confuse the beast. Taking a cue from Zuromor, Darash jumped on the leg and held fast, ignoring the pain of the spiny hairs which tore at her skin. She jabbed over and over again at the joint until she too severed tendon from muscle and that leg became a second dead weight. She hacked at the claw as a safeguard as Shelob's screams roared in her ears and she was spun around and flung off to the side. Breathless and panting she slunk against the wall to regain what air she could in her lungs and consider a new assault. She looked over at the dwarves and then at Grash and Aldor, on the opposite side of the monster and far away from her. What was the hyena planning? she wondered.

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Novnarwen's post - Rhând

He turned his attention to the battle. The Spider had in fact been much larger than he had first expected, but he admired her greatness. In his childhood, he had heard of Shelob's mother, Ungoliant. What a great creature it had been. Her disgraceful offspring, Shelob, was, in Rhând’s opinion, almost greater. Of course, this was only because he stood nearly face to face to Shelob, meanwhile he had only heard of her mother, Ungoliant.

Feeling both excited, and nervous, he grabbed his sword. Drawing it out of the sheath, he nodded at Grash, who still knelt by the petty dwarves, saying:" I'm ready, if she comes." A feeling of satisfaction made him giggle with delight. If this didn't make, at least, Grash certain of Rhând's devotion to the prisoners escape, what would? A man with bad intentions would not sacrifice himself in this way. However, knowing that Shelob was indeed busy with her other preys, some of the other prisoners, Rhând felt quite safe where he stood pretending to be brave. The dim light didn't allow him to get a proper look of what was going on. He heard cries of pain and of despair, but also eager cries which came from prisoners who were up for a good fight with the spider. Focusing, his gaze wandering around and at the same time listening eagerly to the battle, he finally spotted one of the women: Darash.

The woman was mainly trying to get to Shelob's legs. Rhând hoped she failed. For a minute or so, he even pictured Darash lying at the ground screaming with pain and horror when Shelob ended her life. One threat would be eliminated by this, he figured, and everything would again be simple, or at least simpler than how things were now. He didn't care much of what his Master would say now. If the women knew and were suspicious towards his behaviour, what else was there to do than kill them? It would only be easier for him if Shelob took care of Darash. His only remaining problem would be this Lyshkia, but he supposed it would be quite entertaining to end her life. Yes, Shelob could be very useful if only she could wipe Darash out of the game. Giggling, still following the battle, he crossed his fingers and hoped that his wish would come true.

Come on... Come on now... Almost, almost.. Shaking and trembling with excitement, feeling the tension in his body increase, he watched the woman stumble. For every step she took, she grew nearer and nearer death. How exciting, he thought to himself thrilled by how the situation seemed to develop. "Now! Come on!" he whispered seeing Darash being thrown to the ground. The climax had been reached; it was only for Shelob to end it. A few seconds passed, Darash lay on the ground and Shelob approached. Rhând waited impatiently for Darash to draw her last breath.

"Darn you Lyshkia!" His body seemed to explode. Seconds before his wish had been granted to him, this other fool of a woman had appeared. She was now fighting valiantly against the gigantic spider. Soon, Darash got to her feet as well, and together the two women aimed for the spider's legs. He cursed his bad luck. So near . . he thought being unsatisfied. He sighed.

Darash caught his eye, as he cursed for the second time. Was she expecting his aid, or had she seen him while he was waiting anxiously for Shelob to kill her?

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

A cry, a screeching howl unlike any sound Jeren had ever heard before, reverberated through the cavern. The pain of the beast twisted its way into Jeren's ears, then harshly hammered its way into his skull as if it meant to shatter the skulls of all who heard it. Upon seeing the great spider, Jeren had fled to the darkness, just out of sight while he watched the immediate reactions of the company. The affect of the large creature angered Jeren, and he wondered at his own fear. If I am to die, then I shall die, but it will be with courage. For if I die, I wish for it to be when I have tried my best and failed, not with half a heart and half my strength... Jeren thought this bitterly, drawing his rusted sword and straining through the dying notes of Shelob's cry.

Compelled to follow the Raeis, Zuromor, Darash, and Lyshka in their first charge on Shelob, Jeren only fell back and faltered when the spider let out a high-pitched squeal. We need to find a way out...there has to be some way...we cannot just let the spider have her way! The Southron thought madly, with panic about his features and impatience stringing on his last nerves.

Looking on as others fought the beast, Jeren felt a coward but thought like a hero. He wanted to advance, he wanted to stab the beast, he wanted to help...but his legs would not move him and his fear had paralyzed his limbs. Doubt coursed through his veins and distrust eminated off his skin, for while his mind had made a decision his body had chosen to ignore it. Why am I so afraid? Jeren wondered. He had led men into battle countless times, fought nameless enemies and guiseless fears. The Southron did not know what made this fear any different.

Because you know there is little hope...a side of Jeren answered that had not spoken before, the side that told him so often in the last day that there was no hope. No hope of escape, no hope of life, no hope of rescue...no hope. It seemed that no matter what the bravest of the company did, or the craziest of the company did, the great beast would not die and she would not give up until all of them were in her stomach. Every wound taken by the fighters, every death endured by the company had failed. The grand spider would not hearken to her own wounds, and death did not seem like a threat to her.

Another scream, and Jeren knew that hope had vanished and that faith had no place in the tunnel.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

She threw off her attackers, and screaming with rage and pain and the disbelief of her mortality, Shelob scuttled up the walls of the chamber beyond the stinging blows of her prey’s steel. Her wounds ran freely now, splattering the creatures that had dared defy her with their survival. Her beautiful eyes were almost all gone, but there were yet enough to see. Her crippled and useless limbs dragged behind her, catching upon the jagged rocks of the cavern and sending new waves of agony through her shattered body, adding more fuel to the fire of her vengeance. She reached the summit of the cave and whirled to face them, and as she did her rage was so great that it was as though she was young once more in the first years of the sun – before the coming of the Elves and terrible Men into her abodes in the mountains, before the young upstart Sauron had taken up the cause of his dark master. At the memory of that time a light was kindled in her eyes and they began to glow with a hideous green light, like the exhalation of decay from a rotting corpse, and the beings trapped in the cavern with her were frozen once more in the terror of their plight. For a time that defied reckoning they stood thus, frozen and staring upward at her greatness, unable to move, and unable to look away. Her mighty sides heaved with hunger, and she shifted her remaining limbs raising a clatter that echoed into the vast emptiness of her eternal night. The light of her eyes grew, and she seemed to swell into a shape vast and formless, and it was as though her agony and her horror were food to her will, repairing her hurts and filling her with a new strength. To now she had hunted for food, and had sought only to sting and still her prey – but now she cared not for sustenance. All she could see now were their shattered bones and savaged bodies. When she next moved it would not be for food, but for the utter obliteration of her foes. There were few in Middle-Earth in these days who could withstand her in her hunger…there were none who could resist her in her wrath.

The weapon that he held fell from Grash’s lifeless hand. His body and will were numb as he looked upon the monster. It was hopeless, all that they had done to her was as nothing. Dorim’s fall, Brór’s mighty and futile heroism, the mad courage of Zuromor, Dwali, Darash and all the rest…it would all pass into the darkness of her realm and never be remembered.

Then he heard a sound that was more terrible than any that had yet assailed his mind. A voice, ancient and worn, thin from disuse, but having lost none of its bitter sting for the ages spent in silence, slowly filled the cavern with its hateful pitch. “Silly stupid flies,” it said. “Why do you resist your doom? So much struggle and so much agony only to delay your destruction. Lay yourselves down before me, and I will dispatch you quickly. Prostrate yourselves and do your obeisance and I will put you into a sleep before I feast. If you do not,” and her voice rose in terror, so much that some among the party fell upon their knees or against the wall, gasping and choking as though her hate were thick dark waters in which they were drowning, “I will keep you alive as I feed. Long may I keep you so, and you can watch as I devour your entrails, and feast upon your very life’s blood. The last thing you see will be your heart as I throw it as a morsel for my spawn.” Focusing the poisonous malevolence of her will upon them all, she delivered the final terror. “And do not think that the torments of your body are the most that I shall do. They are the least! For as I destroy your limbs, I will feast upon your mind and your will. As the life drains from your frame, the light will fade from your self, until all that is left will be the hollow ghost that I will leave to howl out its agony in the cold and naked darkness until the unmaking of the world!”

As she was speaking they heard a terrible, familiar sound. From all the crevices and cracks in the walls, from out of all the passageways, there came wave upon wave of the smaller creatures that had beset them before Shelob’s attack. Thousands upon thousands of them poured into the cavern and clambered upon the walls until no rock was visible and the chamber was a living, pulsating mass of flesh and hair and fangs. “Now,” she said quietly, “who will kneel to me?”

There was a silence so complete that Grash fancied he could hear his own heart beating. There was no hope left, none at all. It had been for nothing: his escape, his attempt to find some way beyond the walls of the land of darkness. His dreams of freedom had been for nothing. But then someone moved beside him in the darkness. And then another. Slowly, the company stirred and moved about, and Grash knew that he was not alone: for the first time in his life, there were others there with him who shared his fate and his dreams, and who would not shy away and let him go singly into the night. He felt the others gain strength as they too realised this, and then, unbidden, he spoke, and it was as though some other will spoke through him. “No,” he croaked. “We not bow down to you, or any evil creature. We are free now, and if we die, we die free. Come!” he cried, and his voice gained in strength. “Come! Enough talk and threat. You come for us. You come! You come and see what strength we have! You come and we kill you!”

The cavern was filled with a terrible thin hissing that might have been laughter. “Foolish flies! You know not what you are doomed to! All the better. And may your spirits howl all the more miserably for your insolence.” The light in her eyes grew, and slowly her spawn began also to glow with the corpse-light. Gathering her legs under her, Shelob prepared to descend.

But she let out a sudden cry of dismay and surprise. The company looked and saw that she was trying vainly to bat one of her spawn away from the wound in her belly. Even as she struggled with that one, however, three more sprang upon her wounded legs, and then a dozen upon her shattered eyes. She spun about, sending streams of her blood about the chamber, but this only seemed to send the smaller creatures into a frenzy, for they swarmed toward her by the hundreds, and the thousands. In horror the company watched as they clamped onto her with their fangs, tearing into her flesh and ripping apart her armoured hide. Shelob’s shrieks filled the cavern, splitting the very stone and the company fell to their knees and sought to cover their ears with their hands. In vain she struggled against the swarm, for no matter how many she managed to crush of throw off of her, a hundred more would come upon her. The last of her legs was severed and with a cry she fell from the roof of the cavern and landed upon the stone with a sickening thud. The creatures covered her like boiling tar and as they did so, their glow increased until the entire cavern was filled with their hideous light. The company stood and watched in horrified fascination as she was devoured by her own brood. Piece by piece she was taken apart, and still she thrashed and screamed and struck out at her attackers.

It was Morgoroth who saved them from their trance. Seeing that the creatures would soon consume their dam and then turn their attention upon fresher meat, he cried out, “Come. We must flee this place!” He ran to the only passageway not filled with the beasts and began hacking at the strands of web with his blade. “Hurry! I cannot do this alone!”

As though they were waking from a terrible dream, the company rushed to his aid and began sawing and striking at the webs. It was hard work, for the webs were like steel, but their combined efforts were just enough to open one small rent in the wall of strands. One by one they clambered through. Dwali cried out, “We must not leave my kinsmen!” Following the Dwarf, Aldor, Darash and Grash returned for Dorim and Brór and bore them from the chamber.

They fled up the long passage, the sounds of Shelob’s torment fading into the distance. Finally, there came one last drawn out shriek that sent waves of darkness through their spirits, and then there was silence, and they heard nothing more.

On and on they ran, and ever their path went upward. The passage narrowed and lowered, until they could only go on hands and feet, and still it grew narrower, but still they pressed ahead, so desperate were they to leave the realm of the new departed monster. Eventually, they felt an air that moved and saw ahead a faint grey light. Renewed by the sight and feel, they rushed forward on their very bellies, until one by one they emerged from a narrow crack high upon a cliff face, and crowded onto a small ledge a few hundred feet above the bleak and featureless plains below. In the distance they could see the looming hulk of Mount Doom, and the fires of its fury lit the underside of the clouds that crowded in above their heads like a roof.

They had escaped Shelob’s Lair, but they had come back to the very margins of Mordor.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka inhaled deeply. The dark and poisonous fumes of Mordor made her cough, but they were yet clearer than and provided a relief from the putrid air of the Spider’s tunnel. Trembling, she slumped to the ground, sliding along the grey wall of the mountain. Exhaustion overcame her body. She was limp, yet she still trembled from the horror of what her eyes beheld in that dark place. Rubbing her eyes gingerly, she tried to erase the horrifying scene from her mind.

Darash stepped over her and motioned to one of sacks the prisoners brought. “Fo-od.” Nodding and feeling the whole in her belly, Lyshka rose and helped the woman untie the sack. A day had surely passed since their entrance into that place, and this was the first the Easterling had thought of food. A long loaf of bread sat at the top of the sack, and Lyshka snatched it. Looking quickly from side to side, she was unsure if any of the others would fight for or try to steal her bread.

Keeping the loaf protected, close to her belly, Lyshka broke it in half and held out one half to Darash, who still looked through the sack. The Easterling glanced again quickly at the others, and then nudged Darash for her attention so she would accept the bread.

As Darash reached out, Lyshka caught sight of the woman’s injuries. Along the length of her arm, Darash was covered in blood. “Ak banash ka.” Lyshka spoke in her own tongue and could see confusion in the other woman’s face.

Taking hold of the Darash’s wrist, Lyshka gently pulled on her arm to convey she wished for Darash to follow. As they neared the shear wall, Lyshka shed her Orcish vest and placed her half of the loaf beneath it. The woman then pulled the bottom of her thin, torn dress up and placed it between her teeth. Tearing into the cloth, Lyshka ripped a long strip from around the bottom of the skirt and held it out, motioning to Darash’s wounds…”Ak banash ka.”

[Durelin]

A sticky, moist cloud glittered in front of his face, and he was half aware of it clinging to his skin. What lay beyond the cloud was misty, and this haze enveloped him in calmness. Jordo blinked, but the cloud did not go away. He was aware of pain, but mainly he felt a numbness that ached in knowledge of injury. But it was the pain of a separate body from his mind, which acknowledged pain, and put it into a simple feeling that the man recognized, and knew well. The cloud that physically surrounded him seemed to penetrate him mentally. His brain felt wrapped in a fogginess. But it its distorted way of thinking found a rather abstract thought somewhere. His mind had been so controlled by outer and inner forces, but in its current confusion, it found a kind of freedom. For the first time in his life, he made the connection between his mind and the pain he felt. He was musing in his mind, a broken one, one that did not have the same amount of defense against seemingly illogical thoughts. He heard and saw nothing but what was in his head.

Jordo stood still, afraid to move for the moment, in the Tunnel and all its unnaturalness. He shivered as a small droplet of some liquid fell in between his neck and shoulder blade. This seemingly shook his head into a more thorough consciousness. Noticing everyone around him gone, he ventured moving, and made his way toward a light that made the mist before his eyes glitter and shimmer. He felt strange to be finding beauty in that Tunnel, but he was not afraid. For a moment, thought a fleeting one, all his former fear was even forgotten. And the ability to fear did not seem such a simple one. Without fear weighing them down, he brought his arms up, and his hands went to his face. He felt tiny points adhere to his skin. Knowing this feeling, Jordo should have been afraid. The Tunnel was something to be feared, and this ‘mist’ before his face was the very essence of that tunnel. He tore it with a passionate disgust. Rather than a frightened squeak as the webbing was pulled off his face, he growled. A strange feeling, this was, but Jordo quickly decided that he liked it.

Upon emerging from that smoky world behind the web, the man was surprised to find the calmness he had felt was not secluded to that world. He realized that he was on a ledge, where everyone was gathered, and he was out of Her pit. The light that shown, a shock after his time spent in the supernatural darkness of the Tunnel, was welcomed with a smile. What he felt inside was such a relief, was so warming when compared to the fear he normally was a prisoner to, that smiling became a logical expression. He refused to close his eyes, no matter the pain the brightness – brightness when compared to the deep darkness of Shelob’s hole – of the light caused. He stared into the sky surrounding them, and his eyes wanted not to see the ash and flame as anything but a relief. But it seemed he was back, back to where they had began, back to where and when he was so afraid. He stared at the looming tower of Barad-Dûr until he heard speaking that distracted him. Only two voices could tear him away from such brilliance, and those were the elves’. Raeis was speaking. Was she speaking to Jordo? In a blur, he turned to look toward where the voice was coming from. At first the man thought he saw dark green eyes looking at him. Morgoroth sat with his cloak around him, and Jordo felt the immortal’s eyes upon him. He blinked, and still it seemed they looked at him, and he was forced to look away. He felt that old feeling, that cold emptiness, threaten to take over the new one that filled him with a certain warmth and comfort.

Turning away brought him to stare into another pair of eyes, these dark blue and kind, yet still the eyes of an immortal. He was able to hold this gaze for a moment. His mind having finally found something to focus on, he was able to hear what was being said.

“Jordo? How do you feel?” He lost the will to hold Raeis’s gaze. Looking down at his feet, the uneasiness built up again inside of him, scaring him to silence. But then that caring voice spoke again, seeming so very familiar. “Are you feeling well, Jordo?” He looked up once more into those eyes, he searched in them for the strength to speak. Why he searched in them, he did not know. But he knew he did not wish to search himself.

“Yes.” He found something in them. And in the smile that now played on Raeis’s face he saw just what the familiarity in the elf was. Her face of kindness and concern was his mother’s face. No more fear… What had his mother taught him to say? “Thank you,” he said smiling, expectant of some kind of reward. A smile was enough. The little boy was being good, and he felt good inside.

[CaptainofDespair]

The howling winds that blew this way and that upon the cliff face, chilled to the very bone. It was not that is a cold, harsh wind, but that it was the air of Gorgoroth, a choking caustic atmosphere. The Dark Tower loomed near, and it was fiery, disgustingly evil place. The land that surrounded the tower was seething with fire, and unholy rancor. Orc armies marched to and fro, preparing for some hideous machination of war that was to be unleashed. And were ever they went, marred earth was churned up from their iron shod feet, and it rose in great, desiccating clouds of scorched earth, and volcanic ash. And in the north of the choked and withered land, was that of Barad-dur, and the power of the Dark Lord. A great evil light, one of ancient evil, and renewed destruction, enveloped this region. And to its right, the explosive, near apocalyptic burst of fire from Orodruin painted the sky a hideous shade of red. .

It was this strange light that attracted the Elf’s wandering eyes. They had become accustomed to the ever-present darkness of the Tunnel, with its maw looming behind the group. But now, the eerie light projected a sense of want, and need, into the Immortal. He had heard stories from Men and Elves alike, early in his youth, of the Tower, and its hideous, yet oddly majestic ramparts, and he longed for it. Now, he gazed upon it, a twisted, malevolent structure rebuilt from the ungodly foundation of a menace long thought to be fallen.

Morgoroth now sat himself upon a ledge, his back to the winds that swirled around him. As the tortured souls that filled the wind rose and fell, so did the thought of the Elf. His mind drifted, from Morgul, to his present situation, upon this barren, vastly high precipice that dwelt over the Plain of Gorgoroth. How would this rap-tag group manage to make its way down such a steep cliff face? But he could not burden his mind in this way. Should he begin to bear these thoughts, his would sink into despair, and desperation. Should this occur, he would be lost, and he would die in the barren, ash-filled lands that hovered below.

Laying behind the Elf, was placed the body of Dorim Stormweaver, he who had fallen beneath the painful jaws and engorged body of Shelob. The dwarf’s body had gone stiff, and the poisons he had been injected with still lingered on his cold, pale lips. What was to become of the body? Should it be left for the spawn of the Tunnel to consume? Or would it be buried somewhere, in Mordor, or nearer to Dorim’s former residence? The Elf contemplated these questions, as he scanned the land which was the Black Lands. These questions would need to be answered, but not by the group, for only the dwarves themselves could decide upon the fate of their companion’s ridged body. And so Morgoroth concluded these thoughts, in that he would offer to bear the physical burden of Dorim’s body, so that it could be laid to rest somewhere more placid than the harsh terrain of Mordor.

Yet, the Elf had become weary, for his plight in the Tunnel, and the escape of the Tower, were enough to strain his body, and he was approaching exhaustion. He took notice that Bror had not quite recovered from his own wounds, and so the Immortal made the decision to rest himself. He raised his dangling legs up from over the side of the ledge, and swung them around, back onto the platform. Once he completed this, he set a torn cloak behind his head, and laid himself down, to drift into a rejuvenating rest within a trance.

[Kransha]

The eyelids of Bror Stormhand were more than heavy enough to resist being pried open involuntarily. The dwarf had to consciously force them open after he was already awake, seeking some focus in his blurred gaze. He could not see at first, since his eyes had become accustomed to the ominous dampness and shade of Shelob’s chambers, but soon the red-tinged sky sharpened his sight, as did the sharpened peaks of the mountains and crags high above him, shrouded by thick clouds. His arms, weak and trembling, managed to unfold beneath him, pushing him wearily up until he was sitting on the cold stone ground. He looked around, his chest heaving and beating against the inner wall of his plated armor.

He first caught sight of the thing nearest him and most forward in his sight, two figures lying on the earth. One figure, curled up tiredly, breathing and rolling about discontentedly. The other lay still, upon its back, and looked to him as cold as ice. The stiffened form was Dorim, the other was the resting figure of Morgoroth, the shadowy Elf. Bror’s eyelids sagged, and his pauldron-covered shoulders followed, drooping mournfully as he moved, knees dragged beneath and never getting to his feet, towards the dwarf and looked upon him when he reached the lifeless husk. His face was as pale as the moon blazoned upon a nightly sky of empty sable. His eyes, closed now, were colorless beneath their shielding lids and the vivacious light in him was gone, replaced by withered pallor. Bror looked upon him, still and bereft of life, and took the slain dwarf’s unfeeling hands in his own. He took them and laid them, crossed, upon Dorim’s armored chest. Then he slowly stood, looking down on Dorim, and bowed his head to the darkness around him.

An emotionless voice severed his thoughts. It came from behind him where Morgoroth lay. “Your friend is gone.” He said, coldly but understanding in him despite that. Bror turned as the Elf propped himself up carefully upon strong arms and looked to the dwarf out of his eyes shady corners. Bror’s head snapped sideways to see him, but spoke slowly and serenely in reply. “Yes, he is gone. He fell bravely, though, and is thought better of for that.” They locked eyes, their gazes intertwined only for a second in the passing of time, the cold eyes of an Elf and the same eyes in the skull of a dwarf meeting, but they pulled apart before words were again spoken, by the Elf this time.

“He will find some manner of peace wherever he dwells now.” Morgoroth said back gently, turning away again. He sat up, though he seemed to be seeking the tranquility of sleep, and stared up momentarily before turning his eyes downward towards the rough stones below him. Bror turned and looked down again at Dorim. He had at least seen Dorim taken from the tunnels of Shelob and could not impose him upon the rest of the company. He would have to lie here, escaped from the darkness of the spider’s chambers but still shrouded in the crimson-black fire and ash of Mordor. The Morgul Vale would serve aptly enough as a mound of burial for him. He knew not words in Elven, Khuzdul, or the tongues of men to call this mound, this burial plot he’d allotted. It was unworthy of noble Dorim, but it would have to serve. Years would serve too, to keep Dorim where he lay now. Under his breath, he spoke to the wind, not caring whether it heard him or not. “Aulë give you rest, Dorim Stoneweaver, and may you find in death all that you have sought in life.”

Once his reverie concluded itself, the wistful dwarf turned to his accidental comrade again. He walked towards him reluctantly and sat beside the elf, seeking the place in the sky where he looked. Now stars could be seen, no beauty shining, no sparkling brightness painted onto the darkness, dappling the night. Instead there was flame embedded in the smoke of shadows. The spouting fire of Amon Amarth spilled into the sky, the peaks of the Vale silhouetted evilly against them. It made Bror’s heart restless to look upon such wicked things, but his soul’s darkness could not be seen when he spoke next.

“I wished to thank you…for what you have done for me and my kin this day.”

The elf looked to him, slightly curious about the words that came so weakly from his Dwarven counterpart, but waved him off dismissively. “Think not on that.” Bror peered at him, his eyes deepening and his head rising to meet the height of the Elf. “I have not had to show my thanks to any man or beast in years, elf,” he said sternly, “and it is not without pain that I do this. My kinsman is slain, slain by the spider, and we have not cleared the darkness of her chambers. One of our dark company is dead, and more must follow, so I’ll make my peace with you before the spider’s venom makes my blood run cold like his. Elf…Morgoroth, never have I shown gratitude to an elf, but now I do. Take that token, for what it’s worth, and let me have my pride.”

“You misplace your gratitude, Bror Stormhand.” Morgoroth said at last, “I need none of that.”

Bror responded insistently. “I have nothing else to give save my allegiance and my thanks, which come not easily. Take them.” For a long minute, perhaps more or less time than the two beings thought had passed, there was silence, broken constantly by the far off crackling of sickly yellow daggers that rent the heavens without a care. Both ignored that, thinking on what they’d said. Morgoroth looked as contemplative and as much the brooding Elf as he had been throughout the journey from the Tower of Cirith Ungol, but he finally looked to Bror as a friend might, with kindness in his eyes. “I do not want your allegiance,” he said, pausing shortly after, “…But I’ll take your thanks.”

And, as uncommon as it was for such things to happen, Bror Stormhand smiled warmly, his sour face lightening even in the presence of his deceased brother in arms, for he’d sought and gained a comrade in Morgoroth, one he’d never hoped or expected or even dreamed of having. A gentle trickle of light reached suddenly into his inner darkness as he spoke again. “You have my allegiance whether you want it or not, as it is mine to give. If I live when we reach the hold of the enemy, you shall not fall before me. While warm blood runs in my veins, my mace will serve your will, friend.”

[Himaran]

The air was hot, and the choking darkness of Shelob's tunnel had been replaced by the ash-ridden air of the Morgul-Vale. Ripples of fire rose and fell in the distance, drawing wary glances from many among the company. Orodruin's bulk was partially visible over the Plains of Gorgoroth, a constant reminder of the threat they now faced. But to Dwali, their current predicament meant little compared to the death of his comrade. Dorim had stood beside him in the tunnels during that great battle, selfless and brave; true to his companion. Now, watching Grash and the others finish his burial, words could not describe the anguish of his inner soul.

Adding to his discomfort was the presence of Morgoroth, conversing with Bror nearby. Dwali knew that the elf had acted in his defense, and was at least partially responsible for his survival of the recent ordeal. Reluctantly, the dwarf had mentally come to terms with the warrior, although he maintained a front of resentment and disdain. Now, he decided, it was time to end that. With Dorim gone, he knew that rifts needed to be breached -- for in the next battle, there might not be anyone who risked their life to save his. Swallowing his native pride, the dwarf turned and walked towards his past nemisis.

As if on cue, Bror walked away, leaving Dwali the nail-biting decision of continuing with his confession. Aye, and that's Bror's mace... seems as if he's beat me to it. But there was nothing else to do. He approached the elf and spoke with as much dignity as he could muster; hoping that his dwarven comrade had already broken through the ice. "I too owe you an apology, Morgoroth. You acted bravely in the tunnels to defend myself and my countrymen, even though there has been nought but harsh words between us."

The elf looked up, as if preoccupied. "My, is this the same dwarf that was so hostile in the tower? They're are all the same, pleasant only if you happen to save them."

Dwali grimaced momentarily, but managed to hold his tongue. "I did not march over here to argue about which of our races is most stubborn and ignorant of the other. We have a long road ahead of us, and cannot afford to have primitive clan rivalries splitting us apart!" He spoke forcefully and with conviction, as if giving a rallying speech to a broken nation.

Morgoroth's eyes softened. "I never liked dwarves, especially those that saw elves in the same light. But you are right. I wish for no alliegence, with you or Bror. But you and your companion have proven that you have honor -- and there will be no further war between us." And Dwali had never felt so elated in his life.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash fell against the cliff-face and tried not to look at the terrible fiery mountain that dominated this dark land. Even at this distance the light of its anger lit the sides of the mountains and he even fancied he could feel the heat of it upon his tired brow. Beyond the dark mass of Mount Doom, upon the very edge of sight, lay the thick bank of clouds that forever obscured the Dark Tower, but Grash knew it was there. Once, when he had first been brought to this place from the south, he had been through the gates of that Tower, and though his sojourn there had been brief, the memory of it left a cold thrill of terror upon him still. He closed his own eyes as he felt the beating presence of the One Eye upon the land. His entire life had been dominated by the gaze of the Dark Lord, and there were times when he thought almost that he could see it: lidless and burning, its pupil a black pit into nothingness. But there was something about the presence of that Eye that was different now. Grash could not quite understand or believe it, but the gaze of the Dark Lord felt almost…bekrash…thwarted. He shook his head, uncomprehending.

When he once more had the strength to look about him at his companions his heart fell. Dorim lay dead, and Brór, though recovering, was clearly still suffering the ill effects of his trials. Darash bled from her arm, and Aldor’s face was beginning to become ashen, as though he were suffering from a prolonged illness. Of the rest there were no major injuries, but they were all of them exhausted and shaky with fear and hunger.

Hunger – at the thought of it, Grash’s stomach rumbled and his head went light. The steady rock of the mountain beneath his feet swirled and he stumbled, and would have fallen had not the Dwarf Dwali been nearby to catch him. Grash tried to smile and thank him, but the stout Dwarf merely shook off his action with a rough nod. “’Tis nothing, lad. You need rest, after what you’ve been through. I’m glad to be out of that place, though it looks likely we won’t be getting much further.”

Grash nodded, but did not reply. He did not have the energy yet to explain that there was another way – another, more dangerous way. He was not sure how the others would react to his explanation of the other road after having been led into Shelob’s Lair. At the time of their escape, the monster’s tunnel had seemed the better option, for he had thought that while some would not escape, most would. On the other road, they would either all escape or none would – he would have to share in the fate of the entire company. Before Shelob’s tunnel, such a path had seemed the height of danger, but he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had been wrong…

His eyes fell upon Dorim and it occurred to him that had he not made the decision to try the tunnel first, the Dwarf might still be alive. He did not feel guilt or shame, but the realisation that he had played a part in the death of another left him chilled in a manner that he was unused to. Moved by some instinct for which he had no name, Grash knelt at the side of the Dwarf and touched him lightly upon the chest. A language, long forgotten, spoke through his lips. “Ataro ato nwatalú,” he said quietly. “Kwanze.” He had heard the woman who cared for him after the death of his mother say these words once, over the body of another slave, but he did not know what they meant. Scraping up what small handful of dust and dirt was available he scattered it over the body.

Brór and Dwali looked on at this wordlessly and when he stood they seemed to regard him in a new light. Suddenly embarrassed, Grash turned away from the Dwarves and found himself confronted with Darash. She loomed above him, standing as close as she was, and so powerfully aware of her presence was he, that Grash noted the strong smell of her: sweat and exertion radiated from her body, but it was not unpleasant. There was the smell of strength upon her, and a regal air that awoke something long dormant in his spirit. She held up her hand and in it was a piece of bread. She offered it to him. Grash took it and gobbled it down eagerly, then ducked his head to the woman, thanking her for it. She nodded back to him curtly, then said. “Now, man, what do?”

Grash looked about guiltily, as though the woman had been reading his innermost thoughts, and looking at her now, it did not seem impossible that she could. He shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Not sure, maybe. Perhaps there is another way out of Mordor. We shall see.” The woman looked at him as though she would pursue the matter, but she let it drop, for now. Grash pointed to one of the food sacks. “Meat?” He thought he had seen something that looked like dried flesh in it. Darash nodded and together then went to the sack and opened it. This drew the attention of several of the others, who pressed in about them, and Grash was kept busy passing out the flesh. They sat like that in silence for a time, tearing at the tough meat and trying to choke it down despite its clearly rancid flavour. It was Aldor who broke the silence.

“Where are you from, originally I mean, Grash?”

The question shocked the slave, for he had never thought of himself as coming from anywhere. He pointed away to the south. “From the slave fields. Grew grain for orcs and evil men. It was warm there, warm and wet not like this place.”

“Here, how?” Darash asked, and once more she looked at him as though she would pierce his secrets.

Grash shrugged. “Killed an orc. Orc was hurting woman slave. I killed orc with pratak.”

“Pratak?” Aldor asked.

Grash searched in his mind for the right word in the Common Tongue but could not find it. Standing he undertook an elaborate and, had he known it, faintly ridiculous mime of a man at work in the fields. Those gathered about watched on in amused fascination. “Ah!” Zuromor cried, “a hoe. You mean a hoe.”

Grash nodded. “Yes, yes. Hoe. I killed orc with hoe.” He had no idea if Darash understood his words but she smiled at the idea of the slain orc in a way that was most unsettling.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor stood, looking out towards Mount Doom. It's features shook him to the bone. It was terrifying, but exciting somehow. Shaking out of his reverie he saw the dwarves mourning over their comrade. "He fought bravely and I shall never forget him." He knelt down and prayed that if there were any Gods above that they would watch over him.

He did not know where they would go next but idle conversation seemed to raise everyone's morale. He had learned Grash's tale, but he was curious as to how everyone arrived. But one being entered his mind quickly and he could not remove her beautiful features from his mind.

"Raeis, how did you and your friend get here?" As he said the word friend he motioned to the other Elf.

[Novnarwen]

"Yes, yes. Hoe. I killed orc with hoe.”

Aldor, as everyone called him, listened to Grash tell the story about how he had killed an Orc with a hoe. Rhând frowned when hearing the end of it. Surely, orcs were cruel and certainly a disgusting race. But killing them, even though they were foul creatures, was not His will. Rhând felt utterly miserable as he felt his neck getting worse. After the recent events with the spider, he had to admit, even though doing nothing in particular when meeting Shelob, that he was exhausted.

He received a piece of meat from one of the women. Standing still, not moving a limb, watching how the red sky made him shiver with pleasure, he hesitated. The Haradrim was not stupid; he knew the women, more specifically Darash and Lyshka, knew his secret. What if they had poisoned the meat? Looking around, studying everyone for unusual twitches or grimaces, he waited for the others to eat first. If there was something wrong with the meat, he would know in few seconds.

"Not eat?" Grash asked suddenly, himself eating hurriedly. Rhând didn't say anything. Some of the others, too, turned to look at this man who denied the food that he had been given. Rhând didn’t offer them another look, as he set his teeth into the meat and chewed, realising how paranoid he had become. What on earth could they have poisoned the food with? They were not in possession of such things. He reproached himself for being such a twit, cursed, and prayed to Him that He would give his faithful servant strength to carry on. As he prayed, naturally under his breath so that no one could hear him or see what he was up to, he felt the pain from the bit on his neck grow. He felt his stomach turn, and his eyes getting all blurry. He couldn't see!

He blinked.

He blinked once more.

Grash was foggy, and so were the rest. He couldn't make the figures out clearly. He blinked again, now desperate. Had his Master made him blind when praying? Shaking his head, rising from his sitting position, he uttered a few words: "Will go ahead, and see. Come back soon," he said, as he put his arms out; being ready to feel his way forwards the cliff-side. No one questioned his sudden eagerness to explore around the Morgul Vale. He disappeared from their sight in a hurry, still not seeing much. What he couldn't understand, was that his eyes were wide open. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that they were half way closed, and what he could see was all blurry and foggy. In addition to this, he found it especially difficult to see anything when he knew nothing about its form. Meanwhile he could make out, just barely, the figures of the others, as he knew they were there; he couldn't at all make out how the country was. Mount Doom, which had been so clear minutes ago, had almost disappeared in the fog that had suddenly overcome him.

He found himself settling himself into a stone wall, dead scared of what was happening to him. A feeling of being helpless struck him. It felt like a dagger had been thrust into his chest, which he couldn't get out, and having troubles breathing, he bent his head down and cursed in a weak voice. Suddenly, his stomach turned and he vomited. Shaking, as he had barely eaten, and what he had eaten was coming up, he knew that if he didn't do anything with the others quickly, he would never survive to prove himself to Him. The sowllen neck of his was getting worse as well. He'd received a rat bite before this one, in the Tower of course, but it had not become swollen and it hadn't hurt in the least. Maybe the women could tend it? He could pretend that he fainted. They would surely know when they saw his swollen neck, that something was wrong. But was it wise of him to show such weakness, especially to these women who probably were suspicious towards him already? The women would think they had an advantage if he showed him his weakness. On the other hand, could he go on with this bit if it was dangerous?

He couldn't risk not making it when being so close. I'll deal with the women as soon as this is tended , he thought, finally decided that he would go for it. He would have to be weak for once, get the wound tended, and bring them down afterwards. Yes, there was no other option.

Hurriedly, he blinked twice in a row. His sight was improving, and it was not as foggy as it just had been. Rising, he noted to himself that it was getting worse again. When I rise, my sight gets poor, he thought, standing for a few moments still. His vision got better and better, and soon he could clearly make out his surroundings. Seconds, he stood only watching the great Mountain that stretched upwards in front of him. Filled with admiration of the power that lay within this land, he drew a long breath. He would not fail this, he promised himself he wouldn’t.

Walking slowly back, he figured how he was going to do it. The fall, itself, was going to hurt; but he would have to do it anyway, knowing that he was pending on someone to see his neck and being able to tend it properly. Rhând supposed that women usually knew how to tend things, and he would have to trust his instinct now. If women, more specifically; these women, couldn't do such thing, then what good could they do? Cursing, as he was fairly narrow-sighted when it came to women in general, he approached the others. Making himself ready, he hoped at least one of these stupid, arrogant, twits would help him. They looked at him questioningly as they notcied him, but he dropped dead and sank to the ground pretending that he had fainted.

[Bêthberry]

Darash sat back, watching the others chew the meat with a desperate resolve and numb hunger. Her arm no longer throbbed with stinging. She looked at Lyshkia with gratitude and then down at the banash. Sensation was returning to her fingers and her hand. She looked back at the woman, her golden face streaked with the marks of dried sweatlines through the coating of dust, and saw this time an ally. It felt good to be alone no longer. They had shared the bread in secret, away from the eyes of the other, as if in bond with each other.

Something had changed, too, with the death of the pygmy, Dorim. Escape from the prison no longer seemed a profound relief. It was instead the beginning of another journey, one which Darash now realised might not mean a return to home but to some other unknown place. She looked up at the sky, flaming red from the mountain on fire, and saw it for the first time as a sky she must learn, instead of as a sky which thwarted her.

Then she looked down at the dust and small rocks Grash had sprinkled over the body of this one, Do-rim. He had pleased her, this Grash. The man knew nglaga mic ta, the rightness of things, to show such respect before he ate. It was more than she had done. She rose, putting the meat aside, and collected as many rocks as her aching arm would allow her. she then laid them around the pygmy's body. "Kwanze," she said, as she laid each stone, looking at Grash, wondering where he had learnt the word she knew, and closing the circle of life which the pygmy--no, dwarf, the others called him--had given up. Lyshkia looked at her questioningly and Raeis stared without a comment, but Darash only nodded and silently mouthed the song of leaving spirit which her people sang for the dead.

It was just as she sat back that the strange one, the one whose skin and hair and eyes looked like other northern men but whose facial bones carried the high cruel haughtiness of men of Harad, fell. He did not move, barely breathing. She looked at him and then at Lyshkia and Raeis and Grash. She was no healer and would not touch him. Instead, she looked down at her arm and busied herself with rewinding the banash while looking through her eyelashes at what others were doing for Aldor. She did not want him dead, but she did not trust this strange falling. He had not been near the She-Spider and could not know her stings. Why was he falling?

"Yah longa ngu," she said to the others, pointing to Aldor, a warrior commanding action. "Hel-up man." She looked at the others and wondered who would know how to treat falling sickness.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"How did you and your friend get here?"

At first, Raeis thought the question must have been regarding Jordo - after all, she had taken a sort of motherly liking to the childlike being who looked young and acted younger. But as she followed Jordo's gesture to the shadowy being some way away, she looked back at him in surprise. "Morgoroth?"

Zuromor seemed equally confused by the tone of her voice. "Well, yes," he replied, less certainly.

Hai! 'You are an elf, therefore you must know all other elves', the Voice mocked Zuromor's voice nastily then made a harsh, resentful noise that made Raeis flinch inwardly. Ha! Did I not warn you of the ignorance of Men? Yet you would abandon me forthis?!

Raeis ignored Voice, resolutely refusing to listen to it's words against Zuromor. Still, it seemed that it may have been right - was she to be simply classified with Morgoroth because she was of the same species as him? Why, he was the age of her parents...probably...a vague, hazy half-idea of two elves, one with soft, loving grey eyes, dark hair, a gentle voice...and a sword, ornate and flashing as it was wielded by an older man, his grin dangerous and charismatic...

The recollections danced just out of Raeis's reach in her mind and she sighed. What she could remember was fleeting and illusive, nothing firm or strong any more - she knew as little about her parents as she did about any one of her companions.

Zuromor apparently mistook her melancholy sigh and the pause around it for something different however. "You...know him well?" he asked tentatively, picking his words with care. Raeis immediately picked up his possible alterior meaning and her ears pricked up righteously as she glanced sharply at him. The man held up his hands, his green eyes wide and innocent. "What? Oh...no! No, I didn't...sorry," he finished, his voice more subdued as he looked away from Raeis. The elf felt a blush start on her alabastor white cheeks and looked away too, embarassed that she had offended him. Or certainly something along those lines - she wasn't altogether sure. He was a very strange being...

Being is the right word. It's not like his feelings matter - he's little more than an animal. All men are. You know that from the Easterlings. Voice was sulky now, irritated and bitter at being shunned, but Raeis was suddenly struck by how harsh and angry her constant inward companion sounded. So unfriendly...she frowned inwardly at it, then turned back to the matters in hand. She cocked her head to one side like a sparrow and regarded him through her strange flecked eyes. He was unlike anything she had come upon before - dark, dark hair, that contrasted so strongly with those bright green eyes. She had never seen any s vivid, and their colour was brought to life even further by the man's animation, the way his eyes alighted so swiftly upon a subject, and his smile grew underneath them - unrestrained, open, friendly.

Green...As green as the light through the dappled leaves of Mirkwood where I used to play...

The thought was like an arrow through her mind, a sudden flash so vivid and real she could almost feel the warmth of the sun through the trees upon her now-scarred skin. And although the sun's light would never reach this place, and maybe she would never return in this life, the image brought with it...hope. The thought that there was something more than this void of darkness and fear that she had been living in alone for so long.

Hope.

She savoured the word in her mind. Maybe it was that revelation which gave her courage to do what she did next. Tentatively, she reached out one thin, pale arm and, with a touch as faint than a butterfly's sigh, touched his arm. The man jumped as if struck and she quickly pulled back her hand, her fingers clenching in a fist as she looked away again, muttering apologies as her pale skin darkened slightly in the half-light with a blush. But when she looked back a moment later, she saw that Zuromor had not walked off or laughed at her - he was merely watching her with those bright, dappled-leaf eyes, a strange expression on his face. Everything she had been about to say - about Morgoroth, how she didn't know him, had barely exchanged a few words with him - didn't really seem relevant any more - the conversation had moved on, without the inconvenience of words.

"Yah longa ngu."

The series of strange words brought Raeis back to the real place in which they sat and she turned around to see Darash rise, gesturing commandingly at the odd, shifty-looking man who seemed both Northman and Southron at once. The woman's brow creased very faintly for a moment as she summoned words they would understand and tried again, her tone just as commanding. "Hel-up man."

Rising in a fluid motion from where she knelt, Raeis made her way over to where the others were now collecting around Darash and the sick man. She didn't look around, but, after a second, she felt her new subject of curiosity follow.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Aldor’s collapse was left to the Men to handle. Darash and Lyshka kept, as usual, to themselves throughout that dark day, while the Dwarves and the Elf Morgoroth seemed to retreat into their clannish isolation once more, although without the same adamant shield of hostility that had surrounded them earlier.

Grash and Jeren leaned Aldor against the cliff-face, chafing at his wrists to drive away the cold of their high perch. It had been an odd faint, for while Aldor’s face was an ashen hue, it seemed a little enough matter. Only when he found the lump on the man’s throat did Grash begin to understand. He had an intimate acquaintance with the rats of Cirith Ungol and knew well how pestilential their bites could be. Aldor had clearly been infected by one of the vermin, and quite badly too if the colour of the fleshy mound were any indication. Grash probed it with his fingers, and felt it roll beneath the skin, hard as a stone. Aldor groaned and his eyes opened. Grash tried to comfort the man. “Rat bite. Poisoned. Must get poison out.” Aldor’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the slave hovering over him and his mouth framed a question, but he was silenced as he watched Grash draw his ragged orc blade and motion as though to slice open the pustule.

Aldor threw himself back against the wall. “No!” he cried, “I will be all right!”

Grash merely shook his head and indicated that Jeren should take hold of the frightened man. Aldor sought to shake them off, so Zuromor and even Jordo had to be compelled to hold him in place. The others looked on with either dispassion or curiosity as the men wrestled one of their own to the ground. As soon as Aldor was prostrate beneath the limbs of the other men, Grash carefully sliced open the swollen ball. A gush of yellow pus emerged, mingled with dark red blood, and most who watched looked away in revulsion. Grash, however, gently wiped the pus away from the wound with the ragged edge of his tunic. Aldor winced with each wipe but endured it. Finally, the discharge lessened and Jeren bound it with a clean bandage. They had been unable to get all the poison out, but Aldor was already looking a healthier colour.

The rest of that day passed into night, and the company sought the comfort of slumber. Grash lay apart from the rest and stared out across the land at the looming form of Mount Doom. No-one had yet spoken of what they would do next: whether from fear of what fate awaited them, or in despair of their situation Grash did not know. He turned over a thought in his mind, over and over again, far into the blackness of night, before he finally fell asleep just shortly before dawn…

When he awoke, the Dwarves were gone and the women were once more sharing a meal. Grash and the other Men got out some food and water and checked on Aldor. He was still asleep, but his breathing was regular and easy so they turned their attention back to the others. The Elves were once more keeping to themselves, although Zuromor and Jordo had both seemed to have fallen under their spell. When the two Dwarves returned they did not speak of where they had been, and nobody asked.

The day moved slowly through its various shades of grey, and while there was some talk, nobody raised the issue of how they were to escape from Mordor. Finally, as the Sun was once more setting behind the thick reek of clouds that shrouded the land, Morgoroth spoke of what was in all of their hearts. “We have rested here long enough, I think,” he said quietly, as though contemplating a break in a pleasant outing in the spring. “Where are we to go now? We cannot return to Shelob’s Lair. Even if we could find our way through once more, I doubt that Her spawn are yet satiated. From this ledge I can see a trail that leads to the bridge below, but from there what choices do we have? We could turn north and follow the road to return to our cells at Cirith Ungol, or perhaps we could scramble into the Morgai and be led countless leagues north or south along the skirts of the mountains, until we came to one of Sauron’s fortresses?”

“You forget two other roads,” growled Brór. “We could go east, knock at the door of Barad Dur and ask for safe passage from this land. Or west, along the Morgul Road.”

There was a silence once more. All roads seemed impossible. All but one. Grash had debated speaking of what he knew ever since they had escaped Shelob, for the road he knew was one that they would travel together – whether it led to freedom or death. “There is another road,” he said quietly. “Dark, dangerous; full of orcs, full of other things. But it is a way, maybe. Maybe a way out of this land.”

“Why did you not speak of this sooner?” demanded Morgoroth. “Why did we not seek this road before attempting to pass Shelob? No road, no matter how dangerous, could be worse than the one we have already travelled!”

Grash snarled slightly. “No road would take you from out of your cell. In your cell still, if I had not freed you. I took road I thought good. This other road, very hard. Only way to reach it is through Morgul Vale. Must take Morgul Road.”

“We know of that road already,” Brór said.

“No no,” Grash shook his head. “Not all the way. Not through Morgul city. We take Morgul Road for few miles only, maybe ten or twelve. Then there is a path. Narrow path. Goes up up up, high into mountains. Goes far south, above Morgul city, then down – down to green land beyond.”

“How do you know of this?” The Elf was suspicious still.

“I take it once. Once, when orcs need me to carry burden to other orcs, I go. I see the path. I see the green land that lies beyond the mountains.” Grash’s mind went back to the happy memory, and for a second he was lost amid the gentle breezes of distant Ithilien in spring time.

“‘Take a burden to other orcs’?” repeated Zuromor. “So there are orc strongholds on this path?”

“Yes. Many. But no other way. No other way but to Morgul City. You go that way. Knock on gates and ask to be let through. Screechers will have nice welcome for you, eh? Nice welcome…”

[CaptainofDespair]

With the fiery sky illuminating his haughty features, the Elf peered into the blood red sky, seeking answers to the enigmatic questions that played in his mind. His mind interrogated him, demanding appeasement. He could give it none, for his was confounded, and he perched himself against a disjointed wall, hoping for the solitude he most direly needed. His mind raced, unforgiving in its nature, and it incessantly craved the answers he could not give. Suddenly, Orodruin shook the very realm that harbored it, erupting in spectacular, red and orange bursts of flame and ash. And thus ended the enigmas that played through his mind. The fiery explosion from the mountain sent shockwaves, both physical, and psychological, through the Elf’s mind. His mind had its answer; traverse the Morgul Road at all costs. His eyes flashed a brilliant tint of orange, glazed over by the deepening discoloration of the sky, and he rose seamlessly from his position, as if he had been made of the stone itself, and had melted from it, to the ledge on which he now stood.

His eyes flashed again, scanning the remnant survivors of the Tunnel. His gaze quickly fell on Aldor, who had been overcome by a dreadful spell, or so it seemed. The Elf trusted the man not, and he had no intention to provide any aid to him. He continued his ever so silent vigil, watching the others aid the man. A dire, most evil thought crossed his mind, but he knew it well. His delicate elven features slowly moved, contorting to the muscles that pried his lips open, and he spoke aloud. “He is not worth the effort to save. He fought not against the Lady of Tunnel, but instead hid himself away, while those braver than he fell before Her onslaught. He is coward, and those who are, must fend for themselves.” A few of the others swivelled their heads in the direction of the Elf’s voice, seemingly caught off guard by his remarks. “If he does not recover soon, we must leave him behind, and let him meet his end alone.” On this, he turned his back, and gracefully returned to the haven of the rock wall, his billowing cloak flapping in the wind behind him. The others knew not what to make of his words, but they continued to struggle with the man, as he wriggled and writhed about.

Having escorted himself back to his quiet sanctum, he relaxed. He let his tensions flow out of his mind and body, to be absorbed by the already tense atmosphere. The air whipped and fluttered about, raining hot gusts upon his face. In contrast, the rocks that his back was positioned against were cold, and unfeeling, but the cold was welcome. He used this to his benefit, and he slipped into yet another trance, dreaming the dreams he had not had in many a year. He drifted from this sweltering desert of a land, and returned to Mirkwood, his home of old. The darkness of his mind lifted momentarily, as he dreamt of the beauty of the forest, and the hanging branches, covered in vine and moss, that he had played under as a youth. His heart was relieved at these memories of old, and he felt renewed, and invigorated. And as quickly as he had entered the trance, he woke from it, to the fires and ash of Mordor. But he cared not of his current plight, for he knew what awaited him when he returned home, to Mirkwood.

Now that he was refreshed, in both body and mind, he rose once more, and left the seclusion and safety of his niche in the mountain side, in an attempt to mingle once more with those he had shared this journey with, thus far. He slowly took his steps closer to the rest of the group, cautious of them, for he did not trust the greater majority. As he wormed his way about, ever so elegantly, he spied the man Zurumor, entranced with Raeis, as she whispered her voice to him. “A fool he is. No elf would be seen with such a miserable creature as these slaves and easterners,” he thought to himself. He quickly averted his gaze so as not to witness the horrendous ogling that the man was committing, which disgusted him entirely. He continued to make his way around, glancing at the different races that were gathered about, and wondering thoughts on the individuals of the groups. “These mortals have no life-spans that amount to anything, yet they are rash and bold, and seemingly seek death.” His memory again shifted, and he stood motionless, almost stone-still, remembering his time he spent studying the Easterlings. “I must watch them carefully, these awkward Men.”

[Kransha]

Silently Brór paced, slowly at first, but soon faster. The dwarf was deep in contemplation, thoughts whirling, untamed, in his enclosed mind. Dorim was dead, the Spider was gone in her dark and horrible caves, but they were not free. Mordor was still there, death, darkness, and doom with it, waiting to devour them. It was a hopeless situation, entirely and completely. There was nothing more, nothing more than darkness and orcs, waiting at every turn. It was dark, too dark. No companionship or petty friendship would matter now. He would be loyal to Morgoroth, but what could that do for either of them? Nothing, that was the answer, nothing. There was pain under orc blades, pain in many forms, and then death. The feeling of nothingness and pain made him snap suddenly, made his settled mind twist again. His cynicism, thought dead, returned to him in an unfeeling flash, a bolt that surged up his form, filling him with new anger at Dorim’s death. He looked around, not around the deathly darkness of Mordor that leeched the hope from his heart, but inside himself, searching frantically for a sliver of hope.

There was no hope to be found in men. Zurumor had not saved him, and his companionship had been all but useless. All the men, even Grash, were of no use to him outside of their presence. Only Morgoroth held his trust, and the elf was more of shadow than of a substance which he could bond with. The Elves were, as always, isolated in their blasted conglomerate, unified, but disunited with the outside, with the others, save for Zurumor and Raeis. The sight of them, despite being an irrelevant fact, disgusted the Dwarf. He had to overcome great barriers to feel even minor ties of friendship with an Elf, so a simply manufactured bond of something near love made him protest violently, even if only to himself. The adoration and looks of idolatry that Zurumor bore to his Elven compatriot made Brór more and more a cynic. Segregated they had been and segregated they were now, even if they had found alliances. Brór felt himself darken, his soul, his heart, and his mind, one after the other, for he had no light without hope. All he cared for or needed was escape from this foul place. His legs moving of their own accord and his brain creating all manner of ridiculous speeches he could make for the singular purpose of self-satiation, he marched sternly and angrily over to Grash, who sat, contemplating.

“Grash,” he began sharply, his voice biting as he spoke, filled with a brimming shadow that seemed ready to overflow. “we know what we must do. Let us go now, before more time is wasted.” Grash looked up at him, his eyes tranquilly half-closed, and steadily shook his head before shooting back his usual blunt reply. By now, Brór, who’s temper was set on a hair-trigger, was irked greatly by the man’s seeming ineptitude at the Common Tongue, though it was not truly ineptitude. The bluntness, the curt concision of Grash’s speech was most irritating. “No.” the man said, the monosyllabic word a perfect example of his lack of lingual panache, “Wait for night. Not be seen by orcs.”

“Nonsense.” Brór snapped back suddenly, a maneuver which would’ve taken most men off guard with ease, but did not faze the wretched former-prisoner, “There’s no sun here for us to been by anyway. We should go now so we can die sooner.” Grash looked up at him again from where he sat, his own form only a head lower than the standing dwarf, his eyes keen, but not shrewd or cunning. “You want to die, dwarf?” he asked dimly.

Brór wanted to shoot back his response quickly, but his brain almost forced him into accidentally saying ‘Yes’ which would’ve made him look foolish. He had to stutter and stumble momentarily before he found his gruff voice and an adequate retort. “No…But I’m probably going to, just like you and everyone else here.” Grash waved his hand dismissively and eased himself back down, whatever tension he’d held relaxing swiftly. Bror grimaced and did not comply with the gesture’s informal request.

“Better not to die. Go at night.” Said Grash.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s better not to,” Brór said, louder and angrier now, his eyes narrowed and ablaze in his skull, beneath the dappled shadows of his unkempt hair, “it’s not our decision. We’ve already lost one to the spider, many of our company are injured, one afflicted by sickness, and it is indeed a miracle any of us got out of those forsaken tunnels alive!” He was breathing harder, as Grash took notice dully, and his chest was furiously heaving. “We don’t have any miracles left to get past the forces of Mordor!”

“No need of miracles, dwarf.”

“Then what will get us past all these orc strongholds?” He roared, alerting the few people nearby to what he was saying. “Or are you lying?” He was clearly near a point of explosion, and, luckily, the man called Zurumor was near enough to prevent anything further than words, though he might regret it. He moved over quickly, raising an open palm and trying to steady the dwarf, who was trembling with rage. “Settle down, Brór.” He said concernedly, “Grash has no reason to lie to us. Not here, not now.”

Brór glared at the man with a monstrous darkness in his gaze and grabbed Zurumor’s hand as it extended to steady him, thrusting it away forcefully. “Go back and pine for your blasted elf.” He cried, “Let us go and those who do not wish to go shall not.” At this, Raeis, who had been hovering behind Zurumor, perked up angrily, but did not respond. She had already had a minor confrontation with the dwarf, and this experience was probably souring her opinion of him even further. “Go alone and die,” Grash said, now with the hint of an animal’s snarl in his throat as he spoke, “go together and have chance. You say you want to live. Do you lie?”

“I am not lying!” The dwarf roared again, “I want to live and you want to live and all of us do, but all we’ve got is a band of mannish barbarians and stinking elves and-”

“Men are not barbarians!” Zurumor interrupted harshly, his face twisting into a frown, which seemed strange on the lad’s face. Zurumor might no be the most optimistic of people, but this darkness that Bror was carrying with him affected him poorly. Brór growled back in his throat, a self-satisfied smile, more foul than fair, took the place his grimace held. “Don’t you know, lad?” he said loudly, his finger jerking accusingly at Lyshka, Darash and Jeren, in sequence, where they sat or stood around the makeshift camp, not caring whether they heard or noticed him or not, though they probably did, “Their kind are in the thrall of Sauron. They are wicked, like the spider who killed my kinsman, like the orcs that stole the years of our lives!”

“No more talk,” Grash said, an air of some command arising in him as he stood, head and shoulders above the dwarf, “Go get ready for night, then we leave. No more talk.”

Dejected, but not admitting defeat, Brór turned and stalked away before Grash said any more, his breath steadied. He saw Dwali, standing, half-agape, awaiting his return near where the two of them had been. Dwali looked as if he might speak, perhaps in consolation or with concern, but Brór ignored him, turning away and setting himself down against the scraggly rock face, sitting on an upraised outcropping of the ledge. Slowly, he closed his eyes, letting hope seep from him, leaving only pale illusions to flit about inconsequentially, and blackness, endless blackness.

[Bêthberry]

"No more talk," said Grash firmly.

Darash and Lyshkia had been watching silently from their side of the ledge as the men argued with the dwarf. They whispered back and forth, neither one trusting anyone strongly, but both worried that the incessant bickering would harm their chances of getting out. It was pointless to argue the way the men were, regardless of which race they came from.

"You know way?" Darash asked Lyshkia.

Lyshkia shook her head no. The memories were too far back of when she had been brought here. Darash's eyes darted around the ledge. "I don't know the way. Can't read the stars well enough. But Grash, he says he knows."

"He knew tunnel and that meant the Spider."

Darash nodded. "But who else spoke up , with idea? None. Grash, has long eyes, sees far."

Lyshkia was quiet for a time but then finally nodded her assent. Darash looked at her, and then rose, calmly but of a swift and sure movement which besoke her resolve and her decision. She strode into the group, her height an easy forearm above that of the remaining dwarves. The men were not used to their women so tall and magestic. The elves were not used to another race who moved with a grace and poise which belonged to them. Everyone stared at her with wary eyes. Bròr had retreated and others moved about uneasily.

Darash glared at the angry pygmy.

"Do-rim shown honour. Words to walk with him, stone to stone. And still you argue?

Bròr watched her through lazy, half-closed eyes but said nothing. She looked around at the others who were wavering, unsure of the right decision to follow Grash or not and leary of waiting longer to move.

"Green land. Grash has seen. Anyone else?"

She looked around, searching each face intensely, even that of the pale man Aldor with the falling sickness, whose face now looked better after Grash had lanced the bite. None dared speak up. Her eyes flashed, and Darash took a short, sharp breath, breathing in the smell of her own courage on her skin.

"We die. Always die. Everything die. Monster die. Orcs die. No escape." Darash was weighing the lives of the group, thinking that if death was inevitable, why walk away from it? Better to die valiantly than to die slowly. Yet no sense in taking useless risks.

"Night fights with us. Clothes us in surprise. Darkest time best." She looked around at others, wondering if any would challenge her. They seemed balanced on an edge, wanting to hear her say more before they responded. She decided not to wait, but to finish her thoughts.

"Grash takes us. No other way. The road he travelled." She put her hand on the knife on her belt and with her other hand, the one Lyshkia had swaddled, she held out her small stolen orcish blade to Grash. She looked him straight in the eye and then at the knife.

[Himaran]

"Aye, we follow Grash. He led us out of the tunnels! Not Bror! Not I! It was him! And we don't need anymore bickering amongst ourselves." Everyone turned, staring at Dwali was sullen eyes. He could not believe it - the company seemed to be collapsing in on itself... and his previous companion was not helping the matter. For all his talk to Morgoroth about alliegence and honor, Bror had only mad the matter more precarious. And Dwali was sick of all of it.

"Don't you see, laddies? If we don't fight together, what chance have we? None!" All the anger was pouring out, an undending river of misery and sorrow. But despite the rage, Dwali wanted nothing more than to cry. How could they all be so complacent and indecisive, so arrogant and proud, so... He was little different; just hours earlier the dwarf would have hardly cared if the elves had fallen prey to the venom of Shelob, or even Grash for that matter. It was as if years of blindness had given way to clear vision, which he desperately wished to share with those around him. But how could they see it too, after barely surviving the living hell of Cirith Ungol. It seemed that only the dwarf who had been the most hostile and angry, the most irrational and confrontational, was able to comprehend the foolishness of their quarrels. Was it he alone that had been moved by the limp form of Dorim being carried from the cave? Darash seemed rational, but what of the others?

The uncomfortable silence was broken by Grash, waving his hands nervously. "Enough! Our personal problems aside, we need to move on. Let's pack up our things and prepared to leave this accursed land." But the issue was not resolved, and hopelessness decended upon the dwarf. This fued will never end.

[Novnarwen]

The Haradrim, who went under the alias Aldor, lay half asleep. The pain gave him shivers, by every second passing however; he was getting better and better. Grinning to himself, he couldn't help thinking about how convenient this had been for him. Grash and Jeren had, by helping Rhând when he had supposedly fainted, secured their own faiths, which would lead to Him. And whatever He chose for them, Rhând knew that they, in the end, would not be particularly thankful.

“He is not worth the effort to save. He fought not against the Lady of Tunnel, but instead hid himself away, while those braver than he fell before Her onslaught. He is coward, and those who are, must fend for themselves.”

The voice of the male elf interrupted him as he was just about to enter another world, far away from the world he now lingered. He realised at once that it was indeed this Morogoth who was speaking. I should have killed him in the tunnel when I had the chance, Rhând thought angrily to himself. The first thought that hit him was that he should do exactly that; throwing himself at the elf and end his life, but he retrained himself. His own stupidity, he realised, could not in any way take control of him. Not now, when he was so close of reaching his goal. Still lying at the ground, eyes shut, pretending that he was sleeping, he listened to the others.

It didn't take long, however, before sleep took him. It came over him as a thick blanket, suffocating him and forcing him to let go of his earthy thoughts.

It's so close . . . I bite my lip, feeling a drop of blood filling my mouth with a most satisfying taste. I go further on, trudging, in my filthy and ripped clothes. Getting ever nearer, still biting my lips, I start to shake with delight. The power draws me, ever closer. There is light just ahead, a light filled with magnificent colours, which evolve in splendour in the sky! Soon, I am there, my feet aching, my heart beating and my soul yearning . . . I cannot go on. It's too far away, yet it is close . . . There is a wall, a black gate. I see it, ever clearer. Just earlier, it was like a big shadow, stretching towards me, wanting to catch me while I walked. But it is a gate; I see it now. The earth is shaking, trembling as if dozens of feet are treading the path, which leads to this Land's entrance. I approach it. A face, with eyes as big as shields, and a grin so evil and peculiar, stares downwards. I see it, but do not move a limb. I cannot move a limb! I shake my head. I cannot withdraw now. I must try. With this thought in mind, I am suddenly filled with new courage, and I knock at the door, the Gate. The sound of my sophisticated knocks ring in my ears, like hundred of bells; making me dizzy. Why does He not open, or at least not the person who possesses that gigantic face? I wonder. I still don't move, only set my ear to the Gate to listen. No sound. Has He left me? Desperately, I try to find excuses for why the Gate isn't opened to me. I want to call, "Here I am! Your faithful servant has finally returned to you." My ear is still glued to the black cold wall, but there is no sound and I daren't utter a single word. The sound of feet still reaches me though, and I turn my attention to this instead. Slowly, I walk towards it. My feet are still aching, and without knowing the reason of this new sudden fear, I feel that a certain pressure is laid upon me. I gaze upwards, trying to find the sun in the sky, but there is none. Is it night still, or is it morning? I run hither and thither, but I don't know where I came from. I loose my balance, and fall to the ground. There, straight ahead, coming towards me, a banner is held. I recognize it instantly. The sounds from the soldiers' armours make me rise hurriedly. I do not see what is being dropped to the ground at that point, but when the army is getting nearer, within sight; they can see me, and I them. Sudeenly, a yellow smoke arises before me. I cannot see; my eyelids have dropped down and I cannot breathe; my lungs are filled. I fall to the ground, the yellow smoke surrounding me, as the army approach me. Few words, I manage to utter, before everything is so dark that not a single ray of light can reach me: "I have a gift to Him . . ."

Bathed in sweat, muttering still "I have a gift for Him", Rhând opened his eyes wide. It was a dream, he assured himself. He looked around at the others, not knowing whether he had talked in his sleep, but they were all busy listening to one of the grim faced dwarves to pay attention to him.

"Let's pack up our things and prepared to leave this accursed land." Rhând heard one say. Assuming that the others had talked about what they were to do, judging by the unusual heavy atmosphere, Rhând thought it best to keep silent and still. Reproaching himself for falling asleep, he closed his eyes again, but reminded himself that he could not afford to talk in his sleep when his dreams were so focused on returning to Him. While lying there, he thought it all through. The Gate had been so real, and so had his approach. Why he wasn't let in, still bothered him. What if he faced the same problems in real life as in his dream? No, no, no, it was foolish to think that way. Having escaped prisoners as a personal gift to Him, would be returned by trust. He frowned. The army that was approaching was clearly a Haradrim army. The banner was at least. Why had he not thought of it before? Rhând knew many were in the army. Now, he supposed, since there were such dark times, probably almost everyone he knew had joined Him to show how faithful they were. This thought, compared to the memory of the yellow smoke, which had overcome him, lightened him up. And as the conversation between the others was silenced, Rhând thought it an excellent moment to wake up.

[alaklondewen]

"Enough! Our personal problems aside, we need to move on. Let's pack up our things and prepared to leave this accursed land."

Yes. Lyshka agreed. The Dwarf men had their says; now it was time for them to follow Grash again. Whether Grash was trustworthy, the woman knew not, but he had seen the green land and knew the way. Lyshka closed her eyes momentarily and tried to remember the southern plains where her family lived. Faces filled her mind…large, laughing men. Evil laughter came from their wide mouths, and their slanted eyes glared at her. She tried to push them away, but she was too weak. Their faces were all she could see.

Opening her eyes, Lyshka glanced around the makeshift camp and quickly rose. Her limbs felt heavy and her back ached. Having refused to sleep during the night, her body worked against her. She raised her long arms above her head and stretched before she bent to gather the few supplies she and Darash kept to themselves. Her general movement inspired a few of the others to follow her suit.

Soon, the motley group, though grumbling, were packed and began their careful decent from the safety of the small cliff. A few loose stones along the rock wall’s surface caught Lyshka’s eye, and she knelt to gather three smooth stones that she placed in the pocket of her vest. Their weight pulled at her clothing, but she readjusted her belt and stepped back into pace with the others, moving quickly to match the stride of Darash.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Throughout the night the company worked its way along the narrow path that lead downward once more into Mordor. They headed more or less south, with the blank wall of the cliff face to their right and an appalling drop into blackness at their left. At times the path was no more than a thin ledge, and they would creep along it with their backs pressed against the stone of the mountains. It was an arduous journey and it took them many hours to cover the few miles to the Morgul Vale.

Grash could not keep the strange events of the previous evening from his mind. The mood of the company had gone through some kind of fundamental shift, the full nature of which eluded him. He was beginning to realise that life and freedom were more complicated than he had perhaps guessed. His life, brutal though it was, had been easy. There was never any doubt of what to do, or whom to hate. He had known with the certainty of despair that none could be trusted but himself, that faith in others was foolish and friendship a dangerous dream. And yet he had seen people forge unions this night – some stable, others not so much – and he had been offered an odd form of friendship himself. His hand went once more to the blade that Darash had given him, and he fingered the hilt thoughtfully. He wondered if she too, somewhere in the dark behind him, was toying with the dagger that he had exchanged for hers in token of acceptance and alliance.

Of all the strangest chances of this night, it seemed that he had been accepted as the company’s guide, perhaps – in their own motley fashion – as their leader. Grash’s callow mind was unable to follow fully the ominous subtleties of his position, but he knew instinctively that such leadership, based as it was on convenience and practicality, was dangerously temporary. Were he to fail them once more, he could all too easily be dismissed by the company.

As the sky in the east began to lighten they came finally to the bottom of the path and found themselves on the road from the Tower. To their left it rose up and up, back to their prison where it lay hidden behind the shoulders of the mountains. To their right, the road went slowly down for a few hundred feet and joined the Morgul Road. Even looking upon that path caused Grash’s skin to crawl, but there was no other way. The company creeped along the edge of the road, pressing themselves into the shadows on its western side as though willing themselves into invisibility. Grash could feel the distant pressure of the Eye upon the land about him, as though the Dark Lord were watching the Morgul Vale for something. He pushed that thought from his mind.


They achieved the crossroad and paused. The road to Mount Doom and , beyond it, Barad Dur, crossed the Morgai here and disappeared into the early morning darkness. They turned from that sight and looked instead upon an equally terrible one. The road rose slowly into the Vale, headed for the high pass that led down to the Dead City and, beyond it, to the West. There came from the Vale a chill wind carrying with it the smell of dead things, and the feel of it upon their cheeks sent trembles of terror along all their limbs. There was some murmuring and shuffling from some members of the company, and Grash feared that some might argue to turn back or aside to find another path, but no-one spoke. Grash turned to them.

“Follow road. Follow road to highest point, there, at peak of valley, between dark mountains. Then, take small path to the south. Up up up we go, high up to top of mountain on that side, then down again.” He paused, considering, then rushed ahead once more. “But first, must pass Dark Lord’s Stones.”

“What?” It was Aldor who spoke first. “What do you mean the ‘Dark Lord’s Stones’?”

Grash pointed into the inky darkness and their eyes followed his hand up the road. Not far along the road, standing upon either side of it, were two large, featureless stones, carved into smoothly rounded columns that rose no more than twice the height of a man. That stood upon each side of the road, like gateposts, and yet now that the company looked upon them, their blood ran chill. In ages past they had been set there by the Men of Gondor, as a ward and warning to the forces of Mordor not to stray upon the road and thence to Minas Ithil, as the Dead City had once been called. But when the city had been taken by the Nine and the road brought under the dominion of Sauron, the stones had been twisted and subjected to his will. Using the power of the One, Sauron had set upon the stones the memory of his own will, and all who passed between them felt that. For all the armies and spies and slaves whom the Dark Lord sent forth from his land, the stones were a last reminder of their servitude, and it set upon them the imprint of their Master.

The company looked upon the stones with loathing, but there was no other way. Pulling their courage about them, they moved onto the Morgul Road and advanced.

[CaptainofDespair]

The Elf watched from his secluded segment within the ragtag company, as Grash had pointed to the pillars which stood as a last testament to the Dark Lord’s Will. They were ancient, former guardians of Minas Ithil, and now they had become twisted by the arcane forces that Sauron commanded. They were monuments now, to his power over the orcs, who were but poorly crafted mimics of the Elves of Eldar Days. They had weak minds, the orcs, and were easily driven to the master’s orders, and whether or not their tortured husks craved to wage war under the command of the Eye or not, they were forced on, by the beating drums and driving whips of the Uruks. And now, the Elf himself had come before these columns of dread and despair, and he gazed into their surface, feeling the warning they once held, and the dire power they now contained. The darkness, and cruelty, of the Eye emanated from within them now, and the Elf readied his mind for a war of willpower, one that might prove fatal, in both physical realm, and the plane of thought in which his own grand schemes resided.

Watching the man Grash begin to move towards them, he could already sense the deepening reverberations from the tremors that stormed forth from the pillars, as a new, seemingly fresh soul made its way within their grasp. They began to hum steadily, but the tortuous noise was inaudible to all but the most acute of ears. Knowing the power of Sauron of old, the Immortal knew this would be a trial like any other he had faced. Even the stinging fangs and sharpened claws of Shelob would pale in comparison with the Dark Lord’s Will, for he was the ultimate power within this blackened, scorched land. Without hesitation, Morgoroth strode silently towards the ominous pillars, calm and relaxed, and ready for the onslaught he was to face, alone, within the deepest, most hidden recesses of his dark, calculating mind.

His light foot steps kicked up little of the ashen dust as he moved towards the pillars, and he breathed little, so as to delay the shock that would course through the very veins of his body, in that instant he would cross into the Dark Lord’s astral realm, where he would tempt those not under his control, and imprint his will on those he commanded. Time itself seemed to halt when he made his way into the fold, where the pillars stood, as mechanisms of maintaining the will over the subjects in Mordor. The very crags of the Elf’s mind, where the carefully prepared thoughts that would assail Sauron’s will, went silent. Not a single grain of thought spoke to the Elf, and he was truly alone for the first time. And then, a great echoing voice spoke into his mind. The Will of Sauron now spoke to him, tempting him. “You dare to flee the realm of your Lord and Master, child? It is futile, for none can,” came a hissing, wrath-filled voice. “Ah, you come at last Sauron. I had feared you would disappoint me,” replied the haughty, streamlined inner voice of the Elf. His mind went quiet, and for a moment it seemed as if the trial was over. But soon, a hideous cackling began to build up, one filled with an anger and hatred, that had collected over many an age. And the voice spoke again. “You have no power here paltry Elf. Your immortality and heritage cannot save you, and nor can those you might consider allies. There are none who can contest with the Will of Sauron,” boomed the mighty, and ageless voice. “Ha! I may not have power here, there you are right. But you are wrong in the assumption that your power will go uncontested. I seem to recall the Last Alliance, for it was they who overthrew you, even with the power of your Ring,” sneered the Immortal. No reply verbal reply came from the void that had now filled ever crag of the Elf’s tortured and dark mind. Instead, a great wrath could be felt, building up, for it sent tremors of immeasurable power and distress through the Elf. And now, the voice returned, but this time, the image of the Great Eye came as well, not the mere void of dark emptiness. Pain and despair prevailed now, the Elf felt his will diminish before the onslaught that came. And within the well of the Eye, came an image, a scene from the Last Alliance. Morgoroth peered into this, wondering what new devilry Sauron was concocting. As he examined closer, he spied the face of his own father, who was slain in that final battle with Sauron. “So, you must resort to the persistence of memory to destroy me eh? You are weaker than I thought Sauron,” the Elf bluntly stated. Now Sauron was filled with spite and anger, for he tolerated not the use of his name. “You miss my point Elf, as all your kind have. You see, your kind gave their lives to destroy me, but yet, here I am. I have survived, where many have not. There are none who can defeat me, for my power is inconquerable!” The voice of the Dark Lord cackled in a most menacing way. The Elf began to feel weaker than before, even more so than he had physically felt when imprisoned in Cirith Ungol and Cirith Gorgor. But he retreated not, for his doom would be sealed should he perform that final act. “You may smite my heart with the lost emotion I once felt, but you will not break my mind!” the Elf retaliated. On those words, the Dark Lord’s voice grew, invading not only the mind of the Elf, but his very soul, seeking to break his will, and corrupt his heart. But Morgoroth resisted, and he summoned forth all the remnants of his shattered mind, and he came in a great wave, crashing down upon Sauron’s manifested void. “You Sauron, are weak! From what I have seen of your so called glory, you wield terror and fear alone, and those are easily overcome. You may have power within Mordor, but I am the lord of my own heart and mind, and you no longer hold sway here. Begone, or suffer my divine retribution! From these hallowed, and wrath filled statements, the Dark Lord reeled back in great pain, as is he had been struck physically. In great haste, the void Sauron had woven around him, collapsed into a frail, delicate facade, and he fled from the Elf’s mind, defeated.

With his mind clear of the Dark Lord, the Elf returned to the realm of the physical. His mind now saw clearly, without the fog that had once clouded his perception. He finally left the limits of the stones, refreshed, with the Fire of Life now burning hot within him. He pivoted on his right heel, and spun round, to glance at his comrades, who were just preparing to enter the tortuous realm which he had now passed. “Good luck, my comrades in arms, for you will need it,” he murmured to himself. “Your trial will soon begin...” his voiced trailed off, into the bleak heavens of Mordor.

[Himaran]

As the somber party neared the looming forms of Sauron's stones, Dwali felt little change in the state of his mental being. Unlike the elf next to him, no voice forced its deceitful words upon him. The Dark Lord was far more cunning than that, and he had chosen a far more effective manner with which to turn him astray. The dwarf looked over at Morgoroth, who was sweating and struggling. What's his problem? Scared?[i] He continued staring for several moments, eventually reaching the conclusion that his previous guess was acurate.

The dwarf's thoughts, however, soon turned from interest to scorn. [i]Elves -- they are rather stern and commanding around those less esteemed than they, but seem to have trouble when it comes to walking by to old stones.[i] Then he caught himself, momentarily realizing his follow. Morgoroth had fought bravely in the tunnels, and had saved Bror's life. Then the darkness returned. [i]Bror! That turncoat, questioning Grash and forming pacts with the elves. The dwarves have to hang together... but he wants friendship with those that would care little if we toppled over and died in this forsaken land. Curse him![i]

"Curse them all!"

The words exploded from his parched mouth, ringing through the silent landscape. But the entire company seemed to be struggling with their own inner demons, and none seemed to even notice the outburst. Then Dwali moved away from the stones, and the spell was lifted; leaving behind a mark that would not easily disappear.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

The stones of the Dark Lord loomed ahead. Their gaze was like that of a serpents, cold as ice and as piercing as a dagger. It hit the heart fast and left a cold numb feeling in the soul. The hair on the back of Zuromor's neck stood on end and he felt as though he was being watched, by something.....odd. Zuromor stopped and looked at these large works of stone. Something stirred in him, and he felt his head grow light and his mind fogged over. He felt as though lost and could not feel anything around him.

In his haze he heard a dark, hissing voice speak to him. Do you know me? I know you. I know everything you hold in your mind. Tell me, where are you going? You can not escape. He will bring you to me. Can't you see? He hates you. He cannot be trusted. Didn't he call you a barbarian? Yes, he did. You must kill him and insure your safety. No you're lying.....Sauron. I know that evil lurks in these parts, and it shall not sway me. The dwarf may not like his present company but he likes you even less. He would never take us back to you. You would lock him away just as you would us. Stay out of my mind, foul beast.

Oh, come now. You are more intelligent than most, aren't you. But I did not lie entirely. I assure you, one of these....creatures will return you. Do you know who? Why not kill them all? Except of course the one you love. Surely the two of you could have a happy life....if only the elf-man would not stand in your way. He does not and none shall betray us. Leave Sauron. Go back to your keep and stay there. Or take shape once more a fight me. You're not a coward are you?

Fool! Feel what resistance brings upon you! Zuromor head felt as if it would burst, and he fell to his knees holding his head. My minions will destroy you and capture the rest. They will have pleasure in making your friends suffer! Perhaps they will torture her before your very eyes before they slay you! Zuromor's head was forced to face Raeis. His eyes were forced open, and he saw her in all her beauty. He would not let them hurt her. He would find this betrayer, if there was one. And he would slay him. He would save her. The pain went away and his head righted itself, but the sudden change was overwhelming to the man's simple mind and he fainted at her feet.

[Novnarwen]

"Rhând . ." A whispering sound made him wake up. He looked around. Ever since the dream of his, when the company had rested, he couldn't stop thinking about it. It had been like a vision, a vision showing the true path of the future. Nevertheless, he could not make himself believe that it was a vision at all. Now, hearing a voice speaking his real name, he shuddered. Looking around once more, he saw the others being completely in their own thoughts. Had it been one of them? How could they know that he wasn’t named Aldor? Had he talked in his sleep, just earlier? Surprised, and scared, he tried to hide the sudden fear that arose inside of him.

"Are you surprised I know your name; your true name?" Suddenly, the Haradrim realised that it was probably no one from the company. It was the gentlest voice he had ever heard, and it was coming from an unknown source. Standing quietly for a moment, listening attentively, he realised that it probably wasn't him only, who heard voices. The others, too, seemed to be in some kind of a trance, fighting an inner force, as they all looked rather pale and an uncertainty seemed to be bothering them.

"I know you. I know who you are, where you come from, what you have done, what you have been through and now what goal you struggle to achieve." Rhând could do nothing but walk quietly along the path, pretending that nothing was happening. What was this? Was it Him, communicating with him? Shaking his head, trying to gather his thoughts, thinking about his dream, he heard the gentle voice again: "I know what you dreamt. Give them to me, all of them, and you will be amongst the faithfuls . . ."

And you will be amongst the faithfuls . . Rhând thought to himself, still not realising what this meant.

"Faithful . . ." he repeated silently. A sudden feeling of bewilderment made him shake with joy!

This approval was a victory to him. It was clear now; he could return to Him, and he would again be His servant. It was the most facinating feeling that he had ever felt. It was like a mild summer breeze, touching his face, filling him with excitement. It was like the sun, shining only upon him. It was the feeling of being approved, the feeling of being accepted and the feeling of being Rhând and not Aldor; all at the same time. He breathed heavily, taking in the air of the Dark Land. It hit him that he was so close to achieving his goal now. It was only a matter of time, before he was free and back to Him again. Yes, tonight, when everyone is asleep . . he thought, walking slowly after one of the dwarves. He thought of the suverah, knowing that if he were to succeed, he would have to have some kind of a plan. First, he thought, smiling, I will have to ask Grash about the exact route, which he is planning to take. He swallowed as he reproached himself for falling asleep, when they had discussed this matter. Then, tonight, I will use the suverah. I will have to make sure no one is able to wake up before dawn. Yes, I think I can make it, run from this scum, find one who serves Him, tell him about the prisoners and run back.

Agreeing with himself, that this would have to be the plan, he grinned with satisfaction.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Stones did not scare Jeren. Or, they had never scared him before. Rocks never brought forth fear or terror. Inanimate objects, no matter how tall or looming, did not harbor horror or doubt. What could be so different about the two columns rising before him? Did they see things from invisible eyes? Perhaps they heard things through ears that no one else could fathom. Maybe the rock and stone could feel in a way no human could imagine. It did not frighten Jeren. Only the past haunted the aimless Southron. But then, he had not yet passed through the entryway the pillars created. Jeren’s steps were not taken tentatively, his eyes did not falter and hesitate downward to his own feet as he saw others do.

At least, not until he had taken that one step through the gateway.

Suddenly Jeren’s head ached, dull and distant, but present all the same. The ache did not feel painful, more of a gentle reminder of where he stood and where his feet had begun to tread. Jeren ran his calloused, deeply tanned hands through his tousled brown curls. He let short and dirt-caked nails dig into his scalp, longing to be rid of the thumping within his mind. The Southron hoped that the feeling would soon pass, but he found that the roaming ache was only a small matter before what was to come.

I can see what is in your heart. I can see what no one else can see.

Jeren whipped his head around, and he heard a crack as he turned his neck one degree too many. Wincing, the Southron let his feet fumble along the trail as he returned his focus on the way ahead. Jeren quickly gave up his search for the voice, consoling himself and thinking that it was only one of his reluctant companions.

No. You cannot see me. But if you wish, you can hear me. Hear my words…

The voice again! Jeren masked the look of sudden terror in his face, not wanting anyone to see the fear in his eyes.

You can hide those feelings from them, but not from me. I know what you want, I know what you fear, I know what your heart says and your mind rejects.

The voice sounded silky…smooth and oily. It felt like grease lying dormant, maliciously covering some desired drink of water. Jeren had heard and spoken with men whose voices held this spiteful cover-up. Somehow the depth of the words far surpassed any human’s tenor or bass vocals. The brevity and concise manner of the words struck deep within Jeren’s heart, though his mind indeed rejected every syllable. Jeren wondered if anyone else could hear…

Only you can hear my words, Jeren. These words were meant for you. I speak warning, against your leader and the others of your company. Turn back now! Leave them. They are not to be trusted. Not the Elves, nor the Dwarves…not even your fellow Humans. Leave them far behind. They don’t know you!

It was true and Jeren knew it. None of his companions knew Jeren. They did not know what he had done, the reason why he had been captive. They did not know…

They do not know about your past, Jeren. Those you supervised called you a deserter; those who were your supervisors called you a traitor. They do not know of your failure in battle, the loss of that battle, and the slaughter of those you led. If they did, what would they say? They would not understand. You are better off on your own, anyway. Stay with these fools, and one of them will betray you. One of your own will leave you to the minions of this land. Turn away, and perhaps you might make it out alive.

"I would rather perish at the sting of another Man's sword than at the bite of your heartless, mindless minions," Jeren murmured aloud, not quite caring if any could hear his words. At Jeren's mumbling, the dull ache in his head intensified for just a moment, bringing nearly unbearable pain to his forehead. When the sting left him, Jeren could hear a distant cackle.

You will perish, one way or another.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim's post

As he moved between the stones, Grash was plunged into a howling blindness that left him alone and staggering in the void of the Dark Lord’s malice. It came upon him like a cold wave from the East, rushing through him as though his flesh were but fragile cloth and the terror of Sauron coursed about his naked and shivering bones. He reeled and might have fallen, but his hand in reaching out in desperation came upon the warm flesh of Darash who strode beside him. What she was feeling or thinking he did not know, but unlike every other time that she had been touched, she did not flinch away. Her arm remained impassive and unresponsive in Grash’s trembling hand, but it did not shirk his touch.

He clung to that lone point of human contact like a drowning man, but though his feet moved it was a nightmare in which he made no forward progress. In the distance he heard a low keening wind and time froze. The darkness about him lessened and he felt a tearing force at his back. He did not want to turn. The very thought of coming about to face what he knew was there filled his very spirit with loathing, but he could not prevent his body from slowly turning about until he faced back the way they had come. Through the black shapes of the Morgul Vale he could see clearly outlined in the far distance, as though it had been drawn with diamonds’ points, a single fiery, lidless eye, its pupil a black slit into nothingness. The malice of the Eye assailed Grash like the whips of the orcs that had marshalled him into the world and forced him through its weary ways. It leered at him across the leagues, and even from this distance it felt as though it were peeling away his physical form leaving only his spirit – naked, cold and gibbering upon the harsh stone of the Dark Lord’s throne chamber.

Grash gazed at the Eye, and slowly began to feel himself being drawn forward. It seemed to grow in size and intensity, and slowly, it began to move toward the Vale, as though it were sensing Grash. In an instant he realised that the Eye was becoming aware of Grash’s presence. The stones his sentinels contained within them the memory of their torture by Sauron and they resonated still with his implacable will. Any that tried to pass that way in resistance to the will of their tormentor would cause them to call out to their master across the desert wastes of his realm.

The Eye flickered toward him, but Grash – who had lived his life beneath its gaze – could feel the distraction within it. Something had happened that had disturbed the counsels of the Dark Lord, and his attention was flitting about his land. For a moment in time that was less than a heartbeat, the Eye flashed across Grash and his companions, and in that moment the lifelong slave of the Dark Lord felt the command on his master. All of his servants were being summoned north, to the very mouths of this land, to the Morannon. He caught a fleeting, fragmentary glimpse of the Dark Lord’s own view, and saw vast armies in motion all over the dark land, all of them gathering toward the Gate where the ragtag remnants of the upstart Gondorian King were to be destroyed.

Upon the edge of the vision, Grash caught sight of a lone figure upon a horse. He rode beneath a banner that was black, with seven stars woven upon it circling a crown, and there was a light about him that called to the shattered spirit of the slave. He felt his heart swell at the sight of this unknown man, and for a second he felt almost as though he could hear the call of distant trumpets. But then the Eye was nearly upon him, and there was only a veil of thinnest gossamer between him and It. Grash felt an unwholesome longing come upon him to call out to the Eye, to run forward into its light and reveal himself. But the image of the distant Man came before his gaze once more, and holding onto that vision he was able to wrench his gaze from the East.

With a cry he fell to the ground at Darash’s feet. He was past the Stones.

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Bethberry's post

Something had deranged the various members of the group. Darash could feel muscles hardening in the air, tendons snapping into tightness, rates of breathing either slow or quicken. The odour of fear exuded from bodies as they moved towards these carvings which Grash had called the Dark Lord's Stones. But who was this Dark Lord? She looked over at Grash and would have asked, but she saw that he was in no mood to converse, wrapped up in some strange dream of his own, his hand reaching out and touching her arm. She could not understand what this power was, but she did not repulse the touch of the former slave. Instead, she watched all the others as they went into dream raptures as they confronted these pillars. She did not understand who or what this Dark Lord was, but she sensed abject fear and horror in those around her. Their bodies were almost becoming grass before the wind. She could feel herself melting into passivity.

Then she faced the Stones herself, hearing her called by the name of "Darash" in a sonorous voice, low and melodious but she caught a vague sense of sneering in its patronising plea. She shook from her head the sound and spoke to herself a name none had ever heard her mention, Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re, Kashia Ma'at-Ka-Re. Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re. Grash looked at her for a moment, but she did not think he heard. Especially did He who knew every way to appeal to those whose servitude he wanted not hear, but she did, savouring the click of the consonants. Then she raised her eyes against this man-god who called to her in the name of her pain, Kwenye darasha. She felt a soft cooing go through her, as if an arm were placed around her shoulders relieving her of her responsibility so she could rest.

Come to me and I will show you the way home, I will bring you back to your tribe, I will give them the strength to resist their enemies. In me you will find the weapon to fulfil yourself as warrior.

Kashtia remained silent, listening to his words.

Your silence already shows you have decided for me, the voice continued. Join me and I will raise your people high. I will call upon them to join me here in my victory.

Words teetored on the tip of her tongue, and her cracked lips she held still. He knew not the words of her people but spoke in this tongue that the slaves did here, not the foul speech of the orcs but that of the northern men. She fought against the dream he was placing in her head, for she realised he was trying to grab her story, to write her into his story and bend her to his way, to twist her into a mere handmaiden to power. Kashtia would not relinquish her voice; she refused to speak to this man-god who perverted people's stories to his own narrative. For the first time she began to understand the depravity of these northern men who were slaves even in the open air, and she began to feel compassion for them rather than hauteur or disgust. She understood as she had not previously what were the chains which held Grash even as he was free of the prison. They were not and had never been agents of their own lives.

Aloud she spoke one word, Kontu!, that is to say, "Story". "Herstory", with its warning not to speak to the Trickster man-god. Then, to herself, in her head so none could hear, particularly this Dark Lord, she repeated the old stories of courage and cooperation. Unaenda wapi, nyumbo yetu. Kurro. "Run," she translated, "Run," she said to all near her and began to move her springing feet forward, beyond the stones.

To her side, she suddenly heard Grash call out. He grasped her arm tighter and then rushed with her through the stones. He stumbled, almost falling at her feet, but she grabbed his arm this time and steadied him so he would not fall upon the black earth and bruise himself upon the cruel edges of its rocks. She saw in his eyes he had seen a dream of his own, a frightening dream, but a hope he had never known before in his life. Then she looked away at the road which lay before them.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

As Zuromor walked onward he noticed that he was not the only one to have had such a strange encounter at the stones. Grash had fallen due to what seemed to be nothing at all. But Zuromor knew what had happened. Sauron, the "Dark Lord" himself. Zuromor scoffed at the mere thought of anyone who might call him their Lord. He is a force of evil that would be destroyed.

It was soon after his encounter that Zuromor noticed Grash had finally arisen, he seemed to be the worst off, and began to walk on. As he did Zuromor couldn't help but think, Who is the traitor, if there even is one? He stopped and looked behind him, and he saw everyone trying to recover. Except one. Aldor.

He walked as if nothing had happened. He had a strange smile and he seemed to have a new "air" of confidence. Was it him? Why did he seem to have been revitalized when everyone else was drained and staggering?

[Novnarwen]

He looked up, seeing Zuromor looking at him. Rhând gave a somewhat evil stare, grinned and hurried after Grash. He couldn't think of anything else; the voice that had spoken to him so clearly. It was Him! This task would be his great triumph! Finally, he would be reunited with his Master and return home and all of this would be over.

"Grash," he started, throwing himself at the man's side.

The other prisoner looked up, as if surprised that someone had mentioned his name. Rhând restrained himself for asking about the route at once, as it would be stupid and maybe even it woud make him suspicious. Waiting for a moment, hesitating, wondering whether he should ask someone else instead, he looked gravely into the man's eyes. This was a mistake. Grash would see through him. Looking desperately into another direction, avoiding Grash's piercing look, his eyes fell upon one of the dwarves. They were stupid. They were probably stupid enough to not even question him, or suspect him of anything when asking about the route. On the other hand, Rhând did not know any of the others too well. Approaching them and starting a conversation, just out of the blur, would surely seem odd. Deciding upon asking Grash, he turned his gaze at the newly escaped prisoner again and started over. "Grash . ." Getting his attention, Rhând bit his lip and said rather hurriedly.

"I was asleep when you were talking about the route, and I wondered where exactly we are going." Seeing Grash's face expression when talking, Rhând's voice turned milder and he added. "I'm tired . . and still weak from the poison from the rat bite. Yes, for even though you managed to turn my swollen neck normal again, I can feel that it is still there. Something is making me tired, and ill, I'm afraid. In fact, I do not know how much further I can walk."

Grash nodded, and gave what seemed like a comforting look. "We follow this road, the Morgul Road for a few miles. There is a path, a narrow one. It goes far up, high and into the mountains and far south, above the Morgul city. Then we head down, into a green land." Finishing, he gave a weak smile. Satisfied by this answer and the accomplishment, Rhând, or Aldor as the others knew him by, slowed down his pace. The other man noticed this, and slowed down too.

"You know we talked about route when you were asleep?" Grash asked curiously.

For the first time in a very long while, he found himself unable to answer a question. Remembering that he had fallen asleep, and dreamt that he was approaching the Black Gate, he had awakened after a while to find the others talking about what they were going to do. Not wanting to disturb them at that point, he had just closed his eyes again, but in secret staid awake. However, at the time, he had been too busy interpreting his dream and had therefore not been able to catch a word about what the others were saying. Rhând hesitated. He looked at Grash, frowned and pretended he hadn't heard Grash's question.

[Kransha]

With a hesitant slowness, Brór Stormhand moved, dragging weary legs, towards the “Dark Lord’s Stones” as they’d been named by a seemingly over-superstitious Grash. Stones were naught to be afraid of, or cowed by. The dwarf, though, felt at least some foreboding, as the blood in his veins chilled slightly. He was moving towards the stones, nearer and nearer. Soon, he was within their vicinity, and he felt nothing and saw nothing. He neared them more, drawing closer and closer, resolved unintentionally to take his time moving through them. Almost the whole rest of the party was through and past save Brór, who had exiled himself willingly to the back of the train after his argument with Grash. It was his fault that he’d ostracized himself, it was his outburst that had made them uneasy or angered, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even want to catch up. He just wanted to keep on walking…and walk he did, through the threshold of the stones.

It was strange. He heard a voice, a hollow but echoing voice, the kind that comes from neither throat nor chest nor mouth. It was a voice that spilled like acidic water into every orifice of his mind, slowly corroding the foundations that held his psyche together. Brór had never been fragile, in mind or body, but he suddenly felt unprotected, stripped of everything that held him together. He was alone in an abyss, alone in a void blacker than night, and yet, brighter than the sun a stone’s throw away. A searing, monstrous heat filled him and surrounded him, tongues of fire wrapping around him as chains would, but the touch of the nonexistent bonds was equally cold as it was hot, cold as the ice of Helcaraxe. His blood froze and bones burned, the tempering of each feeling tore into him, nearly rending his heart from him. He couldn’t see. His eyes were filled with that bright blackness that accosted him without relent or waver.

The voice in his mind was not speaking, but Brór was sure it was there. He heard its distant rumble, booming like claps of mighty heavenly thunder and shrieking like the most terrible of the four winds. It was whispering, perhaps, but the shattered dwarf couldn’t tell. It was not whispering to him. It was speaking to itself, or to some other creature in its dominion. Brór wished he could take this opportunity to challenge the voice and its owner, to call it out and cast it down with words or blows, but neither his mouth nor his mind could find purchase on sense enough to speak. The Eye was waiting for its chance, waiting for the broken form that lay, helpless and wordless before it, to be completely demoralized and totally vulnerable to any assault. There would be no counter-attack if he chose the right instant. Brór’s thoughts could not help but quake and tremble, anticipating the imminent incursion. Nothing was safe; nothing was sacred…not from Sauron.

It was preparing to speak, as best as he could tell. The rumble of the voice held him in animate suspense, a painful and drawn out suspense that leeched life from his being. The guttural thunder grew louder in his mind as the whispers in the background became clearer, more distinct. Now those whispers, formerly soft and ominous but now strong and terrible, formed into words, slurred together subtly to create speech and language. It was a dark speech, the Black Speech of Mordor, a tongue which Brór did not know. He got the impression, despite the resounding words, ringing like tremendous bells and echoing through his mind’s empty halls, that the speaker was not speaking to him, or at least not directly. He heard it preparing, readying itself to speak to him. He steeled himself feebly against the voice but, like a maddened hurricane he could not prevent or even hinder its coming. At last, the stormy rumbling bellowed and shrieked in his head, ready to speak at last, and he heard the voice of Sauron.

Nothing…

There was nothing. The voice faded like a snuffed-out candle, diminishing in an instant. Brór staggered, dazed, past the looming stones which cast their veiling shadow down, making the one that stretched behind him greater with their bulk. He managed to step out of the stones’ vicinity, feeling only dazed. His feet moved faster, unconsciously, and he found himself caught up with the remainder of the company, barely dawdling now. His mind fell from pain into reflection, contemplating what had just happened. He had expected agony, mental torture, something to overcome, but there was nothing. The Dark Lord had said nothing to sway him, nothing to cause him any pain. He was unscathed…But why?

Had Sauron said nothing because nothing needed to be said? Was he so far gone? Was his distrust, his hatred, already so great that the Dark Lord himself had nothing to say? Was he already, unwittingly, a servant of the Lidless Eye? No! He could not be deaf to the words of Sauron! He was not so haughty as to think that Sauron’s manipulations would not try to work on him. Did Sauron have no need of his services or did he already control them? The simple thought drove Brór’s mind into heedless ramblings as he considered the horrible truths he had contemplated a moment ago. The dwarf realized now that he had wanted Sauron to speak to him, wanted to confirm that he was still a being of light, despite his pessimism and his prejudice. He had hoped to be corroborated in the fact that Sauron needed him, or at least did not have him as a willing pawn. Could it be true? Was he, by conveying his prejudicial attitude towards the company and alienating the races, conducting the will of Sauron? If so…why couldn’t he just stop?

That was his job, his purpose. He had thought himself to be the voice of reason, but now he thought he might only be the voice of the shadow. His solid, unemotional negativity, which he had set out from Cirith Ungol with, had turned to unbridled darkness, a cloud that overshadowed him. Silently, still contemplating his unspoken duty, Brór Stormhand picked up the pace to approach his ‘companions,’ thinking and speaking to himself. That voice had, in fact, told him something, though it said nothing. It told him something that he had hoped was not true, but, in retrospect, probably was…

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The stones were behind the company and they pressed ahead into the darkness of the Morgul Vale almost with relief at having passed through them. The Road ran almost straight up the gentle rise that lay between the mountains that loomed above them upon either hand. There was no sound but the wind amongst the rocks, and no sight save the bleak grey and black of Mordor. They walked in silence for several hours and the night passed in uncomfortable labour. The Road’s ascent, while gentle, was steady and they had to toil up the long and unrelenting path. As they neared the top of the pass, the mountains on either side came closer, looming over them like walls that rose upon either hand hundreds of feet into the roiling air. Their throats became parched as they breathed in the ashy air of the land, and soon their few remaining water skins were hanging limply from their hands and waists. As they moved forward, the weariness of their limbs seemed to grow and it was as though they had to walk through deep sand, so reluctant were their feet to follow that path they had chosen, for with every step the Dead City got closer, and while it was yet hidden by the mountains, they could feel its presence beating upon their brows.

Throughout the night they crept along the Road with increasing terror at the thought of discovery. At first, there had been rough stone and shattered rock on either side of the way that could have provided cover, but soon the walls of the mountains were so close about them that any hope of hiding was lost. Their ears strained for the sound of foot or hoof, but there had fallen upon the Road an unnatural stillness. Grash’s mind went back to the brief glimpse he had of the Dark Lord’s commands to his slaves, and he knew that all about them were vast armies, all of them hurrying north to the Black Gate. This Road, normally so well traveled and patrolled, seemed to have been neglected – for a time – in the turmoil that gripped the land, and he almost allowed himself to feel lucky.

But luck is a fickle thing, particularly in the life of a slave. They had traveled five leagues and the sun was beginning to rise beyond the shadows, when they came to the top of the pass. It was a sight that none of them had dared hope for: of the way beyond this land. But in place of hope there was only despair, and rather than rejoice, Grash had to stifle an agonizing lament. In the far distance below them, small but yet ghastly, rose Minas Ithil. Its walls glowed with a corpse light that shed no illumination, and even from this distance they could taste the air of its rot upon the backs of their tongues. But it was not this that had plunged Grash’s heart into the depths, for he had been expecting the City. What he had not expected to see was the army, vast and terrible, that marched toward them from the City. Whether it was by some trick of the Vale, or whether the army was cloaked in the magic of its Captain, none of the party had heard the army’s approach, and it was now about a mile distant. It was encamped upon the Road, whether in defense of it or as part of a rest in a longer march, none could tell.

“Where path?” It was Darash who spoke at Grash’s elbow. Grash looked at her stupidly, still reeling from the shock of their danger. “Where path?” she said again.

Grash pointed down the Road to a point in the southern wall of the mountains about midway through the mass of the army. “There,” he said quietly. “Path is there. Goes up into mountains.”

“Well, we won’t get there by looking at it,” Brór growled. This spurred the party into action, and they began moving once more down the Road. They fought the urge to run, for to do so would only call attention to themselves. Their only hope was to trust in their orc disguises. They all adopted the shambling gait of orcs and lowered their heads into their armour, or pulled their tattered cloaks about their faces. They had all spent too much time in close proximity to the orcs and were able to mimic their tormenters easily. The small path was now visible to them all, and it drew them like a magnet, but very quickly they came to within hailing distance of the army.

Just as the outer sentries sighted them and let out a cry, there was a general braying of horns and harsh screams of commanders, and the entire army began to mobilize and move up the slope toward the pass that the company had come through. In the sudden chaos of the orc army’s movement, the company found themselves suddenly surrounded by thousands of the brutes. There were flares of torches and a flurry of limbs and soon the company had been separated from one another in a sea of enemies.

[Himaran]

Not even the horde of orcs swarming around (and occasionally overtop) the young dwarf could outnumber the thoughts rushing through Dwali's brain. Just moments earlier, the company had been headed straight towards the mountain path. Now they were scattered, lost in a raging sea of enemy. Would their disguises hold? The orc armor might not conceal the elves or men, who had completely different builds. And of what of the passage that was rapidly passing out of sight? Perhaps this was how it would all end.

Such thoughts were becoming increasingly unimportant, however, as the fugitives were forced to join the orc army's steady march. Dwali found himself next to a captain, if that was the brute's actual title. "Keep it moving, you maggots," he roared. "We march for the gate." Snarling an unintelligible phrase in a crude orcish tongue, he savagely turned on a straggler with his whip. The violent display ultimately kept the dwarf's stout legs moving, but exhaustion was slowly setting in.

The chain of orcs kept moving, darkening the already blackened earth. Dwali had lost any sense of time or distance. Collapse was imminent, as was presumed death (in his mind, at least). And topple he did, right off the edge of the wide path and into a tiny crater; one that neatly hid his prostrate form from the millions of unfriendly eyes passing by above him. The dwarf had slowly moved towards the edge of the column and, when his last reserves of energy were gone, had fallen into a relatively concealed positon.

But Dwali had little time to reflect on his good fortune, for after reviving from unconciousness several hours later, he was still hopelessly lost. And the orc army continued by, an endless yet unnatural cycle.

[Novnarwen]

He was thinking about his latest conversation with Grash, as it was quite obvious that Grash was suspicious towards Rhând and his behaviour, and he would be lying if he denied the fact that he had grown fairly annoyed about this. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him. What if everything would be ruined because of some twit named Grash? It was if he had already failed. He had been overly convinced that he would manage to get out and away from these prisoners alive, and to thereafter return to his master, but if he was taken for a liar by the other prisoners, his plan would be ruined.

It was an odd feeling that made the him wake up from the troubled thoughts that lingered in the Haradrim's head. Being disturbed by a one of the prisoners nudging him, he looked up. Who dared disturb him, when he was thinking of serious matters? He wanted to yell it out. It was too much. All of this, it was too much. Why couldn't he just return to his Lord? Why was it so difficult? Not at all aware of the transition; first being a part of a small company of prisoners, and now being surrounded by Orcs, he nudged back.

"What do you think you're doing, you filthy little piece of dirt!"

Suddenly, just before his very eyes, the escaped prisoner had turned into an Orc, who had drawn his gigantic blade. Wondering about what sick little trick this was, he looked desperately into every direction; searching for a familiar face. "I'm talking to you!" This rough voice seemed to attract some of the other orcs too, who all looked at him as if hungry. Rhând, who realised that he would be dead within seconds if he didn't say something, opened his mouth to speak. "I thought I saw something," he said quietly, thinking as he went on. "Do you not smell it?" He used the common tongue, as he knew that Orcs spoke it well and usually used it when talking to each other, as they had different accents depending on where they had their origins.

"Smell what?"

Being very careful about his manner of speaking, he tried formulating his speech in his head. Orcs cannot be trusted with this. I will have to wait for another opportunity to get away. All I can do now, is save myself, he thought, standing completely still. Seeing that the Orcs surrounding him were getting inpatient, he got a grip of himself, hoping that orcs were as stupid as the dwarves.

"There are strangers here. There are Enemies of the One. There are three small ones, I think... Ahhh," he said and sighed: "Yes, three. The smell of poison in this very air… Do you wish to breathe in such air?" he asked. The orcs broke into a rough laughter, all of them being bewildered by what Rhând told them. He didn't quite understand, however, and looked questioningly at them under his helmet.

"Are you saying there will be fresh flesh tonight?" It came from one of the biggest orcs, who was standing beside the one Rhând had nudged.

"Not only fresh flesh. Would you like to taste the flesh of a firstborn, maybe?" Rhând asked, giggling. He knew that he had them, all of them. It was only a matter of time before he would suggest that they were to split up and go looking for these strangers. It would all be perfect; he would escape from the Orcs, and the dwarves and the elves would be in great danger. Perhaps he would finally get even on Morogoth.

"What?!" The leader of the little band of orcs jumped forwards. "Firstborn flesh?!"

"Or elves, if you prefer" Rhând hissed.

Again all of them broke into a hysteric laughter. "You have an odd way with words, little Miss!" one of the orcs said, and the laughter returned.

The Haradrim, who was anxious to get away before being caught, started to doubt whether this was possible after all. They were too many. In fact, as he looked around, there were Orcs everywhere. Not knowing what to do, but being absolutely certain that he would have to do something, he tried once more.

"Shut up! I want some meat, you want some meat; we all want some meat! Let split up and find them, take them, torture them and eat them before it's too late; before they are gone!" Growing red with anger and helplessness, Rhând glanced at them.

"Let's find them. None are to take the tiniest bit of ‘em before everyone is gathered. I think it would be fun to play a game first, before they die."

Rhând sighed with relief.

"You!" The orc, who seemed to have a higher rank than the others, turned his gaze to Rhând, as the others were about to run into different directions looking for the enemies of the One. "You! Never tell me to shut up again! If you have lied about this, I will kill you myself. Never promise a hungry Orc fresh meat. Now, go!!"

He ran as fast as he could, not knowing what to do next.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash was swept up in the sway and grunt of the dark army, caught by the stench and heat of orc bodies pressed beyond the endurance of mortals to fulfill their captains’ commands. The torchlight glared in his eyes and swirled oily smoke at him. Grash coughed and reeled in the press, clutching for some familiar hand or support, but he was alone in a sea of enemies. That was the most dangerous time for him, for he was surprised and unthinking, wavering with shock and terror. A sudden blow from behind sent him flailing to one side, and a rough voice roared at him in the Black Speech to be more careful. A hairy hand with ragged yellowing claws seized his shoulder and spun him about. Grash just had the presence of mind to duck his head and pull his hood over his eyes. He could not see the face of the orc but he could feel the creature’s foul breath upon his face. “Watch where you’re going, maggot, or I’ll lick your heels with a whip!”

Grash had spent his life taking such abuse from these creatures and knew well how to deal with it. He shuffled as though cowed, and casting his voice into the rough register of an orc replied, “We’ve been marching for days, and I’m tired. Still, what the Eye demands we must give it, mustn’t we? Always the poor orcs are the ones as must pad it all out, while the captains and the higher ups get to wing it to the Gate. I’ll make it there, and be in time to skin a few rebels before you ever arrive!” He followed this with an ugly laugh. The orc slapped him on the back hard, in approval, and moved off.

The movement of the army was carrying Grash in the wrong direction, so he began trying to work his way back toward the path. He could not head there directly, for that would have been to march in the wrong direction, but by slowing his pace and slipping between the hulking forms of the orcs, he was able to make slow progress. The sky was lightening more and more as he went, and soon the protective cloak of night would be gone. He could pass for an orc in the dark, but in the dawn – even such as only came here – he was sure he could be found out.

He was nearing the beginning of the path, when a feeling of chilling terror came over him. His heart seized and he felt his breath come up short as he stumbled against the wall of the ravine. There was a pounding in his head like the beating of vast wings, and there came through it a cry of such malice and horror that for a time his mind and eyes went blind. Grash felt the army about him shudder as the flesh will at the touch of something dark and unknown, and without looking up he knew that one of the Dark Lord’s screechers had come upon his winged mount. There was a blast of foul air as the great beast passed over head, and the ravine echoed with the croak of the monster. Grash cowered against the wall, waiting for the Nazgûl to leave, but the blast of the beast’s wings grew and there was a murmur of dismay from the army. Grash looked about and watched as the vast form of the beast settled onto the ground in the midst of the army, which parted like insects fleeing a predator to allow it passage. A towering, nightmare form detached itself from the beast and moved forward toward a small group of orcs who moved forward to speak with their captain.

Grash was turning to go, when he caught sight of a pale and terrified face upon the fringes of the crowd. It was the Man, Jordo. He was locked in position, unable to look away from the Nazgûl lord, and in his abject fascination, he had allowed his cloak to slip away from his face somewhat, thus revealing him for who and what he was.

For a moment that lasted less than a heartbeat, Grash stood torn between two competing desires. The path to freedom lay an easy dash behind him. The coming of the Nazgûl had drawn the army’s attention and he could easily make it to the path unobserved. But before him was Jordo; it was only by the slimmest of luck that Grash had seen him before the orcs, who were more concerned with avoiding their dread lord, but the terrified youth had only seconds before he would be revealed. When he did act, it was without thought, and had he been asked to explain his decision, Grash could not have been able to put it into words. Forsaking the path, he rushed toward Jordo. He reached the youth easily, and putting his arm upon his shoulder sought to turn him about and bring him away, but at his touch the Man cried out and spun as though struck. Grash hushed him quickly, but at the same moment he felt a cold wave come over him and without looking he knew that the Nazgûl had noticed them both, and pierced their disguises.

Grash seized Jordo’s arm and whispered to him desperately. “No speaking. Be quiet. I talk with Screecher. You must pretend to be slave. Do not look at it!” They felt the presence of the Nazgûl come upon them like a bad dream, and Grash turned to face it. The cloaked figure loomed over them, filling them with dread and loathing of their very lives, but steeling himself Grash advanced to meet it. When he got to within an arm’s length of the form he fell to the ground and prostrated himself before it, crying out in the Black Speech, “Forgive me, forgive me, my Master! We have been slow in coming, do not take us to the Tower! Please, please, let us go on and serve the Lord as we might!” He kept up in this manner, crying as though he were in agony, pleading with the dread captain of the army.

A thin voice that cut like a blade came from within the folds of the cloak. “What are you doing here?” it demanded. “You are not part of my army. Speak now.”

Grash forced himself to look up into the void of darkness where a face should be. He could feel the creature’s formless eyes upon him as he responded. “We were sent to serve the garrison upon the high path. We were sent by the guard at Cirith Ungol. The orcs, they are needed at the Gate, and we are being sent to watch the paths. We will watch them well. We are loyal slaves to the Lord, loyal and good. We will help the orcs. Bring water, cook food." He kept talking, using his words as a mask to shield him from the will of the Nazgul, which he could feel pressing into him like a spear, slowly but surely penetrating his flesh and twitching about in his innards, looknig for the truth. Grash knew better than to pretend to be someone he was not; he could not lie to the Dark Lord's most powerful servants. But he did not have to lie. He had spent his life as a slave of Mordor, and it was as a slave of Mordor that he now spoke. He buried deep within him the new ideas and dreams of freedom, and companionship. He kept away from thy prying, torturing will of the dark one the image he had glimpsed of the tall Man with the star at his brow. Grash kept talking as he had been taught to speak, as the orcs had forced him to speak. He knew the part he was expected to play, knew it so well that it had almost become not a part in the Dark Lord's malicious play, but his own identity. He slipped into the persona of the pathetic slave as though it were a second skin, and he wore it about him, proudly displaying his servility to the Wraith.

The pressure being exerted on his will grew as his listener felt the presence of the areas in Grash's mind that he sought to keep hidden. Rather than fight the Nazgul, Grash gave way even more, filling his mind with the empty babble that now fell from his mouth like vomit. He cringed and squirmed upon the ground, pretending to be the animal-thing that his slavery had almost made him. But through it all he held on to two ideas: two images, really, so carefully concealed in the core of his will that to reach them the Black One would have to break his spirit. This was in its power, easily, but Grash hoped that he could forestall his opponent's interest long enough to survive. The first image he clung to was of the brief glimpse he had received of that far green land, beyond the walls of this country. He held on to the picture of leaves and sun, and felt upon his withered cheeks the gentle caress of a distant wind. The other image surprised him in its clarity and power, but he did not have the time or energy to wonder at it. In his mind's eye he beheld the face and mein of Darash. Her stern eyes and slightly crooked mouth lent him the strength he lacked.

“Enough,” the voice cut through his thoughts like a razor, and Grash felt his innards shrink away. There was a silence as the Nazgûl regarded the slaves before him. They were insignificant worms like all his Lords slaves, and yet there was something about them that had sent a warning into him. But he was distracted by other matters. There were reports about of spies having breached the mountains and descended into Mordor. The garrison of Cirith Ungol had been destroyed. An army marched toward the Black Gate beneath the banner of the West. And, the unthinkable, his own King had fallen before the walls of the Gondorians, brought down by the insulting hand of a woman, and Halfling. The gibbering of the slave upon the ground had grown wearisome to him, and without a word he turned his back upon the sniveling form and moved back to his captains.

Before the orcs could recover from their own terror, Grash sprang to his feet and taking Jordo by the arm, urgently pulled him toward the path. As they reached its beginning there was a clamor of horns and the army began to move onward once more. Grash pushed and pulled the youth up the first flights of the path, hoping that the others had made it through safely.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis felt herself pulled down, a hand wrenching fiercely at her arm, and numbly she fell to her knees in the churned, dusty road of the path, her head bowed. But her eyes remained open, staring at the path, and as the dark prescence moved closer, she froze completely, fists clenched so that her ragged nails dug into her palms, the pain a distraction from the fear that she felt welling up.

Fear.

No.

It was not the voice that Raeis heard in her head: she had not heard it since they had come away from the stones, and she felt the space where it should be like a gaping hole, a space where as dear companion - no, more than that, where a part of herself - had fallen away. Fallen into the shadow of the stones... She jolted as she heard this new prescence. It was not herself, Raeis, who spoke, it was something more. Greater. Some half memory floated up from her past life, a mention of beings greater than any man, greater even than the first born themselves. Fourteen great spirits, powerful and wonderful, and more beautiful in the awe they inspired than Arda itself. The Lords of the West, the Valar, filled Raeis's mind, and they were so beautiful that the very world itself seemed to stop; it was they who had sustained her through the stones, and her eyes filled with tears in gratitude and wonder.

Until a dark shadow fell over her mind.

As the black, cloaked shape of the Nazgul passed in front of Raeis, casting a shadow on both her mind and her crouching body, fear struck the elf once more, and with it there came a powerful, gripping sensation, as if her mind was held in some ice-cold set of talons, dangled by the tail on the claw of a lazy, cruel cat. And the cat wanted to play. She closed her eyes tightly, willing it away. Despite her Haradrim disguise, Raeis felt suddenly naked in the harsh, sere prescence of the Nazgul. Blindly, beyond reason or logic, she flailed inwardly, struggling for an escape, random words and sequences throwing themselves through her mind as if to try to confuse the Nazgul...until it settled on one word.

"Yavanna." Her whisper was barely audible, little more than mouthing the word.

A sudden, terrible hiss emitted from the space above Raeis, like a sharp indraw of breath into long-dry lungs, and the dark shape stopped dead in front of her. Raeis stiffened but did not move. In her mind she held the image which had come with the word, a fair, tall woman, the sun seeming to shine from behind her body, making her glow radiantly and lighting her cascading blonde hair. She smiled gently at the elf in her mind's eye, and her hands spread wide, as if ready to pour forth all many of wonders...

"Nienna; Mandos..."

The vision faded as Raeis whispered the next two words, and two more impossible beings presented themselves: one a male, cloaked and wise, hard, but not unkind, lines set into his face. Around his waist was a thick rope, as on a scribe's habit, and from this hung a keychain, with one giant key. Shadows seemed to move around his body as if there were others near him, just on the edge of sight. Beside him stood a woman, also cloaked, but her hood pulled up over her head, stark against her pale face, wavy lengths of hair falling to her waist from under the hood on either side of her face. Her dark garb and drawn features spoke of a widow in deep mourning, but as Raeis saw her, her lips were lifted into a melancholy smile, as reassuring in it's soft gentleness as Yavanna's bright radiance.

The Nazgul turned from it's path and stalked slowly towards her, but this time Raeis didn't even flinch: the cloaked pair in her mind now moved aside to be replace with a smith, rustic and bearded, a hammer clasped in one giant hand and a metal chain in the other, and a man garbed in fine, rich clothing but whose stern eyes moved like the sea itself. Why it seemed there were even creatures moving in the grey depths... Raeis smiled to herself in a sort of childish simplicity, unaware of all that was around her as she recognised the pair, and named them in a whisper that was now growing in strength. "Aule, and Ulmo..."

From in the depths of his cloak the Nazgul's clawlike fist shot out with lightning quick speed, the great metal gauntlet seizing her throat in it's inescapable grip. Raeis went limp as it wrenched her from her kneeling position until she was a few inches above the ground, held in the asphixiatingly tight deathgrip, the cold void of nothingness staring down at her. Raeis's eyes didn't open, and she stayed completely still - save her lips. Once more they moved as she struggled to speak again, the words springing to her lips as if she was possessed.

"Varda...Elentari..." It was a dry croak but it was enough for the Nazgul to hear, and the image, along with the others, strong and clear enough in her mind to incriminate her. The creaking hiss of the Nazgul and the sliding, silver sound of it unsheathing it's sword was suddenly louder than anything around it: orcs froze, cowering away from it as the hiss rose in a wordless curse. Raeis's companions froze in their tracks. But Raeis did nothing, her rack thin body limp as she opened her one tawny eye to look straight into the soulless void of the creature's eyes as she struggled against the harsh grip to complete the list of the Aratar with the name it would hate the most in an almost silent whisper: the Lord of the Breath of Arda, Master of the Winds and fiercest enemy of Melkor...

"Manwë."

The Nazgul screamed, throwing back it's helmetted head to give a fierce, outraged screech as Raeis felt herself slipping away into unciousness - and felt a pair of hands gripping her ankles.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

As the Nazgul shrieked so did Zuromor's hands grab the fair Elf's feet. Wgen she rested on the ground Zuromor sttos in front of her with his blade drawn, pointing at the Nazgul. He knew he could not speak Orc so he whispered as to only be heard by the dark creature.

"You will leave this one be, and go back to your path."

In a hissing voice it replied. "Only one do I listen to, only one do I obey. And it is not you! No one can stop my wrath, save for Him!" As he said "Him" Zuromor saw clearly in his mind a lidless eye.

"Maybe so, but this one won't be overcome by you."

"Fool! Move along Orcs....I will deal with this one!"

Zuromor held his blade in front of him and waited.

[Kransha]

Brór was walking unusually slowly. Even though the orcs around him moved in a maelstrom, at an unsteady and uneven pace, drifting back and forth, Brór was not carried by their movement or borne one the host, he simply drifted like a log in water, aimless and going nowhere. He only wished to join the throng, rabid and dark as it might be. He was a part of it, in his opinion, and deserved no more than the company of Mordor scum. As he waded into the orc host, he could not help but be severed from the rest of the escapee party, all separated on the plain and wide road. And, to Brór’s unwholesome dismay, the orcs were not leaderless, but commanded by a Ringwraith, one of the Nine, a seemingly immortal being of darkness and doom. Looking upon the black figure with shadows whirling as tornadoes about him, Bror’s heart fell to the earth and he wished to sink to his knees and tear his mind from his skull, though he did not. His pessimism was so overwhelming that the madness did not take him. He was just one, a brick in the walls of Mordor, not one to be trifled with by Nazgûl mighty. There was a very minor vein of light, a worm of golden sun in his shaded, frozen heart that yearned for freedom and release, but Bror had no reason to grant this wish. Turning his head from the Wraith as it swept over its armies and alighted on the earth, Bror continued on, trying to move through the host…but soon enough, shrill sounds and commotion were the Wraith had landed swayed Brór’s eyes and heart.

Something was happening. The Nazgûl’s cry and dark aura could be heard and seen through the horde of orcs. Many cowered and moved back, forcing Brór away from the happenstance. He cursed his shortness, cursed it with all his power, and eagerly leapt to see the commotion. Some orcs were hurriedly scattering, allowing some bare glances of what lay before the Nazgûl. With horror and pain in him, Bror realized what figure it was with his sword raised towards the Ringwraith. It was Zurumor! A million thoughts, rivers of jolting thunder rippling through him, coursed into his mind in a second and faster. The dwarf knew that this was his companion, his comrade, though he had condemned the man. Brór owed him something, if at all, and that was life. A fatherly instinct took hold when Bror saw Zurumor doing something so foolhardy, but how could he, a dwarf separated from the lad and his attacker, save anyone from anything? He could not charge the wraith. Zurumor would be dead before he came close and he himself would be cut down by orcs…

Then it hit him! It was the orcs who would be his salvation. A distraction! Separate Zurumor from the Nazgûl; cause commotion, distraction, diversion, and plant seeds of chaos in the host. If this did not serve to fully distract the Nazgûl, it would at least serve to inconvenience him for a long enough period. Not thinking, no thought in his emptied head, Brór’s leg unconsciously shot out, right in front of an orc beside him. The orc, walking overly fast through the crowd, tripped and fell face first into the mud below. Growling in anger and dark annoyance, he shot up, drawing some strange looks from his kindred, and spun on the short ‘orc’ who had sent him on his journey to the ground. Bror got a good look at the unnamed orc’s face, taking in the disheartening sight of his glistening, sharpened teeth.

“You! You bloody tripped me!” He said, not even trying to conceal a throaty grunt of hatred.

Brór called upon every ounce of extraneous knowledge crammed into his skull. He had spent nineteen long years in the damnable Tower of Cirith Ungol, a slave to the wretched spawn of orc-kind. He must’ve picked something up of their tongue, of their nature, of anything. Where was Grash? Why was that infernal man not where he was needed? It didn’t matter, though, where Grash and the others were. What mattered was now. Now words of kindness or gentility would simply allow Brór to slip away unnoticed now that he’d made his move. Sauron’s lack of command to him proved that he already had the seed of darkness in him, so could he not use it for a better purpose. Mustering a theatrical flourish, Brór screwed up his hidden face, clenched his fists so tightly that his iron-clad digits dug into the flesh of his palm and bled, and took on the vile persona of the creatures he’d learned to hate even more on each day of his life. In a cold, raspy, dank voice he said, “What’s it to you, pushdug?”

The orc’s yellow-tinged eyes seemed to undulate with rage suddenly, his two pointed ears quivering involuntarily, and he raised his one hand unclad in a gauntlet or metal armament, extending the forefinger and pressing it menacingly against Brór’s puffed out chest. “What’d you call me, runt?” He growled, a low and murderous snarl trying to escape his thin throat. Brór growled, delicately though, as he was not suited to orcish nature, but managed to continue his ill-tempered mood, fueled by anger and the lack of time, which abraded him even now as his left eye continually flitted to the unseen place where Zurumor and Raeis were. He had to hurry, or both their lives were forfeit, whether he cared or not about them.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He spat sarcastically, causing the orc to flinch, “I thought that was your name. It goes well with your face.”

That did it, just as Brór assumed it would. The orc’s eyes bulged from his misshapen skull, his nostrils flared furiously, and his curled fist shot out. Brór, expecting the rage-induced maneuver, nimbly ducked. He was short enough to simply squat down and waddle madly past the orc as his fist found the wrong target: another orc. As soon as the second beast had recovered from the blow, his syrupy black blood oozing from one corner of his mouth, he pounced on the offender and assailant, sending them both to the ground just behind Bror. Another orc was pulled into the accidentally and Bror barely managed to dodge his groping fingers as he fell. The dwarf scurried onward, pushing other orcs forcefully aside but moving quickly enough for them not to notice who was committing the act. Most of the enraged beasts turned, falling on each other with the current brawl as incentive enough to go mad. Soon, a small, central portion of the grand host had been enveloped in anarchic chaos. Brór dodged with all the agility he bore past the orcs and their primitive fisticuffs, working his way towards the Nazgul and his prey as the small commotion became a large and eye-drawing distraction.

At last he saw them. The Elf female, Raeis, lay sprawled on her chest in the dirt, half-pulled up (presumably by Zurumor, who stood before her with his sword extended. The Nazgûl was before them both, but Zurumor’s intervention had separated. All heads turned to see the wild fray of orcs, including the hooded blackness of the Ringwraith. That was all that was needed. The orcish hordes in combat soon began to fight back and forth across the plain, diving, lunging, and falling. Several tackled beast collapsed before Zurumor, cutting off the Nazgûl. Soon, more were in the way. Seeing his opportunity, Bror launched himself up and forward, wrapping his bulky arms around Zurumor. He made a feeble grab for Raeis on the ground, but could not latch on. Orc were in the way, everywhere around them, the masses pushing Brór and Zurumor away from Raeis. The dwarf, grasping the only alternative, tugged Zurumor in the opposite direction, away from Raeis and the confused Nazgûl. Soon, there was considerable distance between them, though they were still in the thick of the fray.

“C’mon.” he bellowed into the lads ear as he pulled him along, “We need to find a safer spot.”

Suddenly, Zurumor began to bat madly at his savior, yanking his arm from Brór’s fumbling grip, he stumbled back and spun on his heel. Brore had no idea what the mortal had in mind, but knew that it was an ill plan when Zurumor suddenly set off in a dead sprint towards in the direction of Raeis and the Nazgûl. Brore, not thinking but only resolving not to let the boy he’d extricated from the jaws of death dive back into them, leapt forward, into the fray of brawling orcs, and tackled Zurumor to the ground, holding him there with his weight (augmented by much armor). Zurumor twisted and turned to free himself beneath the dwarf, trying to free himself with all his might. “No! Get off.” He cried, anger and sadness in his voice.

“Do you have a death wish, lad?” Bror roared; his voice still almost overwhelmed by the shrieking, grunting madness of the raging Mordor uruks. Zurumor tore one arm free of Brór and thrust the elbow at the dwarf. It struck the nose of Brór’s helmet, causing the rusty contraption to reverberate like a bell. The man freed his second arm a moment later, his legs and balled fists flailing madly as he grasped his sword again, which lay unattended in the mud. Soon, he was on his knees, struggling to his feet, with Brór stumbling about behind.

“Raeis will die!” He cried, his eyes widened and wet with either rage or some dominion of misery, “We must help her!” An orc with a knife through his bloody throat fell in front of the man just then, separating him from Bror. Seconds later, two orcs, locked in a death-grip, staggered past them, their flying weapons and arms slashing the air close to Brór’s face. Doggedly, the dwarf snaked his way past them, his hand stretching to its utmost length and closing on Zurumor’s wrist. “She will die with or without your help.” He cried, pulling the man’s sweat-soaked face to his own. The man’s breath, usually heated, was as cold as ice, though the air around them both was as warm as Orodruin’s fires, if one were to play with metaphor on the matter. Brór’s other hand, now clutching the second ax in his belt, latched onto Zurumor’s other arm. “If the orcs do not trample her into the ground,” he said sternly, holding the man firmly, “the Nazgûl will slay her in his wroth. His breath has probably slain her already. Look to your legs now, boy, it is too late for her.”

“I can’t let her die!” He nearly shrieked at Bror, pushing him back again. Bror’s ax went to his throat, if only to draw him back, though the blade cut a very narrow gash in his cheek by accident. The man did not even notice the bead of blood drawn on his face. “Then you will die with her! The light you seek is nowhere to be found, use darkness as your cover and flee!” Brór roared, unconsciously shaking Zurumor, hoping to free the poor fool from his delusion, his stupor, and his hope. If he wanted to live, he had to lose hope, just as Brór had lost hope. He had to abandon light and love and goodly things if he wanted to survive the day, nay, the next moments. The orc army fell into further chaos around them, but Zurumor’s eyes, fierce and empowered, never moved from Brór’s. His arm, sword in hand, fell away from Brór’s and he threw himself backward, away from the hindering dwarf. Strangely stupefied, Brór did not try to stop again as he turned away.

“I don’t care.” He whispered, only loud enough for Brór to hear, “If I must die, it will be in the light…with her.” And he disappeared into the crowd.

That was it…He didn’t care…He didn’t care if he died for an Elf, an Elf who he couldn’t save and couldn’t save him…What was this then, righteousness? Honor? It was folly as Brór saw it, but not as the mortal man saw it. They looked through different eyes, but, for a moment in time the noise of battle and death was overruled the steady thump of Brór’s cold heart in his ears. Could he, a wretched dwarf and pawn of Sauron die for an Elf? Should he? Would he? Could he? What was he to do, here and now, in this time of pain, strife, and war? Challenge Sauron…or join him without question. He had been given the chance to save one of his companions, and that foolhardy youth had squandered his chance at life. But, perhaps this was not the end, for Zurumor, for Raeis, or for Brór. Raeis was doomed without help, and perhaps even with it…but there was always a chance…and Brór, the dwarf mastered by darkness, would not die in darkness. His feet moved, his ax flew up, and his eyes caught sight of Zurumor, hurrying onward.

“Wait up, lad.” He cried, alerting Zurumor to his presence. “You won’t far without the strength of a good Dwarf to aid you.”

Neither had time to do more than interchange looks, for Zurumor was occupied now by the visage of Raeis, crumpled on the ground, her limbs foully contorted. Her chest heaved up and down reassuringly, but her face was pale white, her eyes shut, and a horrible black mark on her throat that looked to be a handprint. Zurumor knelt in mid-stride, scooping her up, but the orcs had clumped together in this area, still battling each other, and crowded over Raeis. Many came near to stepping on the fragile, injured form. Brór, seeing naught else to do, swung his ax in mad arcs; cutting down an uruk that ventured to near Zurumor and his charge. In the chaos, no one noticed. Zurumor, once he had the limp Elf in his arms, struggled back again, thanking all that he held dear that the Nazgul was not near. The Wraith had gone from view…or so it seemed…

A horrendous screech alerted Brór and Zurumor to the true whereabouts of the Nazgûl. Brór’s eyes, overshadowed by a spiky orcish helm, looked up into the red-rimmed sky, ripe with lightning blades. Silhouetted, like Morgoth incarnate, against the heavens was the Nazgûl, again on his steed. The night-black wings of the murderous fellbeast were spread and the Ringwraith’s armored arm was extended, a sable sword in hand. The claws of the wraith’s mount grabbed at the air as its wings flapped, bearing it down. The nonexistent eyes of the Nazgûl must have been directed at the two primary offenders, the man and the dwarf, since Brór could feel the unadulterated pain of its look piercing his mind. The other orcs still fought around them, but silence seemed to be surrounding them as well, a terrible silence that chilled Brór to the bone.

The Nazgûl was descending…only the grace of the Valar could stand in its way.

[CaptainofDespair]

The vast army of the Orc plodded forth, sweeping the heavy, ashen dust of the wasteland earth into Mordor’s hot, dense air. This rancid, near poisonous fume that rose in great clouds, was enough to weaken even the strongest creature. Even the orcs, who had become accustomed to the harsh realm of Mordor, had to beware the dust, and those who were not regarded as somewhat well off within the circles of orc leadership, were subjected to choking and hacking on the lung-searing ash that swirled through the atmosphere.

The Elf himself, though he had spent seventeen years in the captivity of Cirith Ungol, was still weighed down by the horrid, smokey fog that surrounded him, and burned at his lips, seizing entry to his lungs, and slowly killing him from within. The Morgul Vale was a relief for him however, as the ashen clouds from Orodruin were not as concentrated in this region. But the high mountains, that encircled the locale, forbid the release of those particles that were heaved towards the burning, red sky that hung over Mordor like a heavy, omnipresent shadow, by the ironshod feet of the Snaga, and Uruks. His Haradrim scarf had provided some benefit through this whole ordeal, filtering some of the abhorred fumes from the air, but now it was wearing thin, and the dirt and grime began to seep its way into the fabric of the cloth, choking it, and sending its filthy messengers into the lungs of the Elf.

As he slowly progressed past the ranks of the oncoming orc army, the dust that was churned up, began to grasp for his lungs, clenching them with putrid hands, tightening like a vice, and forcing the Elf to emit a horrid cough from his lips. At first it was almost uncontrollable, as he hacked and wheezed at an incessant pace. But ever so gradually, he began to retake the reins from the air that obstructed his breathing. Yet, he was vulnerable in this time, for he was expending a great deal of his energies to ‘put out the fire’ that was burning within his chest. To even attempt to recover from the spasmodic contortions of his muscles, as they vainly tried to withstand the assault the air was pressing upon him, he was forced to halt his movement. This made him all the more noticeable. As he clenched his chest, still gasping for a fresh breath, out of the thousands of minuscule particles that hung in the air around him, a wisp of cloth fell from his face, revealing the elf behind the mask. It was only that singular, solitary moment in which he was uncovered, that spoiled his disguise, as a hapless orc wandered into his path.

This orc was not the smartest of orcs, and he was not particularly good at following orders. Having been set upon the outremer of the throng that carried him in the army, he managed to disorient himself, and stumbled upon the weakened elf, who was caught staring into the dirt. The Orc, seeing that this Haradrim was in fact, not a Haradrim, drew his sword, hoping for a quick kill, and a meal, of whatever this creature was. But as he bumbled his way towards the Elf, a great commotion erupted to his rear, as several orcs began to stir about, finally boiling over the cauldron of emotion, and letting loose into a fierce skirmish. This distraction allowed the Immortal to compose himself, and regain his unraveling disguise.

As Morgoroth rose from the dirt, caked in its dark earthen matter, he saw the most terrible of beings. Hooded, and masked in endless fear, sat a Nazgul upon his vile Fell Beast. Standing defiant below the evil steed, stood a man, who Morgoroth could not recognize in his dimmed vision. Emotion stirred in his heart, as he felt compassion, and pity for the man. He swiftly rose, empowered with new vigor, and sought to drive himself between the man and the Nazgul. The orcs continued to battle, distracting the Wraith for the time. The Dark Elf hoped this would provide him time to save the man from death. But as he made his way to the line, he saw him go down into the dirt. He thought death had struck, but it was not so. His sensitive ears managed to gather a few words, the names Raeis and Zurumor, and the tone of a certain dwarf. But his comrades’ plight was not yet through, for Zurumor cast himself back into the fray, seeking to protect Raeis, whom he had come to have a deepening affection for. The Elf began to mutter to himself, debating his course of action.“Death this child seeks, to save one from feeling a wrath unending...” He let his head sink, and a familiar voice entered his mind. The memories of his father, long since buried in the chasm of his mind. The last time he saw his father, he left behind a single message, a reason to as why he was to go off to fight in land so far off, and eventually fall victim to the horrors of war. “We elves are long-lived, and we do not suffer that which men do, and I go to fight, to ensure their lives are lived well.” The Elf lifted his head at this memory, and glared at the Nazgul, who was now coming down from the burning heavens, preparing to deliver its hellish wrath unto the man Zurumor, and the elf woman he was protecting.

Hissing and snarling came the Fell Beast, as it descended, lashing its disgusting tongue about, and exhaling a carrion reek onto those who were in its path. Mounted upon this most horrifying steed, was a being of hate and death, one of the most terrifying servants of the Dark Lord. They slowly came to renewed hover, as the wings of the beast flapped calmly in the sea of chaos that stirred about it, blowing up the ash that was caked in layers upon the earth. Hope was lost for those who stood before the Winged Death, as they awaited his judgement, which would come swiftly and terribly. For a few moments, it sat silent, scanning its victims. This was all the time the Elf needed to prepare himself. As the Wraith raised the weapon of its choice, a pale sword, which gleamed with a hate gathered over many centuries, Morgoroth made his own choice, and loosed a single feathered shaft into the neck of the Nazgul’s mount. The hideous creatures reeled from this unexpected pain, and it thrashed about in the air. But its master was soon to recover, and it took notice of he who had defied the command of death.

Standing alone, the Elf waited for his enemy to come forth. The Nazgul was in the midst of killing a defiant man, who had deserved his death, but this Haradrim had done worse, and he ordered his mount higher into the sky, preparing to descend upon this new rebellious foe. Little time passed between the striking of the shot, and the Wraith’s coming. Fury was in its mind, and it wished to do quick justice upon this fiend, for he other, more important business to attend to. As he lowered himself from the sky, and came to a hover above the Elf, a strange sensation overcame it, one it had only recently felt. Yet, the Nazgul did not dwell on this, for it had not the time for such trivial matters. Now, it spoke to the Haradrim who stood before. “You dare defy the will of your master?!” The Wraith hissed at this, hoping to strike a nerve of fear, so as it could at least enjoy the kill. “You are a mere mortal, and your trifling in these matters that do not concern you, will cost you your life.” The Elf gazed up at his foe, defying the creature yet again. “I am no mortal, scum of Sauron...” Vehement hissing erupted from within the hooded mask of the being, as it was confounded at this second showing of defiance. With a flash of his hand, the Elf pulled away a bit of the scarf that covered his face, and he spoke a second time. “I am an Elf, and on my honor, you shall not take my comrades lives, without first slaying me.” A final volley of hissing rolled forth from within the cloaked demon, as it drew its glimmering blade.

Morgoroth had forfeited his life, exchanging the fates of Zurumor and Raeis for his own. As he prepared to suffer the wrath of his enemy, he caught a glimpse of his allies, as the man pulled his elf friend to her feet, and pulled her to the side, where Bror was now hidden, as best he could. The Elf now sang a silent prayer, hoping that his doom would come quickly. With sword poised to strike, the Wraith let forth one more hiss, nearly inaudible, and then it drove its blade home, searing the Elf’s flesh, as it slashed through the skin just above his heart. Chance had saved his life, as the blade narrowly missed piercing his heart, as it glanced of the bone in his shoulder. The pain was great, but the Elf knew not to cry out, and instead silently slumped against a small rock, bleeding profusely, and near death. The Nazgul knew it had not finished him, but a sudden burst of flame, and the silent call of its master, who was now in great peril, summoned the Wraith elsewhere, and it rose quickly, soaring into the heaves, only to come swooping back down over the army, letting out a vicious cry, one to summon the host to greater haste. And it left Morgoroth there, clinging to his now bloodied rock, as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness...

[Bêthberry]

Darash swore at the never-ending onslaught of struggles and battles. There was no respite, no safe house, where they could recover their strength after each successive event of castasclismic turmoil. They lurched on; she lurched on, inexpressably tired and weary. She had been swept up by the oppressive, marching rhythm of the orc army and could not keep step with either Grash, who had been beside her, or Lyshka, who had followed them through the Stones. Nor had she been able to keep track of any of the prisoners. Her head hung low, she assumed the lumbering tread of the orcs, the vile creatures she had come to know and despise in her captivity. She was as tall as they, although more slender and lithe, but at least the layers of pilfered orcish coverings lent her some bulk. The stink of offending flesh was almost overwhelming; whatever meats these creatures ate, it sullied their being, mingling acrid odour with the foul stench of rancid decay. Darash shook her head violently, shoving an orc away from her and incurring a curse which rained on her with spittle. She was nearly tempted to reply in the degraded speech of the orcs, but she overcame the desire and merely gave the creature a shrug and frowning stare. Her skin was not as dark as his, but enough, given her clothing and demeanour, to benefit her disguise.

She had been a hunter, never the hunted, and now she was learning the tricks and feints of the pursued to save herself. Slowly, as she stumbled forward in that surly mob, she began to apprise the situation. She looked around desperately for the others, feeling the unsettledness and fear of the unknown. Things were happening, the meaning of which she did not understand. She felt as if she were the sedges at the side of lakes, thrown violently here and yon by both wind and wave and not knowing what to expect. The Dark Lord's Stones had shaken her, had taught her that this new world was unlike her old, had meaning and values and dangers she could not expect or anticipate. She could only sway and hope to find a direction. And look to the knowledge and ways of others.

A wild melee caught her attention, as orcs began battling orcs. She edged her way around the chaos, eyes darting to survey the perimeter, if indeed it could be said to have a perimeter. She could make out the pygmy Brór flailing about, trying, trying to pull a reluctant Zurumor away from a creature, the like of which she had never seen or imagined. A crinkling itch of torment picked at her, as if needles penetrated her entire body, as she watched a winged creature with a hollow cloak cruise over them. It sucked the air out of the sky and Darash nearly fainted.

As she regained her sense, the creature was climbing up and away, higher in the sky and she saw Raeis--Raeis!--collapsed. There was another, she was not sure who--the other one, Morgoroth! Something had happened. She saw two who needed her aid, but no one was around her. Holding her hood over her face, she lumbered through the crowd towards the others, wishing somehow she could give a sign, any sign, to Lyshka or Grash to find her, to help the others.

[alaklondewen]

The terrible winged beast soared up and to the north, leaving the Easterling woman to exhale the putrid air she had held in her lungs by the trembling fear the Nazgul forced upon all those in his presence. Raising her head to the sky, Lyshka quickly pulled her hood tighter around her face to cover her features. The Orcs ahead of her were still brawling, although the captains were working to bring what order could be accomplished by the filthy creatures.

She would have to think and move quickly to escape this mess she had found herself amidst. Keeping her hood tight, she darted between the soldiers moving toward and around the chaos. The path Grash had pointed toward earlier lay to their left…all she needed to do was make her way over and out of the ranks as they passed the brawlers. Ducking between bodies, Lyshka could see the road split and she glanced toward the head of the army. Her eyes landed on a surprising scene. Her companions had been revealed. Brór struggled with Zurumor. It appeared the man was reaching toward the ground, but Lyshka was unable from her position to see at what he lunged.

The woman’s dark eyes darted from the scene to the path and back. As she considered continuing her departure and making her way up the path, she caught sight of another figure moving between the she and the Dwarf. This being crouched like the Orc but did not move with such crudeness. Maybe sensing Lyshka’s attention, the hooded head rose and turned from side to side as though searching. Craning her neck, the Easterling caught a glimpse of the dark skin beneath the layers. This was not the rough and beaten flesh of the Orc men. Then an eye flashed from under the disguise, and Lyshka was filled with the only kind of joy or happiness she had felt since being released. It was Darash! Immediately, the woman plowed back into the mix and move as quickly as she could between the soldiers.

As she tried to bypass the fighting, she was jostled and shoved several times, but the woman kept moving with hardened resolve. Keeping her body hunched, only her eyes could be seen under her hood, but she looked at no one and growled deeply in her throat whenever she was manhandled. Within moments she found herself within arm’s reach of the exotic woman. Lyshka’s hand shot out and took hold of Darash’s right elbow. The woman pulled her arm roughly away without turning to meet the gaze of the one who touched her. Lyshka tried again and this time she gently squeezed Darash’s long limb and slowly pulled her own hood to one side so that the taller woman might see her identity.

[Bêthberry]

"Ah, Ly--" Darash nealy called out in her joy and relief at finding one of her companions. She was knocked to the side by an orc trying to get away from the brawling, but luckily she was knocked right into Lyshka's path. It would look natural and normal for them to have words together.

Feinting irritation, the two engaged in a pantomime of threats and taunts and raised fists at each other, which enabled them to try, as best they could given their lack of knowledge of the Common Tongue, to explain their position. Lyshka still had her sense of direction; she knew where Grash's path was and unobstrusively pointed it out to Darash. For her part, the Amazon whispered Raeis's name and nodded towards the spot where Morgoroth had made his sacrifice. Luckily, the arrival of the hissing, terrifying, flying creature had confused all the orcs and some hidden command had drawn their attention elsewhere, so the threat of discovery was overcome for the most part.

The two women, hunched over with hoods covering their heads, encumbered by the thick, heavy, crudely-worked leather of their orcish jerkins, moved in a zigzag fashion over towards the now still body of the elf. They could not risk a call to either Raeis or Morgoroth but they saw out of the corner of their eyes Brór's success with Zuromor. Jeren, where Jeren?, thought Darash to herself as they neared Morgoroth. She suddenly caught sight of Aldor and froze for a moment as the sensation of needles pricking her body was revived, the same sensation she felt when this thing called a Wraith came overhead. She risked a glance at Lyshka, who had seen Aldor also, but she could not tell if the Easterling woman felt the same sensation. Slowly they were making their way towards the striken elf.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka met the dark woman’s concerned gaze. Narrowing her eyes, the Easterling looked back to the man, Aldor. He did not see Lyshka or Darash. As she studied his face momentarily, Lyshka thought she caught a look of…could it be?...satisfaction? cross his face. She shook the idea from her mind as the women had more pressing matters to attend.

The elves could easily be seen now. Raeis lay pale on the ground…her body limp. Morgoroth was close, unconscious and still. Could he be dead? Lyshka felt her heart pull at the thought of the only beauty in this horrible land being destroyed like a candle’s flame snuffed by the Dark Lord’s fingers. The Easterling was unable to determine whether life still reigned in their bodies from her distance, but she knew the women must move them either way. If they still lived, they would be trampled soon, yet if death had found them, they would need to be honored in what ways the company could in this dark land.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor and Bror moved in unison with the orcs. Zuromor feared for Raeis and wanted to go back to her but the sea of orcs permitted no such acts. Over head the Nazgul moved forward at great pace, rushing to the will of his Master. Zuromor waited patiently and marched forward.

When he saw an opening he positioned himself behind Bror and marched faster, forcing himself to trip over him. The orc army walked past and over them, and Zuromor used his body as a shield for Bror. When they all had passed Zuromor had been stepped on several times. After a long pause he forced himself up and ran back to Raeis.

He held her in his arms and prayed she would still be alive, that he had not failed.

"Zuromor?"

As she weakly spoke his name his eyes filled with tears and they held each other in the burning heat that resembled the heat of their hearts.

[Novnarwen]

Rhând

All in all, he was happy about his accomplishments thus far: he'd managed to sneak off, still very alive, and he had made some of the Orcs aware of strangers in the army. He grinned evilly, as he walked hurriedly around and about, trying to figure out what he was to do next. He knew he would have to find the others eventually, and return to them, but something was keeping him. The thought of being so close to his goal, such as now, but still return to he prisoners, where he would have to find another opportunity to return to his master, annoyed him. It was strange how there seemed to be obstacles constantly, and how that hindered him from getting away. It was rather unfair, Rhând thought. However, realising that returning with nothing, in this case; no escaped prisoners, would not aid him in accomplishing his intention; becoming once more accepted as a loyal and devoted servant, he convinced himself that this was not it. He would have to prove it. That's why I can't leave them now. I must return and pretend as nothing. Just for a little while more...

He slowed down his pace. He thought he'd seen one of the prisoners. He turned away, grinning. Here, right before him, another opportunity, which was also extremely tempting, was presented to him. In few seconds he could shout, and it would be over; he would win. But he restrained himself; he could not, and would not return to his master in this state. Who would want a single Haradrim, who in reality was believed to be a traitor? Who would believe him now, if he couldn't convince them?

Returning his gaze to the familiar face, he discovered to his surprise that it wasn't only one. The women! He tried looking beyond, wanting to see if everyone was there and had found each other. Letting his gaze wander, he swore he could see something or someone was lying on the ground. He grinned, hoping it was Morogoth.

"YOU!" Rhând turned away from the women, as the rough voice coming from behind made him jump in surprise.

"He's over here, fellas!" Rhând heard an orc say.

All of a sudden, he found himself facing the same orcs he'd faced just earlier. By the look of them, something told the Haradrim that they weren't exactly happy. Shaking with fear, as he had not taken this possible event into consideration, he stepped backwards. He cursed. Why hadn't he thought of this, this 'reunion'?

"You! You promised us fresh meat!" the orc in front of him, the same as he had nudged, growled.

Think fast, think fast.

"Aye, Sir! I leave them to you, and yours," he said slowly, cursing yet again under his breath. He pointed towards the women. "There! There is your flesh, under the little costumes!" Grinning maliciously, he watched the orcs and their reaction towards the discovery of food. They nudged each other, pointing.

"Come on! We don't want the meat to be spilled!" The other orcs, surrounding what seemed like the leader, grew wild by this announcement, and without offering Rhând another look, or thought, they charged forwards. Feeling the ground tremble under his very feet, he watched the orcs, seven of them, run towards the defenceless women. What a pleasure .. I'm finally going to witness them die, Rhând thought, being satisfied. He only hoped none of the women, or any of the other prisoners, had seen what he had done.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Every ragged breath, though dustfilled and half stifled, was like the first Raeis had ever taken. Zurumor held the limp elf in his strong grip as he staggered away from the fray, and she let her head rest against his chest, her fingers lacing behind his neck, and every inch of his body which pressed against hers was precious and she relished it, trying to dispell the cold, cold sensation around her neck where the Nazgul's hand had gripped so tightly. This warmth...it was different to the warmth of that merciless, burning sun: it was more like the inward strength and light which she had felt when the Valar came to her, but weaker - precious but fragile. She needed it, and clung hungrily to Zurumor. Suddenly a cry came from nearby and he looked around, and stumbled as he did so. Raeis fell but recovered herself surprisingly quickly, rolling lithely and coming up on one knee. But immediately she did so, she winced and her hand came to her throat: a black mark, shaped like a hand, was still seared into her flesh, and burnt with cold fire. As the Nazgul screamed above, she felt it suddenly intensify for a split second and gasped. Zurumor came to her side, concerned. "What is wrong?"

Raeis did not speak, her lips moving in vain to form words that her sore and crushed throat refused to provide. But she felt also the strength inside her, the strength she had felt from those strange beings who she had seen in her mind so very clearly, and felt them buoy her up: how, she knew not, nor why they should come to one so pitiful as her, but the images gave her strength. Pulling the sword long knives from her throat, she rose slowly, her good eye staring steadily at the scene. She nodded slowly, then, with a yell, threw herself into the melee.

[Bêthberry]

It was not to be. The two women, Lyshka and Darash, had been delayed in their attempts to reach the elves, but they saw that, at least, Zuromor and Raeis were together. Still, they had to reach Morgoroth. The surging, chaotic melee swirled about them, orc rushing after orc, orc breaking rank, orc falling behind, and orc shifting ground and direction, almost fearful of the winged creature now high over head. Darash put her hand on her knife, not the one Grash exchanged with her, but the one hidden under her jerkin, and grabbed tightly the hilt. She looked over at Lyshka and wished they had been able to say more to each other.

Lyshka, did she feel what I felt? Did her skin itche with a thousand pricks of distress and warning as mine does? Darash asked herself. Then she saw something which confirmed her suspicions. She saw in a huddle this man Aldor with orcs, seven of them. They seemed to surround him, but then broke away and, yes, began to tromp over towards her and Lyshka!

Quickly, without thinking, Darash began to pull Lyshka towards her, pushing her head down, and then to duck in and out of several of the marching, swarming orcs near them. Lyshka held back at first, but then caught sight of a deep frown on Darash's face. Something was extremely troubling to the dark-skinned woman and Lyshka decided to follow her direction for the time being.

Then, without warning, Darash pushed Lyshka violently away from her, into two orcs who had been struggling to keep up, but not so violently that the Easterling lost her footing. Then Darash moved back, behind another group of orcs, who, with a bit of indirect nudging, she was able to maneuver towards the orcs who had left this man Aldor and come towards her and Lyshka. The pursuing orcs were confused, for they had lost sight of the two hooded figures the Haradrim had sent them towards. They began to look around, spreading out, but the crunch of the entire orcish swarm made their movements difficult. They lost their quarry and each other.

Darash pretended to stumble and let herself fall even farther behind. With a lurching stealth she came up behind one of the orcs who Aldor had sent, she was sure, out to her and Lyshka. With a sure, quiet movement, her dagger made contact with a small part of the orc's back, small, but devastating. She severed his spinal chord and he fell, silently, with a push from her, which made his fall appear to be just a trip. For good measure, Darash feinged a stumble also. None of his companions nor those around him marked his disappearance with concern.

Darash then changed her demeanour. Rather than shrinking and bending low, she stood erect, even tall, and walked with long, deliberate strides so as to make her look very different. She put her left arm up and around the shoulders of another orc, one she was sure belonged to the seven of Aldor, and directly caught his attention. He was surprised and at first turned to greet this touch as that of one of his companions, showing him the direction. He turned his gaze towards the tall, slender orc and her face was the last thing he saw. Spittle burbled out of his face as his eyes rolled backwards into his head. Darash had slit his throat. Then, she grabbed his body, as if she were helping him along. Orcs parted to let them by and soon forgot about them. When a new group had overtaken them, she swooped down low and let go of the dead orc, moving sideways into the press of stinking bodies. She had lost sight of the other five who had marched towards her and Lyshka, but with lumbering movement she attached herself to a new group. Half screeching and half blustering as if out of breathe, she tired to disguise herself even further as she sought her bearings.

To her left, she caught sight of Lyshka engaged in her own battles. Darash made an oath upon her ancestors that Grash would be told of this. She would not march again with Aldor, she knew that, if she had her way. Yet she knew not if Grash would listen to her. How to make him, she wondered.

[Himaran]

After watching the Nazgul descend from the sky onto the plateau roughly a mile from his current positon, Dwali had expected the worst. Listening to shouts, snarls and the occasional sound of ringing-metal were not encouraging. For all he knew, the entire company had been caught further back, and was even now being exterminated. How could they not be, with the great beast and the dark one among them? There was no hope for them, and thus none for himself, but at least he was presently alive and undiscovered. The dwarf knew that he had to act quickly, or else risk being spotted. Stranded, with thousands of orcs between himself and his companions, even their possible survival would not aide him. And thus the old pessimism slowly returned, creeping up on his mind like a demonic apparation. Alone again... as usual.

But from his past experiences, Dwali had gained something invaluable: the ability to continue on when there is no hope. It had saved him from despair when his parents were slain, and had kept the dwarf from starving in the caverns of Cirith Ungol. Now, perhaps, this gift would be the key to his escape form Mordor. And so he started crawling.

***

Hours passed. The sounds conflict had long since receeded, and Dwali tried to banish images of Bror and Grash lying slain with the others; their bodies soon to be devoured raw by the savages who had killed them. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with them, and in the darkness the dwarf could not tell. All he could focus on was crawling slowly, keeping his head down and staying parallel to the endless line of torches on his left. Time passes slowly when you have no sense of it, and merely repeat a single exercise for a long period. Dwali's situation fit both of these criteria, and to him it seemed that days came and went when only an hour had actually gone by.

More importantly, the dwarf was tired. It had been a full day since he last rested at the small camp in the mountains, and he had been walking, marching or crawling ever since. Pushing exhaustion from his mind, Dwali continued on until his hands slipped and he tumbled into another ditch. Struggling over to the side, he pushed up against the side closest to the road and collapsed.

[CaptainofDespair]

Within the dark unconscious of his mind, the Elf despaired. He had not cried out when the pale light of the Nazgul’s blade had entered his flesh, but his mind shrieked in agony, writhing about, terrified by this turn of events. Memories of a fading past glistened in the dark, shimmering with an eerie, green light, dancing within the confines of his mind’s eye. But he was consoled not. An agonizing pain lingered on the outer rim of his thoughts, whispering in heretical voices, painting a visage of unimaginable horror in his unconscious sight.

As he lingered there, his body paralyzed in shock, from the profuse bleeding that poured forth in sheets from the maw of his gaping wound, a familiar voice reentered his mind. Flickering in the blackness of his decaying thoughts, came the fell voice of the Dark Lord. Only a monotonous drone at first, its hate and grandeur soon amplified, infecting the Elf’s thoughts in all corners of his smitten inner self. Fear gripped the heart of the Immortal, draining his being as he fought futilely against the fiery tide of dominion that engulfed him. The Dark Lord had returned, and with him came the vast hordes of terror and despair that accompanied his coming. “I warned you Elf! You could not possibly hope to escape from my domain. Your effort has only weakened you, and your self-sacrifice only speeds the demise I would surely give you.” The Dark Lord’s omnipresent voice scoured the Elf’s thoughts, searing them with cruel words, and laying waste to any hope he might have of living past this tragedy. Yet, for all his tact and guile, the Elf could not conjure a reply that would hand him victory over his seemingly unbeatable foe. His weakened, and fragile body, having been sapped of strength, had drained his mind, and he could no longer save himself from any oppressive advances of Sauron’s grotesque evil.

The onslaught continued for the Elf, but now, his body was slowly regaining strength, having survived the terrible blood loss of his wound. Now, all his will was being summoned forth to breach the terrible power of the Dark Lord, and drive him one last time from his mind. But yet again, he could not rally his thoughts into one great charge, to eviscerate the horrid power that drove the malicious voice in his head. He was alone, and helpless to the will of Sauron. Now, he would be left as a wraith, such as that which had smote him, with his soul shredded into a twisted shadow of malice, Mandos would not be his fate. Yet, a fleeting glimmer of light within the chasm of the abyss, which had consumed his very thoughts, and had twisted his mind into a dungeon of torture, rekindled some of the fire of his shattered will. Yet, the grasp of evil is not easily broken, and a force of equal wrath is needed to vanquish such a seemingly indomitable foe. And that force came. Like the Noldor hosts of old, it came in great wrath, to smite the will of Sauron, and break the hand of oppression. The force that came, was not some last, hidden remnant of Morgoroth’s being, but the voices that had accompanied him in the Tunnel, and saved him from death. Now, they came back, as one last gesture of thanks for giving them the gift of freedom from the torturous ways of Shelob. The voices came, hissing and shrieking in unison, and they battered the will of Sauron, whose attentions had been drawn away.

And just as quickly as the host of voices of the long since dead had come, it departed, leaving the Elf in perfect solitude, to gather himself. And that he did. Slowly, having regained control of his mind, which still lay in ruin, he sought to regain his body. Broken it was still, with a devastating wound still seething with a fresh burning sensation, from the blade of the Morgul Wraith. Consciousness came to him, as the hideous light of Mordor that lingered about him, swept into his eyes. Yet, his body was still weak, and movement was difficult. The orc host had nearly ceased its fighting, and had begun to move on, to the Morannon. Looking about him, he found a scimitar from a dead orc, and used it to prop up the numbed left side of his body. Slowly working in this fashion, he managed to stand himself upright. He scanned the area around him, and noticed his comrades, slinking off to the path into the mountains, hoping to hide themselves from the vicious orcs once more. The Elf, wielding the scimitar as a walking stick of sorts, slowly plodded towards his fleeing companions, to seek the safety of the realms beyond Mordor.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka quickly regained her footing after the dark woman shoved her into two passing orcs. “Watch it!” She heard one of them growl, but she ignored him, pulling her hood tighter with one hand and sliding her knife from her vest with the other. The look on Darash’s face was enough warning that the two were in trouble, yet the Easterling woman was unsure what the nature of it was.

Keeping low, Lyshka stole a quick glance over her shoulder, but could not place her companion in the sea of bodies. She could, however, see the end of the current company and the beginning of the next army to pass. The soldiers were still a mess from the dark rider, no one keeping their ranks, but there was enough of a break between the groups, Lyshka thought she could slip out and onto the path.

Immediately, she fumbled, catching herself with her empty hand on the blackened road. Rising, she began to feign a limp that slowed her movement tremendously, so that she quickly fell behind the others. All the while, her eyes darted around her looking for Darash or her other companions…anyone other than Aldor. She did not know why, but she did not trust him. She would not go to him if he was alone on the path.

The break in the orcs was almost upon her, when she caught sight of Darash! The dark-skinned woman was holding an orc in her arms, and Lyshka watched with a surprised interest that took her mind from her plans. At that moment, several things happened. Lyshka’s hooded disguise slipped from her face, and before she was aware of it, three orcs coming from just ahead of Darash and the strange orc in her grasp noticed her, pointed and began to quickly move her way.

Lyshka had to think quickly…the orc trio was almost upon her. Suddenly the break between the armies reached her. Looking rapidly side to side, she saw no escape and the orcs were just a few feet away. “There she is!” One of the enemies motioned to the others. As the second army overcame her, Lyshka dropped to the ground and rolled into a ball, and then she reached forward and grabbed the ankles of the soldier in front of her, pulling him down and into the threesome.

Taking advantage of the moment of distraction, the woman secured her hood, jumped to her feet, and began running toward the path. She felt a rush of energy that pushed her on. Her sprint was short-lived, however, as a massive black hand grabbed the back of her neck and raised her entire body from the ground. Lyshka wriggled and writhed, kicking her legs violently in the air. The orc, who had caught his prey, reached around and took hold of the front of her vest, turning her around to face him in the air.

“You’ll make a tasty bite.” Spittle sprayed from his crooked mouth as he licked at his lips.

Lyshka continued to struggle, but was no match to his strength. He had caught her off her guard, and she forgot about her weapon. She now felt the handle of the crude knife she had taken from the corpse hand in the tower. That seemed an age ago, but she raised the knife quickly and stabbed at the malformed face in front of her. Her aim was good and she landed the blade directly into her attacker’s left eye. Black blood oozed and dripped as the orc dropped the woman to tend his wound. He cried out like a wild animal, and Lyshka ran, dodging bodies toward the path that was now just feet away.

[Bêthberry]

Aldor was the least of Darash's worries at the moment. With horror, she watched Lyshka grabbed by one of the stinking beasts, Lyshka, one of the few here with whom she felt some connection! She tried to move towards the woman without drawing attention to herself, but the pull of the new orc line dragged her farther away. Then, suddenly, Darash saw the orc roar and drop the woman, his arms flailing. Two orcs seemed interested in him; they moved towards him, but knocked into other orcs, who turned and sneered at them. A general pellmell of pushing and shoving broke out, and Darash feared that the Easterling would be trampled, but she was lost to Darash's sight.

Yet this diversion gave safety and security to the amazon warrior of the tribe of Amazigh. Continuing to lumber alongside the new dispatch of orcs, Darash was able to grunt her way over towards the disruption, pointing towards it with her hand, her hood nodding also. The orcs around her leered as they figured she was simply anxious to join the brawl and they actually moved to make way for her to join, one of them gurglling in his throat, stopping her, and handing her another knife, his tongue hanging out his mouth in voyeurish display. Darash made some gutteral sounds and grabbed the blade, jesturing with it in the air crudely and waddling over towards the disturbance with what she hoped was some semblance of orcish lust for the brawl.

But the melee was not her real destination. Crouching low, she scanned the ground, hoping to find Lyshka. When she could not, she almost dispaired and began to falter. Why go more? Why go more? she whispered to herself. The words jolted her. They were not the words of her people. They were the words of the language of Grash. She shook her head and choaked slightly on the dust the orcs' feet was raising The newness of the language seemed to give her hope and washed away her despair.

She began to watch the ground as she made way towards where she hope Lyshka would be. She saw no clear tracks, just the stamp of the confused tread of the orcs. Then she saw a buckle, a buckle she recognised as one from the orc's tunic Lyshka had worn. It must have been ripped off when she was grabbed. Moved towards it, caught it, and caught the scent of Lyshka from it. With her head down even more, she caught the scent of the woman's trail. There was hope!

~ ~ ~

Following the scent had brought Darash up to the path, ignored by the orcs who were still struggling over the one Lyshka had wounded. She ran up and saw the woman who had made it somehow out of the beastial mob. With a burst of energy which joy gave her, she reached out and hugged the Easterling, her head resting on the woman's shoulder and cuddled against her neck. Lushka put out her arms around Darash and the two would have remained rooted there had not the noises around them reminded them of the urgency yet of their escape. The two ran further up the path and, turning, came upon Grash wrestling with Jerdo. More joy at victory surged through Darash's veins and she gazed triumpantly at the slave who had so far succeeded in bringing them out of emprisonment. She ran faster towards him, recalling how she wished to tell him of Aldor's treachery.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Lurg trembled in his chains as he was led before the Screecher, and thrown to where its feet would be, if it actually had feet. He cowered upon the ground like a worm, not daring to look up at his master. A terrible black hand seized the back of his throat and its touch was like fire and ice as it pulled him aloft like a rat. Lurg tried to look away from the awful emptiness of the Screecher’s hood, but his eyes were dragged into the void of night which lay there, and from whence issued a thin voice that hurt him.

“You survived the slaughter at Cirith Ungol,” it hissed. “You allowed the prisoners to escape.”

“No no!” Lurg squealed like a stuck rodent. “I didn’t! It was the captains. . .they got to fighting over something and one thing led to another. I tried to recapture the prisoners, but there were too many of them, and the other orcs ran away. . .”

“Silence!” the Screecher warned, shaking him mercilessly so that he flopped about in the mighty hand like a dirty rag. “You ran from your post and let them escape. You deserve to be roasted over coals for that and served to my mount.” Lurg cringed in the knowledge that just such a fate had befallen several of his mates. Since the defeat in the West the Screechers had all been more than usually cruel and short-tempered: before it had happened, Lurg would not have believed that such a thing were even possible. “But I have a better use for you. The prisoners have made it to the High Path. They have caused chaos in my army and even dared to assault me” and there came from the darkness a hiss of such hatred and malice that the orcs who stood about watching fell back in terror. “I have not the time to deal with the scum as they deserve,” the Screecher continued when he recovered from his rage. “So you shall deal with them for me. Take two score of your companions and search the High Pass for the prisoners. When you find them, kill them and bring their skins to me personally. If you do this, I will allow you to be tortured by your fellow orc-maggots. Fail me, and I will have you taken before the dark throne where my Master will gaze upon you with the Eye.”

Lurg collapsed in the Screecher’s hand. Seeing his triumph, Khamûl, the new King of the Nazgûl let him drop to the hard stone of the Morgul Vale. “Choose the maggots you will need for this from the forward ranks – I will not waste my good troops on that filth in the High Pass.”

Lurg raised himself to his feet as the Screecher passed on. He shook himself roughly trying to regain his composure. He had been taken by the outriders of the army just at the Dark Lord’s Stones and when they had brought him before their Master he was sure he was doomed, so he grasped this one last chance eagerly. He looked to the sky and saw that the day was already passing into afternoon – he would have to run his maggots hard if they were to reach the path before nightfall…


Grash

Grash watched in horror as the Nazgûl discovered Raies and then Morgoroth in the army. From where he and Jordo had concealed themselves it was difficult to see clearly all that was happening, but he saw enough to know that Morgoroth had been slain, and that most of the company would soon join him in the melee that broke out amongst the orcs. Such fights were common with orc-kind and Grash knew that it would be a bloody, vicious affair in which anyone not careful and quick would be struck down. He ducked his head behind the rock that he and Jordo had selected as their hiding place, his mind racing. What were they to do? There was no hope that any of the company could possibly escape to the path now – the only reasonable thing to do would be to go on without them. Grash looked at Jordo, not sure how the boy would react to this. He had seen how the youth had taken to the Elves, and how he had been almost incapable of responding to any other member of the party. Leaning forward, he put his hand on Jordo’s shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting fashion. “No hope for others,” he said gently. “All dead now. We go on alone. Come.” He stood up, pulling on the youth’s hand. “Come, come!” he urged, pulling at him.

“No!” Jordo cried, pulling his hand away and leaping upright. “We cannot go on without Raies and Morgoroth! He spun and made to run back down the path. Grash grabbed him about the shoulders, trying to stay him in his madness and scuffle ensued. They fell upon the ground. Jordo was young and strong, but Grash’s natural caginess soon gave him the upper hand. He straddled the form of Jordo, pinning his shoulders with his knees.

“No!” he barked in a hoarse whisper. “We go on. Others are dead, others are gone. No hope, no…” His words caught in his throat as he say two shapes upon the path. He struggled to his feet, his hand reaching for the dagger at his waist, but as he drew the weapon the foremost of the two stepped forward and in the morning light Grash saw the noble features of Darash emerge. He nearly dropped the dagger with surprise as she and Lyshka came forward. They were battered and bloodied, but the blood was not all theirs, and they bore an air of triumph about them. “How?” Grash staggered, “What?” But his amazement was stopped by the more staggering sight of the others on the path immediately behind them. Coming up the path was the Dwarf Brór with Zuromor and Raies behind him. The man and the Elf kept close together, and something about the manner in which Zuromor helped Raies along caught Grash’s attention. But this was soon stricken from his mind by the most amazing sight of all. The last pair coming along the path was Morgoroth, not dead at all but terribly wounded, on the supportive arm of Jeren.

The company yet lacked Dwali and Aldor but there was no longer time to wait for them. The sun was climbing behind the clouds and the pitch of night in Mordor was giving way to a grey dawn. The company was upon the path to freedom, but it was still largely open to the view of any in the Vale. They were tired beyond the strength of mortal beings, but they forced themselves to climb. The path wound its way up the steep shoulder of the mountain, slowly circling around to the south until the oppressive sight of the Dead City disappeared behind it. There was a palpable sense of relief in the group as they moved beyond the view of that place.

They pressed ahead for a few hours until they reached the summit of the path at midday. Without any words being spoken, they halted and fell to the ground.

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the dead city faded out of sight behind them, Raeis turned to walk backwards, shading her eyes against the fierce, merciless sun as she watched the Dead City leaving their sight. The dark, fierce towers stabbed viciously into the sky, unnatural and cruel looking, tormenting all around by the way they twisted the landscape, but the elf forced herself to keep watching, walking backwards, until the very last tip of the very last spire of the very last dark, mutilated tower had dipped out of sight. Dropping her head backwards, Raeis closed her eyes and smiled blissfully: it was gone.

"Gone." She breathed the word reverently as she opened her eyes and turned around to the rest. The motley assortion of escapees didn't even comment or raise an eyebrow as to her strange behaviour: none of them could have been called normal exactly, and the erratic behaviour of other's was nothing to such a strange group. But several of them did turn back to squint against the sun to where the Dead City wasn't; and seeing that it was so, they smiled, very slightly, a sense of relief coming over them, a sense of release that they had not felt since they first got out of the dark, damp holes which had been their cells, their prisons and nightmares, for so long. Of course, they were not yet safe - but to get that unsightly, twisted silhouette out of view...it seemed like an achievement.

Zurumor looked across at Raeis and she smiled back at him thoughtlessly. The man looked surprised and smiled gently back, reaching out towards her and, very gently, touched her shoulder gingerly, tenderly, then withdrew. The elf cocked her head onto one side, looking across at him, then smiled again. She loved the feeling it gave her, the way her muscles moved so naturally into the position, her lips pulling out so that she could feel the creases even up to her eyes. It seemed to make Zurumor happy as well, for her did the same again; but his smile seemed slightly different, seeming to use his eyes more than his actual lips. Raeis was fairly sure she wasn't doing the same with her eyes: was that how she looked, soulful, deep, kind - welcoming? Surely not: if she had managed to inject all those things into her eyes while smiling, she probably would have noticed at some point along the way. Looking around, she surveyed the others in the group, battle stained and torn, limping and scarred - but proud and victorious with it. Such a motley assortment of ragged beings you would not find elsewhere in Middle Earth if you scoured every inch for one hundred years: but a strange group of precious stones have different strengths and different facets, and no matter how shattered one seems, it will always add to the impression, the many sided pile that protects itself at all levels, no matter how odd it seems. Every one counts.

Except one.

Raeis glanced over at Darash where she walked side by side with Lyshka, the two women as thick as thieves. But the noble slavewoman seemed to feel some gaze on her, and turned her smouldering gaze back to Raeis suspiciously, then relaxed. Raeis mouthed a word to her: Aldor?

The woman's eyes narrowed dangerously and she shrugged, somehow conveying great depth in that one gesture. Raeis frowned slightly: if there is a sickly animal, you should keep it in sight, lest there is something infectious that could kill them all. She blinked at the metaphor formed in her mind, vaguely unsure of where it had come from, before drifting away from Zurumor towards Morgoroth, not noticing the brief slide of shock and hurt that flitted across the man's good natured face momentarily, a cloud passing over the sun.

The dark elf was limping terribly, head down and breathing deeply, supported by Jeren, but his pace was steady and his shoulders shook with determination. He flailed suddenly as he stumbled on a stone and Raeis caught him: weaker than she had been she was, but Morgoroth had been prepared to pay the ultimate sacrifice of blood for her. Awkwardly slipping her head under his other arm, she supported him with Jeren as best as she could, allowing him to walk more easily and with less effort. Still breathing heavily, the dark elf turned to her, strands of wet, black hair streaking his forehead. Raeis nodded deeply to him from beath her burden and tried out her smile again, this time more moderately, as she placed her free hand on her kinsman's chest, a silent gesture of thanks saying more than words could for what he had been prepared to give simply for the life of a broken elfwoman.

[Novnarwen]

Rhând

He cursed loudly, using the foulest words he could pronounce. Seven Orcs against two women: how could the outcome - both the women had escaped from the incident alive and unharmed, - be possible, Rhând asked himself. He cursed again. "Stupid twits! Useless idiots!" He groaned, shaking with rage. In order to escape himself, he had jeopardised everything he longed for. Now, he couldn’t possibly return to the prisoners. If Darash and Lyshka found Grash, they would certainly tell him about the attack, and if they had seen Rhând, they would tell Grash about that too. It was too risky, way too risky.

He was alone now. There was no one, except the Orcs, swarming around. How long could he manage to stay in this costume and avoid revealing himself? Knowing that at some point, the lousy costume would cause suspicion and his true self would be revealed, he hurried out of the crowd, cursing again. For how long could he go on like this? If Rhând was to find an ally amongst the Orcs, how could he be able to convince them anyway? Shaking his head, cursing his misfortune, he realised the facts: he didn’t look like a Haradrim, and would certainly be taken as a Gondorian spy and they would kill him instantly, unless... Yes, of course. He knew where the others were heading. He knew their route. Grinning to himself, he remembered the conversation with Grash, where he had asked specifically about the route. The route will be the key to my freedom, the key to Him. It will grant me my wish, my desire. I will finally again be His faithful servant. He frowned. If he was to carry out this plan, he would havr wait for the right moment to strike, even though it would take some time.

*

The day grew older. Slowly, the minutes and hours passed by. Rhând had wandered around and about, choosing his own path. He knew where the others were heading, but he needed allies. He couldn't do this alone, not now if his cover was blown. The situation he found himself in, reminded him of the cell in the Tower, where he had been held for many months. He'd been alone there too, except when some of the Orcs had paid him a visit now and then. He didn't speak to anyone, and none spoke to him; a strange silence, just like it had been in the Tower. There were only sounds, such as the hissing from the breeze coming in from his window, the Orcs jabbering and the rats squeaking; sounds he didn't really listen to. All in all, he was completely alone.

Wandering slowly, his feet aching, he tried figuring where he was supposed to go. The prisoners were heading for Ithilien. He knew that much. But where was Ithilien? Which direction? Being a person with little sense of locality, he again reminded himself of that he needed allies. He couldn't wait long either; he needed someone now.

"Come on, you lazy and useless apes! Move!"

He turned. A voice, here? Shaking with fear, he threw himself behind a group of stones and made himself as small as possible.

"Move it, I said!"

The ground trembled. Heavy feet were about. Rhând didn't move. He didn't dare. Who was heading this way, his way, whichever way it was? The sound of the armours, made Rhând drop dead. Orcs probably, he thought. I have to get moving myself, he thought, knowing that Orcs in general had a very good sense of smell. Crawling, hearing that whoever it was approached quickly, he became aware of his own Orcish armour and how much sound it made. Scared stiff now, he listened to the Orcs stop.

"Did you hear that?!" The voice reflected a brutality that scared the poor Haradrim so much that he actually wished he was back in his cell. At least, he had been somewhat safe there. He always knew what would happen to him at all times. If there were footsteps approaching his cell, he knew someone would come in, he would be beaten. Now, on the other hand, there were footsteps too, but he didn't know exactly who it was, and what would happen to him if he was caught.

"That ain't no rate or mouse, Lurg! That's something far bigger. Fresh flesh. Human maybe?"

"I second that! Maybe, it's them; those petty prisoners. I'll give 'em in. I've my blade ready! Find 'em now!"

Hearing this, Rhând panicked. He began to crawl in the sandy ground as fast as he could, wanting to escape this horrible Lurg. He breathed heavily, crawling. He was shaking, breathing and sweating at the same time. The Haradrim just wanted to get away and crawled on, but something stopped him however.

"Where do ya think you're going." Rhând stared into a pair of eyes, reflecting pure evil. "Can't find yer way? Lost, maybe?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jeren gave his strength to helping the Elf, who remained silent within his own wounds and thoughts as they followed the path. Morgoroth was too tall for Jeren to aid with ease or comfort, but somehow and in some unspeakable way the Southron put aside his own comforts and his own pains for someone who felt deeper pain. Jeren's own scratches and cuts and wounds seemed to stop throbbing or seemed to become dull poundings against his skin when he thought of the Elf's spilled blood and weary body. He had never thought much for the majesty of the Elven kind, until he came to know two of them up close. They seemed somehow more human than Jeren had once thought...

No!

It is folly to think that this changes things... Jeren thought bitterly, shifting his weight as he struggled to hold up Morgoroth. The dark Elf did indeed try his best to hold as much of his own weight as he could, but Jeren also did his best to ensure that Morgoroth did not fall. The other Elf, Raeis, ducked under Morgoroth's other arm to help, and Jeren thanked her with a slight nod that she may or may not have noticed. This changes nothing...it does not change the things I have done.

The Southron remembered how he had gotten himself imprisoned to begin with. A failed mission to attack one of the Elven lands had cost him his freedom. He had once planned to fight and kill the beings he now helped and called companions. Fighting blindly the people that his superiors told him to fight, leading soldiers into battle and to their deaths for a cause he never really believed in. A cause he never really even knew much about. It would be far too sentimental for Jeren to say that now he realized the beauty of the Elves, or their history or their ways...because the only thing he realized during his journey was that Elves were not so different from himself in their will to survive and their desire for freedom.

"Raeis?" Jeren murmured, not wanting to be lost once more within his own thoughts. The Southron had rarely, if ever, spoken to the female Elf, but he yearned to hear the voice of another instead of the voice that reigned within his own head.

"Yes?"

"Where will you go? When this is all over, I mean..."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The prisoner was brought to Lurg, who stood over the man as the Nazgûl had stood over him. The orc tried to mimic the menace and terror of the Wraith, but it was useless, for he was not filled with the will of his lord – he was only a maggot-servant obeying the commands of his dread master. Still, in this situation life was his to give or deny…

“Well, well, well…” he drawled. “What have we here, then? A rat? It looks like we’ve caught a rat, boys! And from the looks of ‘im, he’s a rat that’s escaped from the cellars of Cirith Ungol. Why, I remember this rat – used to play with him myself, from time to time. Always carrying on he was, claiming to ‘love the Dark Lord’” he adopted a high falsetto voice and minced about in mockery of Rhând, “‘Don’t hurt me, please please. I want to serve the Lord. I was betrayed by nasty Gondorians. I am a good servant of the Master.’” A rough chorus of orc laughter spread over the prisoner like a carpet of whips.

Laughing himself, Lurg drew his ragged knife from his belt. Taking the prisoner by the hair, he pulled back his head and made to slice his throat.

“No, wait!” the man cried out. “I am a loyal servant of the Dark Lord! Do not slay me!” His words, so close in tone and manner to the mocking of Lurg, brought the ors to their knees with hilarity. Many of them took up the cry themselves, “I am a loyal servant! I am a loyal servant!” until the rocks rang with their screams.

“Enough of this!” Lurg bellowed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “We’ve not the time. If we’re going to capture the rest of these maggots, we need to be on that blasted Path by nightfall.” He advanced on Rhând once more.

When the man spoke this time, it was with greater caution and thought. Lurg, a quick witted and wicked creature, could see the plans evolving in the slave’s mind. “If you want to capture the other prisoners,” Rhând started, desperately, “I can help you.”

Lurg paused. Cocking his head to one side he growled, “How?”

“I know where they are going,” the man said, gaining confidence, “and I have won their trust, they think I am one of them. If you take me with you, I can lead you to them and help you take them all. All I ask is that you spare me now, and let our masters know of my loyalty later.”

Lurg turned this over in his mind for few moments. If the slave were telling the truth, then the orc knew that he and his companions should torture the information out of the slave, but that might take time and the sun as fast setting. Soon it would be full dark, and even for their eyes the way would be hard to find, and travelling slow… “All right,” he said to the man (to the general dismay of the orcs), “we’ll take you with us. But if you lead us wrong, or if you’re lying…”

“I’m not lying,” the man said, relief overspreading his hideous features. “You won’t regret this. Come on!” And like a spurned puppy, eager to receive its new master’s praise, Rhând sprang ahead, beckoning the orc party after him.

[Novnarwen]

Rhând

He was dragged forth by horror. The horror the orcs represented, and partly the horror from this unknown territory; this strange land. He marched in the front, having the orcs behind him.

Except from the sound of their feet treading the hard ground, it was dead silent. It was this odd sort of silence that made the Haradrim nervous. Was there no other living thing in this land? Was there no one except them, who were breathing this very air? He slowed down, feeling his legs aching. He was not used at walking for ages at a time. After being locked up for several months, this type of gymnastics was terribly heavy on him.

"Rat! Slow down once more, and you'll be meat tonigh'!" It was Lurg speaking. The gigantic figure trotted up to Rhând's side and gave him an evil look. The Orc drew his blade, holding it in his right hand, pointing threateningly at Rhând. He realised his mistake, but why should he be bossed around? He was a Haradrim! He was a faithful servant! If ever this came out when he turned home, that he had been under command of some stupid Orcs, he would never be respected again! Orcs were stupid! Rhând was not.

"I will be no one's meat!" he said sternly, his first vision of Lurg coming to mind; Lurg had been running out of the courtyard like a desperate ape, afraid that the scary prisoners would kill him. He grinned to himself, looking at Lurg who gave him yet another of his evil looks.

With a deep breathe, scared that all of this could lead to a wrong end, he spoke again: "You listen to me! I know where these prisoners are. You don't! Neither of you do! Tell me, what happens to you if you come back with no prisoners? Do you think your master will reward you with a grand prize?" He looked at them, noticing them paying attention. "You know what I think? If you don't find these prisoners, and come back with nothing . . . all of you will be fed to the dogs... or the other orcs.. All this will happen before either of you can even say the word meat!!. Now, imagine that!"

There was a loud gasp. This speech seemed to have put a fright into some of them. Rhând gazed about, not yet satisfied however. He would have to make it perfectly clear. He was their master; without him they would be lost.

Without a warning, Lurg grabbed a hold of Rhând. "He's fooling you! I say, let's kill him now! We don't need him!" A loud chorus of rough voices surprised the Haradrim, who had almost been certain that all of this was going his way. Rhând looked alarmingly around. If he didn't say something now to save himself, Lurg's blade would be the last thing he would ever see.

"Shut up, Lurg!” he said, without thinking. He cursed in his native tongue. “I have seen you before. Only, last time you weren't that tough. You ran out of the courtyard surrounding the Tower, like a frightened child. You couldn't catch any of us that time. What makes you think you can catch any of the prisoners now? You caught me, because I wanted to. I'm a Haradrim, I'm a servant. The others, who are most definitely not servants of Him, will be impossible to catch ... unless, you keep me alive. They are smart. But we are too. Let's catch these dirty beings. You'll get your reward," Rhând said, looking at each and every, "and I'll get mine."

The orc released his grip around Rhând's neck. Lurg frowned. He is probably angry about me telling the others he ran away, Rhând thought. Even though it hadn't gained popularity with Lurg, it had to some extent with the others. Finally, a pathetic side of their always so dangerous superior orc, Lurg, had been revealed to them. I guess they feel relieved, just as I do.

Looking around once more, he realised that there was no way out of this; he would have to lead the way. He was surrounded by these stupid creatures, which were aware of his existence. If he didn't keep his promise and tried tricking them, they would certainly kill him, and without hesitation. Yes, he would have to accept this; the orcs were the allies he had longed for. They would help him to success; to Him.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Amanaduial's post

Raeis glanced up, slightly surprised by the question, but was not able to look far enough up to catch the man’s eyes, her neck bent as it was beneath Morgoroth’s weight. She shrugged without thinking.

“Where will I go…” she repeated the question, slowly, then trailed away. Where? She had always assumed that she would simply go home; indeed, she and Voice had discussed it often, the latter conjuring up from their mind images of a faraway land to keep the elf hopeful. Raeis remembered them, in part: slashes of light which ripped across the darkness of that cell ruthlessly, wielding weapons of peace, warmth…

...dappled sunlight across the forest floor through the canopy of leaves overhead; an elf, crouched in the trees, her golden blue and beautiful, unscarred, unburnt…unmarred face turned outwards across the boughs to the far-off lands to the South where she longed to roam…nearby another sat, leaning precariously across with the ease of one used to agility and balance through these heady perches….a flash of intense light grey eyes, golden hair… Smiling up at her, she turning to him… “Just think, Rae,” he whispered excitedly. “One day…one day we shall travel over those plains, we shall cross the great Anduin, see Ithilien, Gondor, Harad: and you and I shall dance beneath the golden, blessèd branches of Lorien…”

Raeis stumbled on a stone and her good eye flew open – and she was astonished to feel it moist despite the heat around them, a burning, dusty heat so different from the humid calm of that summer forest, conjured from her own memories… She had not revelled in them for a long time, so many timeless days in her cells having passed since she had long since given up hope and the Voice had ceased it’s comforting murmurs of hope and freedom. Jeren took the strain from her as she regained her balance dazedly, still awakening from the vivid dream, and she nodded to him gratefully as she resumed her position: without his help she would have fallen under Morgoroth’s weight.

A kind act…but he cannot keep us company as the Voice did…it could help, could keep us alive in the dark prison-hours… Raeis blinked sharply and looked away physically, as if she could look away from the thoughts. She had lost the voice, had found companions in return, but she worried about the strange truth about her friend and tormentor in the dark: she missed it.

Raeis spoke abruptly, wanting to hear another voice in place of the emptiness of her thoughts, unaware of how alike this reasoning was to Jeren’s. “I…I will return home, I suppose. Mirkwood was…”

Home? You ran from the place that you called home, remember? Ran from your parents, your life, your name… home was not a place to you in that blissful space before your imprisonment, after you left Mirkwood: it was a person. One person. Caromanieth. The one person you can never return to.

The Southrons killed him.

Raeis shot a fierce look across at Jeren and was surprised when he returned it calmly, his eyes utterly emotionless. From inside her mind, Aman saw and understood wordlessly more from that exchange of looks than she maybe could have seen in conversation with this man in his whole lifetime: underneath his cool dark exterior, some bad memory brewed fitfully – some anger to do with the elves, to do with her, as her anger was to do with him. Raeis held his gaze then looked away, at the same time that he did, but a second later couldn’t resist peeking back at him through her shattered eye. The hurt at loss of the Voice seemed to dull a little: it had been wrong about these Men, both Grash, the one who had let her free, Zurumor, who had saved her life…and Jeren, whose thoughts seemed to mirror hers. The tips of Raeis’s ears twitched slightly as she thought she heard something with her keen senses from the way they had come but, lost as she was in thought as she was, and because the others hadn’t shown any sign of hearing it, she ignored it. Shifting Morgoroth’s weight heavily across her shoulders and pulling them both into a more upright position, she plucked up her courage and glanced openly across at the brooding Southron to return his question. “Jeren, home was never exactly a place to me, not once I left: home was encompassed in…in one elf. I left Mirkwood with him, and when I did...I changed, my home changed, my world changed - and then it was brought crashing down around me.” She paused, not looking at Jeren, then continued. “What about you, Jeren: where will you go, now you are free?”

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Bethberry's post for Darash

Darash sat confused and frustrated. After the near-deadly encounter with the bestial orcs--no better than charging, stupid rinombos-rhinoceros--iit had been with a relief amounting to joy that she had first seen Lyshka safe and then spied Grash. The two women had sprung on rejuvenated feet towards him, eagerness lightening their tired faces, ready to tell what they had seen.

Now Darash sat trying to make sense of it. She had run to him and taken his arm, pulling it almost, pointing back to the melee. She had gesticulated wildly almost, running on in her native tongue, describing the struggle and their near-escape, only to be put back under greater assault by Aldor's treachery with the orcs.

"Ahdor. Ahdor. Machumba nuwalla, esumba relege isbatu. Ngeme ebulu," she had told him excitedly. "Dtcekma." It meant carrion bird of prey, vulture, feasting off the dead, without honour of the kill. But Grash had looked at her with strangely glowing eyes. She had taken his arm again, drawing him towards the small bend in the path, so he could look back and perhaps see the traitor in the orcs' midst.

Grash had smiled at her as if humouring her. It was maddening! Darash had never before experienced such failure to be taken seriously. She had turned to Lyshka, pleadingly, her frustration clearly visible in the tight knot of her muscles around her shoulders. Lyshka had nodded yes, but shrugged, as if to say she wasn't sure. Darash had turned back to Grash, the fire of being thwarted and misunderstood shining in her eyes. The man had almost chuckled. He had not looked at her eyes; his own gaze had not met hers and staid there, but wandered off elsewhere. With a snort at this hare who did not recognise the vulture, she had stormed off, exasperated with him who seemed not to listen.

And so she had sat in semi-isolation, her eyes wandering from time to time around the group of her companions who were licking their wounds like animals who had escaped the trap. Lyshka had come over to her, hunched over as if to say "Maybe. I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. It was a blur like the whipping rain." Then Raeis had mouthed the name. The elf understood! The women knew. Why were the men so obtuse? Darash sat there, trying to rest, her eyes closed in the soft afternoon light, aware that Grash was watching her from time to time, but utterly without comprehension.

[CaptainofDespair]

CaptainofDespair's post

The climb through the mountain pass had taken its toll on the Elf. His near execution at the pale blade of the Nazgul, had sapped him of most of the strength he needed. Yet, there was hope, and he clung to it as a child grasps for its mother. The freedom he craved, after seventeen years of desolate captivity, was drawing nigh. As his tense, ridged muscle were forced into near spasmodic contractions just to crawl and hobble their way over the rocks of the High Pass, he thought only one simple phrase, “Just beyond this mountain...” He had muttered this almost incessantly as he climbed. Being only able to use one arm, for the other was still paralyzed by the evil stroke the Nazgul had delivered, which now hindered his mobility, he struggled in his motions, often stumbling, or nearly falling from the Pass. Yet, he continued on...

The ever watchful eyes of the Elf could see more than any of the others around him, and he often gazed into the sky, looking for a sun that had long since been buried by the bleak darkness of the Mordorian sky above. But his wound still harried him, pursuing him as he climbed higher and higher, draining his will to trudge forward, beyond the craggy, jagged facade of the Ephel Duath. When he was not busying himself with keeping his legs on the path, he would drift into a near trance, thinking of the past. His mind was still uneasy from the wound he was suffering the burden of. He had been led out of that dreadful fray, helped along by the Southron, Jeren. He winced at this thought. He had shown weakness, though it was well earned, and it was his right to be weak, but it did not sit well with him. Yet, he hid these thoughts, burying them in the deep abyss of his mind. A new sensation had interrupted this reminiscing, a slight pain. But this was no ordinary pain, not like that of the wound he bore. It was new, and it echoed from within him. At first he tried to cast the thought aside, as a child does to an old and forgotten toy. But it kept returning, and it swarmed about in his veins, giving him a very sickly feeling. Ancient lore was his answer. He was poisoned, by the very foe that had nearly killed him. He had come so very far, hoping to find freedom. But now, he would die of a black poison. As his mind gurgled at this dread thought, he tripped upon a stone, and fell forward. Something deep within his mind stirred then, muttering to him, forcing its voice out from his lips. "The wound is too great. Death will come soon.” The Elf managed to catch himself before anyone heard his foreboding words. Sympathy was not something he desired, and he would not allow others to feel anything for his plight, for that would make him feel all the more weak.

Instead of dwelling upon his new, dreadful thoughts, he decided it best to occupy his time with more pleasant memories. Yet time was his enemy, and the cobwebs that held back many of his earliest, more playful memories, were not easily shaken loose. So, he turned his attention to his most recent, and began to twist the words that came to him to his own devices. Something that the man Jeren had said intrigued him, “Where will you go?”. He drifted, yet was able to maintain control over his body’s jerking motions, just enough to keep him on the path. He began to wonder what he might do, now that his freedom was drawing so close. "To Mirkwood perhaps, to see my mother. Or maybe I shall travel into the West, and explore the lands beyond the haven of Imladris.” He slowed his thought to a trickle, and allowed his inborn pessimism to set in. "The West...Yes, I shall go West, to the Halls of Mandos, for I will not survive this journey into Ithilien.”

The Sun had now risen to its unseen pinnacle, and the company had stumbled upon a clearing in the midst of the vacant, ghostly mountains. Here they would rest until the time was nigh to leave, and head out for the final leg of the journey. Many of the old habits were still alive within the motley group. Initially they settled into mingling amongst their own kind, resting, and chatting a bit, even sharing stories of their pasts, for those who had one to tell of. Even the Elf, who had inadvertently shattered the racial barriers between himself and the dwarves, was not eager to sit alongside his comrades. Instead, he sought out a more secluded region of the clearing, and there he laid down in the grass, to refresh his weary mind, and broken body as much as he could.

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Aylwen's Post

“What about you, Jeren: where will you go, now you are free?”

Jeren thought on this, and at first nothing came to him. It was a question that he did not know the answer to. How many times had this happened to him? Too many for his liking, especially since he had been made prisoner by the power that he had once served. Too many questions had been left unanswered.

Where will I go?

The Southron had never actually thought about where he would go, for he never knew any home other than the one as captain of an army. He was always the leader, and he never needed a home as long as there were loyal soldiers behind him… following and listening to him. He hardly recalled the land his family once roamed, or if family would be there and remember him at all. It had been far too long for him to return to that home. There was nowhere for him to go.

“It hardly matters if I am free, for I have no where to return to. There is no where for me to bask in new-earned freedom,” Jeren finally replied to the question posed by Raeis. His voice remained steady and level, as Jeren refused to show his uncertainty and sorrow at his own words. “The things I have done make me undeserving of such freedom. I have no place to return to and that is how it must be,” The Southron added as an afterthought, the volume of his voice lowered so it came out just above a whisper.

Surely that is how it will be in the end…

“Yes. We rest. But only for two, three hours.” Jeren looked up as Grash began to speak in his usual choppy manner. “Then we must go – the path goes down soon, down to green land. Green land with trees and cool breezes, and waters. Freedom. Freedom at the end of the path.”

Turning back to Raeis, Jeren sighed, letting out all his self-pity in the exhale. What about everyone else? Raeis had hardly answered his question in a manner that satisfied his curiosity. Something about the group, though, and the way they came together in a most unusual way made Jeren hopeful for all of them. “I have certainly learned the value of comfort, on this journey. Not just being comfortable, or not being comfortable…but being able to live and go on and appreciate it anyway. I do not know you very well at all, Raeis, but somehow I know that you will be able to make home encompass one more elf…you will learn to make home within your own heart and strength, and not let it depend on someone else…”

Jeren paused, looking around at the rest of the group for a moment.

“Hopefully we will all be able to do the same. Maybe we will all find home.”

[Himaran]

Dwali awoke like he would have on any other day. The dwarf rolled over on the hard ground, stretched, yawned and rubbed his eyes idly. Perhaps it was a burst from Mount Doom that brought him back to reality, or maybe rows of torches shining before him in the darkness. The army. The company! The mountain passage! Pulling himself out of the ditch, he scrambled on as best he could. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark, and Dwali realized that he must have slept for only a few hours. It was probably close to midnight, and the company might have already made off without him. But wait - they were all dead, so what did it matter? He could stay and rest... and then pangs of hunger pushed him forward, hoping dearly that a friendly face would be waiting at the passage.

The dwarf reckoned that he had travelled over a mile earlier in the day, which left about the same distance before him. He mentally beraided for being so slow to get off the path, but he knew it was foolishness. At least he was alive, more than could be said for some of the company. Memories of Dorim brought a wave of anger over him again. Why does everyone die? My family! My friends! Why not others...

Suddenly, a heavy boot landed on Dwali's back, slamming his face into the dusty ground. An orc had slipped off the edge. Trying to stay calm, the dwarf waiting, hoping that he would pull himself back up. Then deciding that in the darkness no one would notice, he heaved himself backwards. The orc toppled down on top of him. The dwarf's hand siezed his mouth, and the other dispatched the brute with a swift thrust of his dagger.

He waited a few moments, and left the body and crawled on. He knew that by dawn, the corpse would be discovered; but it would probably be attributed to an argument amongst the ranks of the enemy. Hoping that this would be the case, Dwali continued pulling himself along, heading for the mountain passage.

[Novnarwen]

The day grew old as they walked along an unknown path, which hopefully would lead them to the prisoners. When the company at last took a break, after hours with walking, Rhând feel exhausted to the ground. He breathed heavily, ignoring the orcs' wild laughter. He was hungry and thirsty, but did not dare ask for anything. Looking up at the sky, which had already been coloured black by the sun's lack of appearance. A dim moon could be spotted now, but only just, as grey-looking clouds covered it. Rhând wondered if one could ever see the sun in all its splendour in this land, or if it was always hidden behind the heavy grey clouds.

Two of the orcs were sent ahead to see if they were getting close, meanwhile the others rested. The Haradrim sat up, heaving after his breath. He was dead tired, but tried to push it aside, thinking of the reward awaiting him when he would return to his Master.

Rhând's gaze fell on Lurg. The orc looked at him with hungry eyes, and the Haradrim turned away in fear. He'd always heard that these orcs were simple-minded, and ate whatever they could get hold of. The Haradrim knew that his chances of escaping all of this alive were slim. Even though the orcs left him alone now, he had not the faintest idea what they would do after they had found the prisoners. The thought of being eaten by these monsters, made him shiver with fright. They were his allies now, but he doubted they would be in the end. Shrugging, the Haradrim rose slowly. He felt weak and petty where he stood, feeling the stiffness in his body growing.

Not long had passed before he two orcs came trudging towards the company, waving their hands. Grinning wildly, Rhând heard them say to Lurg:

"They are here . .

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Himaran's Post

When Dwali finally reached the mountain passage, words could not describe his attitude - it was less pessimistic than suicidal. The orc army was gone at last, but so were his companions. There was nothing for him now. It was over. The dwarf sat down on the dusty earth, trying to ponder how he had been the last to survive. He, who had seemed the weakest, the smallest, the lest likely to make it out of Mordor. It was that sense of accomplishment that pulled him to his feet and walked steadily up the path. I made it! And may yet escape from this land of darkness...

Upon cresting the hill, however, a different sight met his eyes. The company, sitting in a tight circle, resting and chatting. Not all of them, though, the dwarf was sure of it. Some must have died in the battle. And then, at the height of his addreniline, it all gave way to utter exhaustion. Dwali collapsed, his throat as parched as the rocky grouond beneath him. A cry so weak it was but a murmur barely left his flaking lips: "Help..."


Grash

When night was fully upon the company they roused themselves from their rest and made ready to go on. Morgoroth was still weak, but with the help of Raies and Jeren he was able to walk. The prisoners took a quick meal with what meagre provisions they had left. They ate the last scraps of the bread and dried meat that they had managed to bring with them through the horrors of Shelob’s Lair and the Morgul Vale. It was hideous orc food, but after the trials they had endured in the last five days it was welcome. More troubling was the lack of water, for only one skin had managed to come with them through their encounter with the orc army. They shared it around and if any there thought how strange it was that they were all drinking from the same vessel, none said it.

Grash sat upon the stones of the mountains and mulled over their position. They were still a long march from the green land, but if they pressed hard all night then by dawn their feet would be upon grass, and their tired limbs could take comfort in the cool shade of trees. After that… Grash’s imagination failed him. Where could he go and what could he do in the world outside the land of darkness that had been his home his whole life? He supposed that he could find a small piece of fertile land somewhere to call his own, where he could raise crops and perhaps a few animals and live free of the whip and the terror. But would not such an existence be lonely? Maybe there would be others who would be willing to come with him… His eyes drifted to where Darash sat, proud, noble and – for the first time he noticed it – beautiful. His hand wandered to the dagger that she had exchanged with him and he stroked it thoughtfully. Perhaps there would be some way for him to convince her to come with him.

A noise from the path behind them brought Grash to his feet, along with the rest of the company. They stood, not speaking, tense and nervous in the gathering night, as a form lurched along the path toward them. It was Brór who cried out, “Dwali!” and rushed forward to catch his kinsman as he fell. They all gathered around the exhausted Dwarf seeking to revive him. He was hungry and thirsty, so they gave him the last of their food and water and watched unstintingly as he swallowed it down. When he had finished he closed his eyes and fell back on the stone unconscious.

Grash’s face became a frown as he looked upon the Dwarf. He was, strangely, happy to see the fellow back with the group, but he was obviously in no condition to travel quite yet. Morgoroth, too, while standing, appeared too weak to go far without more rest. It was Darash who spoke what was in Grash’s mind. “No travel now. Must rest. Little man and spirit man hurt and tired.” Her tone was final and commanding, and if any there thought that she were wrong, none said so. Sighing at the inevitable, Grash settled upon the ground. As eager as he was to press ahead to freedom, he could not bring himself to leave his injured…comrades…the word was an odd one, but it was the only word that was right. “Yes. We rest. But only for two, three hours. Then we must go – the path goes down soon, down to green land. Green land with trees and cool breezes, and waters. Freedom,” his voice drifted into the night, as though it were speaking only to itself. “Freedom at the end of the path.”

Zuromor

Two hours later Zuromor awoke from a troubling dream and sat up. He managed to stifle the cry that sprang to his lips but he was shaken still. Pulling himself upright he walked about their makeshift camp, carefully moving amongst the sleeping forms of his companions. A slow movement in the dark stayed him in his wanderings and he melted into the shadows about the rocks. A stealthy form was working its way toward the prisoners, and in its hand there was a vessel of some kind with a burning smoke pouring from it. Zuruomor recognized that smell: suverah! The same substance that Darash had used to subdue the spider creatures.

The figure came close to the company and Zuromor saw Aldor’s features emerge from the night. The man gently stooped and placed the vessel on the ground near to the company and turned to go. With a cry that rang amongst the stones Zuromor sprang forward, drawing his blade. With one swift motion of his foot he sent the burning vessel skittering away amongst the stones, and he whirled upon Aldor.

Many things happened at once then. The prisoners sprang to their feet, drawing their weapons and fumbling about in the dark. Aldor cried out and there were answering screams from the path beyond him – screams that filled the night with bestial fury. Zuromor swung his blade at Aldor, but the man was quick to parry the blow. Zuromor prepared to strike again, but his hand faltered at the sight of the pathway filling with orcs, all of them ravening toward the prisoners with their eyes and tongues rolling viciously at the thought of some easy sport.

[Bêthberry]

"Whatimbo unsala. Kill the viper," spoke Darash in a voice firm with fury but calm with resolution. Zuromor was ahead of them all and swung his sword but the treacherous Aldor was as nimble in body as in morals. Yet her spirit sank as she saw what came up the path behind him. More of them! More, more, ever more. There was no end to evil in this northern land. And she was tired, tired beyond any knowing of this struggle. And this time there could be no resorting to disguise.

Quickly, Darash looked around at their weapons. She had given Lyshka the small knife the salivating orc had passed on to her as she feigned bloodlust during the last fight. Neither woman had a sword. Darash looked around for branch, sturdy bush or thorn with which to fashion some kind of defense. There were none. She shook her head in dismay, feeling discouragement rise in her throat like sour bile. At her side, she felt for her small dagger, the one Grash had exchanged when she had given him hers in ritual token of her allegiance. It gave her courage. If all else failed, it was sharp enough. She would use it upon herself and deny the orcs their filthy desire.

But Grash held back her hand, as if sensing her thoughts. He pointed around the narrow path, at the small stones and rocks and larger boulders they had kicked around to make a resting place. She understood at once. Calling to Lyshka, she ran with him to one of the larger boulders positioned to the side of the path. Pushing, shoving, grunting and rocking it, they succeeded in loosening it from its rooted spot in the earth. The path was narrow but well worn. The boulder, once pushed on its way, moved slowly at first but then tumbled with the speed of flooding water. Grash ran to another large boulder, Lyshka and Darash to two others. Three more followed the first to crash into the orc horde.

Yet her strength was limited; where her arms had been broken, she could feel the bones protest at being forced to push so hard against the rocks. She could not risk breaking them again. She moved back, signalling to her two comrades that she was moving to a second strategy. Let others with healthier arms keep at the boulders.

Instead, she sought out the smaller stones and rocks and quickly collected them into a pile, calling on the weaker ones to gather them, those still ill and wounded from the last assault. They could not fight but they could help gather their last, natural weapons. Then she moved off, filling her pouch, now emptied of food, with stones. She had a good eye and, calming herself, began to choose her targets. The orcs' skulls were thick, but the ground was covered with stones.

[Kransha]

Chaos filled the air around him. The Dwarf in the midst of it all was, as most others were, confused and half in a daze. From a mostly fitful sleep, the whole ‘camp’ had been forcefully aroused from slumber to see orcish faces and rusty blades bearing down on them. Zuromor, energetic and first awoken, alerted the company, and all sprang into action, to some degree. Some were grievously hurt, and required more defense when in combat, so the company was caught at a full disadvantage. And, to the chagrin of some, it became apparent that traitorous Aldor was somewhere within the clump of orcs that had spread and scattered over the rocky plane, assaulting the disillusioned troop of escaped prisoners. Brór, his head and wild beard twisting to and fro to look to every side, removed from each hip a looted weapon and brandished each at the shadows before him, looking for an opening to attack as battle sprung up all around. He looked to his companions, for steadying and reassurance. As he looked across the field at the bounding orcs, he saw Zuromor first.

As he looked at Zuromor, trying in vain to delve into orcish ranks, he was comforted by the fire in his eyes. The memory of the conversation he had had with him earlier filled his mind for but a moment, passing over his thoughts and focus just before he struck the unkempt uruk vanguard. It had been earlier, before all companions drifted off into their soon-to-be-interrupted sleep, when Brór had last spoken with the youthful man. The conversation, for one reason or another, sat upon a seeming podium inside Brór, flowing back to him in the form of a speechmaker's oratory recorded.

Everything felt cold…very cold.

Through the veins of Brór Stormhand ran icy fluid in place of warm blood. Despite the sweltering heat radiating in the air, chills reverberated up and down the dwarf’s spine. As his glassed-over eyes darted back and forth, circumspect, he noted that others seemed colder as well. Something about the whole experience had left an unsavory numbness in the company, like a dark cloud that had settled just overhead, focused on the escaped prisoners, which refused to budge from above their down turned heads. Thankfully, there seemed some consolation in that they had all survived a seemingly suicidal situation. Brór himself, though, had only managed to realize that Dwali was now lost, and his alertness and moderate charisma was further dimmed. Only when he looked up to the man beside him did he feel a sliver of light on his face.

At his right, standing and wringing his hands concernedly, was Zuromor. Although his anxious nature was for good cause, it diverted Brór’s mind from lingering on dark thoughts. The lad’s eyes were affixed, without movement, on Raeis as she spoke with Jeren, not far off. Brór, his mouth trying to manipulate itself into a smile, or at least a self-serving grin, lifted himself up from his melancholy seat and meandered towards Zuromor, drumming upon the youth’s lowered arm, the dwarf spoke coyly. Even if he could not escape his ever-present ill humor, he could still think on the diversions of others. As he had resolved after observing and speaking with Zuromor, his diversion was Raeis.

“How is she holding up, Elf-friend?” Brore murmured with wry smirk.

“She seems well. She’s still got fire in her, that’s certain.” He looked on smiling, and a narrow grin unmarred half of the miserable dwarf’s cold face. “What of the Nazgûl’s Black Breath?” He said then, an air of concern returned to him at a weak but moving pace, “Has the mark of the Wraith not affected her?” Zuromor turned back, seemingly snapped from a swaying trance, and looked to Bror, weighing the options of response. “It is hard to tell.” He said after some time, nodding to himself as he settled upon this reply, “Her countenance has lessened of late, but otherwise, she is no different. Now that we are on the road to greener lands, she will heal in time, as will Morgoroth. All of us will be healed when the scraggly mountains are behind us, as small as lumps of dirt and mounds of putrid earth. Think upon that, at least, and we’ll be healed in due time.

“The road to greener land, eh?” Brór queried, obvious, but politely reserved skepticism written all over his aged face, “What of the mountains, the orcs, and the Nazgûl? Are they going to spread apart like water and let us pass?”

“Why must we think of parting waters when we can pass over them? We may have suffered great losses, but we have come to the last stretch of night before the day!”

“Don’t you see, lad?” he said, his strong voice cracked miserably as he spoke with less than his usual bellicosity or irritation, “We’re more doomed now than ever we were before.” He looked down upon the blood-stained ax in his hand, blackish orc blood now dried onto the jagged fringe of its blade. Slowly, he slid a gloved finger along the flat of the ax, tracing the digit over crude orcish designs and pictographs etched into the rusted metal. “Dwali is lost to us,” he said then, “the fiend Aldor has betrayed us, Morgoroth has been gravely injured by the Wraith, many of us now bear injury and wound that will hinder us further, and the Nazgûl himself has seen us. One does not see a Nazgûl face to face and live to tell the tale. It shall send after us more armies, more orcs, and we have no might left to resist them.” He shook his head sadly and pushed the staff of his ax back through the leather belt drawn loosely around his waist. Quietly thinking, he laid his metal-plated elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in together. His eye looked to Zuromor, though, as the man beside him spoke.

“The Nazgûl does not know enough to seek us out before the sun has set.” He said, unsmiling, but apparently hopeful, “If our pace quickens, we can outrun those he sends after us.” Brór looked at him incredulously, an almost contemptuous look on his face, but that dank expression turned to a sudden gust of caustic laughter, which caused Zuromor to flinch, unsure of Bror’s motives for the sudden outburst. “Outrun them, you say?” cried Bror, through tearful guffaws, “Your optimism may be refreshing, Zuromor, but it is deluded. We cannot outrun orcs with the whip of the Nazgûl at their backs. They will not rest nor eat nor sleep until they have found us all and torn the flesh from our bones.” He said all of this with a smile on his face, a smile very disconcerting to those who looked upon it, because it was not a smile of happiness or of sadness. It was a ghastly false grin that only reflected the imminent doom and acceptance thereof. At last, the surfeit of laughter halted, and, shaking his head again as the grin withered and died on his face, Bror let his head fall again.

“You were wrong before, dwarf.” chided Zuromor, ever the optimist despite Brór’s adverse comments. The one thing he was not, though, was terse, as he continued preaching with some small scraping of zeal to the dwarf beside him, who could not help but revel in the ironic comedy of it all. “We have escaped Cirith Ungol,” said Zuromor next, waving a hand dramatically, “escaped the wrath of Shelob, escaped the armies of Gorgoroth, and even escaped the Dark Wraith himself. We can escape this accursed land, even with the beasts of Mordor and the Mountain of Fire’s flames at our backs. Have you given up even now, now that we are so close to freedom light? Are you so far gone?” Brór winced openly. He’d heard those same words a day ago when he passed the Dark Lord’s Stones and Sauron’s monstrous voice had overlooked him as a needless pawn. He had asked himself that question, heard it echoing in his mind over and over. Now, coming from young Zuromor, it sounded strange. The voice from the day prior had been his own, cold and subjugated to the glacial winter that Sauron’s breath had lulled him into. Today, the voice was young and warm, ablaze with a fire cool and refreshing, a much desired substitute for the dogged flames of Orodruin. At last, the youth concluded, leaving unhappy silence in the wake of verbosity.

Brór did not respond at first, stroking his grayed beard in deep thought and contemplation. Zuromor looked down warmly, but his glinting eyes dimmed as Brór spoke, melancholy and dank. “Both my kindred are lost now.” He said, sighing deeply, “I am the last of my kind in this terrible place. If my words hold true, I will never see another Dwarven face living. I…I am alone now.” Zuromor’s hand, hesitantly, went out to him, and was laid upon the spiked pauldron bound to his bruised shoulder.

“Not alone, Brór Stormhand, among friends.”

“No…alone. Even if I see my kin again in my life, I shall still be alone. Mordor leaves that mark upon you. For two decades, I was alone, and until the day I am dust in the earth…next to Dorim, and now Dwali, I shall. You, my friend, are not. You all are not doomed to my fate, so revel in your freedom. You have the light that I have lost in your heart, good Zuromor, and fire to. You are a brave and a fine fellow, and I hope to Aulë that you may leave this wretched place before your time…And your friend as well.” Zuromor shot him a curious, inquisitive glance. “You mean ‘friends,’ master dwarf, do you not?” he queried. Brór perked up ever so slightly, having expected the question from the inexperienced mouth of the lad. He shook his head again, but this time in a joking, admonishing fashion, which elicited another confused look from Zuromor.

“Nay…You know who I speak of…You’ve got that Elf on your mind, and she’s in your eyes as well. Lest you want the world to know you’d to best to purge her image now, or make your intentions known… “Zuromor, why, then, does the sight of yonder Elf gleam in your eyes? I have told you of the shadows that lay over me. It is only fair that you tell me of the light that has filled you…”

He never answered, as far as Brór remembered.

Now all had changed, though not in the mind of the dwarf. To Brór’s great relief and thankfulness, Dwali was found; or rather found the company, nearly in dire straits. Brór had rejoiced most, though he was still empty, his mind a weak void in the wake of the happenings. Even as his face brightened and smiled, he felt nothing. It did not matter whether or not his kinsman was alive, he would still perish before the light. Brór’s eyes could only flit to his companion in passing. Dwali lay, lurching about in unconsciousness. Thankfully, he had been laid in a safe crevice in the rocky outcroppings that dotted the areas as trees might (for want of real trees). The settling darkness that paled the fiery light of distant Amon Amarth was refreshing to Brór, who was accustomed to the dark, almost nocturnal from his years spent in it. Feeling secure in his own defense and eager to defend his fallen comrade and those who fought alongside him, Brór plowed into the anarchic ranks of Mordor beasts.

He tore forward, moving gracefully, uncharacteristic for any Dwarf. Something new fueled him, distinctly new. He realized, at this point, that even if he no longer believed he could escape Mordor, he was not fighting for himself. He was fighting for those, like Zuromor, who still saw the sunlight through the sky’s dark clouds. He was fighting so that they could survive this final skirmish and escape the icy grasp of this land and slip the bonds of Mordor, finding, at long last, some kind of freedom, however small.

[Novnarwen]

Rhând

He broke out of the orc's ranks, having called for them as he'd been surprised by Zuromor. The desperate Haradrim pressed himself forwards, trying to avoid both the fighting prisoners and the attacking orcs. Holding the little suverah he had left carefully in his hand, he decided to do what he came here to do, regardless of everything else. This came first. He did this for his Master, the Master who would embrace him as an equal when this was over. Giggling just slightly to himself, still running, he watched the prisoners defend themselves. Yes, he could still do this; actually, he ought to do it. He knew that by leaving the suverah in the prisoner's camp, problems would probably arise. Hopefully, they would have great difficulties seeing due to the smoke. Some of them might faint too, as they had not realised that the smoke was poisonous. With these thoughts it mind, he carried on.

For a second he stopped, being rather surprised by the orc's attack. It seemed like they were increasing in number; their attack was so violent. They were fighting like mad. All of them had this look in their eyes, the same look Lurg had given Rhând just earlier. The look reflected their hunger and their longing for fresh meat and blood. Even though he enjoyed watching this, he froze. Standing still as if paralysed with fear, he looked admirably at the. They were some fantastic creatures after all, he thought to himself. It was rather incredible how they could scare a living creature to death only by staring at it. The prisoners wouldn't stand a chance. Yes, he knew how this would end. Still standing quietly, watching the battle take place, he imagined the moment the victory was a fact. He imagined the prisoners lying on the ground; pale as the moon. How beautiful. The task of conquering this world, wiping away all life that was jeopardising His realm, would be a bit easier. Ten down, that was a start.

He wasn't paying attention to the events taking place that particular moment. Caught up in his dream, his fantasy, he didn't see some of the orcs heading straight towards him. Unfortunately, the young Haradrim was not able to react on the short notice and was run over by the massive creatures. Feeling the pain their heavy boots left him, he sank helplessly to the ground. He heaved for air, feeling as he was gong to vomit. "Ugh," he sighed, shaking with pain. "Brutes!" he screamed and cursed in the Haradrim tongue. "You blind idiots! Didn't you see I was standing here?" he screamed after the orcs, knowing that they didn't hear him. And if they did, they didn't care. "Outrageous!" he screamed again. He was their superior. At least, he was almost their superior. They should thank him. They should be grateful. It was after all he who had led them to the prisoners. It was he who had planned the attack. It was he who had secured their victory over the prisoners. It was therefore he who had saved all of them from the fate that awaited them, if they hadn't killed and brought back the bodies of the prisoners.

He coughed.

His throat went dry.

He coughed again.

He tried getting to his feet, but in vain. Being surprised by this intense coughing, he discovered that the air in front of him was turning yellow. Where does this come from? he asked himself, lifting his head up from the ground and turning into every direction. He felt his throat going drier, and his eyes were burning. What is this, and where is the suverah? Trying not to panic as he understood that this yellow smoke was making him cough and his eyes burn, he tried again to lift himself from the ground. "Where is it?" he said, letting out a cry. Not being able to see much, partly because of the dark and partly because of the smoke, which was making his eyes smart, he shook with fright. Desperately, he tried to crawl away, thinking that he had dropped the suverah on the ground when falling. The suverah was probably somewhere near.. "Probably somewhere near.." he muttered to himself, afraid that he was correct in this assumption.

Flashbacks from the cell room were presented to him. The smell of rot streaming into his nostrils, made him shiver with disgust. The rats were squeaking, the volume rising. The sound of them made him twitch where he lay. He tried to ignore it, but the sound was growing more intense. It was piercing through him, like an arrow made of solid material. He kicked in thin air, hearing a sound as he hit something. Yellow smoke arose before him. The Suverah, he thought, while feeling the pain. It was spreading. The pain was spreading, making its way from his head to his arms, chest and legs. His throat was too dry to let him swallow. He coughed again, his body trembling. Suddenly, his head exploded. The squeaking was gone. Everything was. There was nothing, except the sound of what seemed like a wind; a whispering wind close to his ear. He lay motionless on the ground, having his eyes open. He could still eye the yellow smoke surrounding him, swirling elegantly around.

He was there again. He was standing before the Gate. It was the Gate he had seen in dream when the others had been discussing the route. He dragged himself forth and knocked solemnly on the Door. No sound could be heard from within the Gate, but there was this magical atmosphere which attracted him and made him stand still. There was a certain tension in the air, as if something was about to happen. Taking everything into account, he started doubting whether this was the vision he had had in his dream, or whether it was something else; a new dream. How could he tell the difference? he wondered.

There was a loud crack and the door opened. Did he dare approach it? Did he dare go inside? What was in there, anyway? Was He waiting for him? But the task he had been set to do was not yet completed. It was still to be done. Was He satisfied yet? He took a few steps forwards, hearing the door slam shut behind him. He looked around. There was nothing there, or rather, it was just black.

Suddenly he found himself lying on the ground, yellow smoke surrounding him.

He heaved after his breath.

It was just black. It was all black.

[CaptainofDespair]

Mirkwood...that is where the Elf’s distraught mind took him, flooding every sense with what memories he could scrape from the bowels of his soul. Memory was a portal for him, to a time long past, where he could live in quiet solitude, free from the confines of a world that only showed him hate, and fed him torment. His heart began to throb, and pound against the inner wall of his chest, he felt alive, but if for a brief, fleeting moment. His memories were happiness for him, a polar opposite of his current state. He could see his one-time home, and he relished it, grasping to hold on to it, longing for it. Various smells rushed into the void within his nostrils, replacing the acrid, caustic scent of Mordor. He could even feel the wind, blowing through the canopy of the forest, wafting many new smells about. What had once been a dream, had now become a physical aura, a gateway of an old life for him.

This is what kept him alive, those long years in Cirith Ungol, and Cirith Gorgor. When he had first been taken captive, he had tried to resist his tormentors. Yet, that was to no avail, even for one as strong willed as he was, and more so, how he had been. The tantalizing thought that he could escape lingered for a few years. It had been rekindled when he was transferred from Gorgor, and he thought it possible, to an extent. But those thoughts soon drove him to madness, as he realized there was no escape from the fortress-prison of Cirith Ungol. And soon, he began to despair, and death lurked in every corner of his cell, slowly creeping in upon him, waiting for the perfect moment to take him. Only the all-important visage of his mother’s caring and loving face kept him alive. And he soon discovered the power of his memory. Since he was not used as a slave, he had a great amount of free time on his hands, and so he put it to good use. At first, he would spend a few minutes, then hours, drifting into his past, delving into something long gone. Eventually, he mastered this peculiar version of hindsight, and he could spend days on end reliving his past, without being forced to consume the meager portions divvied out by the orcs. The orcs had not liked this change in him, for they could not taunt him any longer. And thus, they started beating him again, using any form of torture they could to break his spirit again. His memories saved him, and the orcs soon ended their bloody experiments. He held his memories ever tighter after that, keeping them close, to save him when he needed a reminder of what life he could have, should Fate intervene, and free him.

And Fate did save him, he sent to him the man Grash, to open his cell door, and set him free. But even with that pseudo-freedom, he was not totally over-joyed, for he was still in the realm of Mordor. His journey in the Tunnel provided him with a new ally in his desire to free himself from the Black Land. The voices that had spoken to him, and given him the tools to fight off Shelob’s ravenous, salivating jaws. They had left him for a time, alone, with only glimmers of memory to hold him above the raging waters that sought to drown him in their vehement undercurrent. He had seen Barad-dur, and shuddered at the horrors within, and only faint fading thoughts of hope kept his sanity then. The Stone of Sauron nearly broke him. The Dark Lord’s unquenchable thirst for domination was able to drive the weakened thoughts of hope from the Elf’s mind, like beasts flee before the tides of a dark storm. Then, when he thought he passed the last trial that the forsaken land could send out to harry him, the orc army of Morgul came marching, which a Nazgul at its helm.

His mind continued to wander, he had lost the memories that he had yearned for, of Mirkwood, of his mother, and they were twisted into visions of malice, and hate, of the Nazgul. He had been struck down, not by any blade, nor by just any of the Nazgul, but by the commander of Minas Morgul. Fate was not kind that day. Death had its clutches upon his neck, ready to drag him to the dark abyss that awaited him. He had given his live for one who, in time, would not remember his sacrifice. But it was for the best, for he was nothing now, if he ever was something beside a simple Elf. Yet he was saved, not by some memory of the distant past, but the ghosts of that past. His ancient saviors from the Tunnel came back to him, to repay their debt, for one final stand against the cruelty of Sauron. Like a disciplined legion they came, to face the hordes of the Dark Lord which slithered through his mind, infecting it with their scum. And those spirits of the dead came with wrath, and drove back the Enemy, scattering his power like dust caught in the wind. They saved him, and his hope was partially restored, just enough to carry him into the High Pass of the Mountains of Shadow...

Now, he was here, sprawled out upon the withered, rocky surface of this clearing in the desolate crags of a gloomy mountain spire. His trance had reminded him of a myriad of things, and he felt alone, with no one there for support, comfort far off in the distance. He awoke from his mediation, to see his...friends...scattered about, sleeping, if not with one eye open. He scoured their faces, seeing what he could see within them. He smiled wryly. Hope is what he found in their placid faces, but not a hope for him, for them. Yet, he questioned his motives, and thus he searched his heart, hoping against a dying glimmer of life, that there would be an answer for him.

In the midst of this, there came a shout. The man Zurumor had awoken to the sight of Orcs, and the Traitor. He yelled out, sounding a call to arms, and readying himself for a defense that would determine life and death for the company. Morgoroth arose as quickly as he could, ignoring the biting pain that coursed through his shoulder. He drew a small, glistening blade, the last remnant of his father’s memory, and prepared for his last battle with the soldiers of the Enemy.

The Orcs were of a good number, but they were not the Uruks, the pride of Mordor’s Orc commanders. They were mere Snaga. Under normal circumstance, they would be easy foes, and would be dealt with quickly. But the company was weak, and bore many injures, and thus the defense was made quite difficult. The Elf struggled to find a comfortable mode of attack, and he was forced to watch his allies face the strength of many fresh orc troops. The dwarves Bror and Dwali fought hard, for endurance was of their race, and their short stature awarded a certain advantage. Yet even that was not enough, for exhaustion and grievous wounds make for horrid companions. But the company was not as divided as it had been, and aid came from the race of Men, who, fighting side by side with their new friends, pushed the orcs back, if but for a moment. Within this short span of time, the Elf had gathered his strength, and caring not for the afflictions that pained him, he drove himself forward, to bring the justice of the Elves to the unholy, heathen orcs.

Grunting and brandishing their crudely manufactured scimitars, the orcs assaulted the company, which had now swelled to full force, as every member of the party rose to meet their attackers. After the orcs’ first attack, they were driven back to the Pass, where the company held its staggered line. Many times the orc came, but each time they were driven back, but with lessening force. Already the defenders began to tire, for their sleep was not a restful one. Yet still, there were a few fresh orc marauders ready to strike at the deteriorating front line. These soldiers began to mass, preparing for an attack that could penetrate the line, and allow for the rogue prisoners to be killed, or to be captured, and feasted upon for a hearty orc meal.

Finally, that charge came, as the orcs, uncaring for any harm to that might come them, ceaselessly crawled upon the defenders, hacking and slashing with axe and blade, hoping to cause chaos, and force the rebels to turn to flee, and thus be cut down. For a few moments, time seemed to slow, and all motion was made difficult, but yet, it seemed like the attack might be repulsed. Yet, it was not so, and the orcs broke the line, and surged through, forced on by curses and the ironshod fist of Lurg. And who was there to block the gap? The weakened Elf himself, alone. The orc saw the weakness in his arm, and thought to exploit, for they were eager to spill Elven blood. But the Elf had hoped for this, and he allowed them to exploit his injury. They tried to strike him upon his wound, and force him to plead for mercy just before they would deal his death blow. But it was to no avail, as the elven blade smote two of the attacking Snaga, leaving their helms dripping in blackened blood.

But the Elf quickly tired, and he had to force himself into weaker and weaker positions, so that he could exploit the orcs’ bloodlust. Soon, they overwhelmed him, surrounding him, shaking fist and blade at him, trying to corner him against the dark soiled walls of the mountain. Yet, his allies, having been beaten back themselves, were now regaining the upper hand. It was in this moment, he realized what he must do. “Hope is beyond me, only Death is my comfort. I must fight for the mortal kind, so that they may have a chance at life, for their lives are short, and must be spent in happiness, not sorrow and despair.”

The Orcs that had surrounded him were quickly growing tired of his game, as he rotated around a small section of the clearing, and they wanted to kill him, and be done with it. And when he leapt upon a rock, they grew all the more agitated, and attacked. The first went reeling back from a boot to the face and a dagger to chain-covered gut. The second was dispatched with a quick jab of his blade to the throat, spilling black blood across the dirt, staining the soil a dark color. Hopping down from his pedestal, he rushed as quickly as he could, limping slightly, to where he could do the most damage to the fiendish orc kind. Standing in the center of what was once the defenders’ last line of hope, he made his stand. There, he rallied the orc to him, hoping to draw their attention away from the others, to provide some manner of relief. His cries in the Sindar tongue awoke an ageless hate, one brooding over many centuries, passed down from generation to generation.

Many of the Orcs were already dead, or were fleeing back to Lurg, to regroup for another assault, and they caught the Elf. Standing alone, his would-be oppressors came on, swinging their rusty blades. A few managed to strike the Elf, but only gave minor wounds. He still danced doggedly, avoiding his enemies blows, and infuriating them further. But finally, the Elf’s end had come. With many foes circling about him now, he could no longer defend himself adequately, and he fell beneath a fury of blades, one landing upon his wound, leaving him crying out in agony and distress, and the final death blow, dealt by lust-filled snaga, a piercing blow to the stomach, which left him bleeding out, yet again. He could fight no more, but the Orc had lost him in the fray, and he managed to pull himself away, with his last ounce of strength, to a desolate, bloodless sect of the clearing, to die. And as he lay there, chest heaving spasmodically, and blood dripping from his many wounds, he laid out his blade upon his breast, and fell into Death, a wry smirk upon his visage.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Alaklondewen's Post

Exhaustion overwhelmed the Easterling woman. Her muscles ached, her eyes drooped, yet she continued to fight. She would not survive if the battle came to hand-to-hand combat. Luck, if she believed in luck, had saved her from the orc army. It would not happen again. Darash had begun gathering smaller stones, but Lyshka continued to work on the larger boulders. Her chest heaved as tried to rock the massive stone. The rock’s surface was cool against her sweating back as she pushed with her long legs against the worn path. Finally, the boulder budged beneath her, and she was able to get it moving down the path toward the enemy.

The enemy was getting smaller. Many had been crushed by the falling stones, but several had escaped by dodging the debris. Lyshka saw the dark elf fighting fiercely, surrounded by the beasts. As she watched from high on the path, time seemed to slow. A rusty blade thrust forward, piercing the immortal’s stomach. The Easterling woman cried out in despair as his body slumped onto the ground. “Dad-esh!” Lyshka shouted the Amazon woman’s name and pointed to the fallen. Darash paused and lines creased her brow as she met the Easterling’s saddened gaze.

Another noise took Lyshka’s attention immediately. It was the sound of dozens of more feet stamping against the cold earth. New shouts of war were lifted up, and the woman slowly turned to see the new Orc-arrivals streaming onto the path. They came from all directions, up the path and descending the walls on either side. The foul beasts were surrounding them and forcing them away from their destination of freedom. Lyshka pulled the small knife Darash had provided her from her vest and prepared herself to what she thought would be her final battle.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The orcs poured over the company as a consuming wave of heated flesh. Their breaths fouled the air, and their cries echoed amongst the rocks like the crash of dreadful machines of destruction. Morgoroth had fallen, and Aldor, their supposed companion, had betrayed them to their doom. Grash fought off the blades of the orcs as best he could, but he was no warrior, and had it not been for Darash and her slender blade, he would have fallen many times before now. Their bag full of stones was now empty, and though they had felled many of the beasts, more and more orcs were appearing from all directions, driving them down, and away, from the path that lead to the green land.

Grash felt a hand upon his arm, and he swung about to slash and rend his attacker, but his hand faltered, and his heart fell, when he saw the ragged and bloodied visage of Zuromor clutching him for support. Grash tried to hold the man upright, but it was hopeless, for the orc spear that had passed through his heart was quivering with the last beats of life in the Man. Grash’s hand slipped in the blood that came from the man, whose lifeless body fell into a heap at Grash’s feet without a word or sound.

There was no time to mourn. No time for Zuromor or Morgoroth, or for himself. Another orc threw itself as Grash, and for a split second in time, Grash did nothing to defend himself. He was tired beyond the bearing of moratility, in spirit as well as in body. The horrors that he had undergone to escape his captivity seemed now to have been hardly worth it. Three of his companions had fallen on the road that he had found for them, and soon all would follow. He did not lift his hand to defend himself, welcoming the death that came to him in the raging form of the orc. But a blur in the corner of his eye became Darash’s arm, and the orc fell with her blade buried in its neck. She scrabbled, trying to grab the weapon once more, but the monster twisted in its death throes and staggered backward amongst the rocks. More orcs sprang upon them, and they were forced back another step into the ever narrowing gully that would be their tomb. Darash, to his amazement, fought on with on only her hands.

The sight of her and the others, still so valiantly fighting and struggling on for their freedom, despite their failure to escape, and in the teeth of despair, shamed him, and once more raising his weapon, he turned to face his attackers. But this time, it was no faceless orc who came upon him, but the beast that had come to torture Grash and the others so many times, and who was now the leader of their enemies. He recognised the creature instantly as the one who had escaped them in the tower – so long ago now, that it seemed almost like another lifetime, one in which there had been at least the dream of green things and air. Snarling, the beast leapt at Grash, but this time Darash was too busy protecting her own life to defend him. Raising his blade, Grash sought to strike down the orc, but the creature merely swatted the dagger aside contemptuously. Sticking his blade into Grash’s side and twisting it, he leaned his hideous face in to the slave’s so close that Grash could make out the veins in its eyes, pulsing with malice. “Wretched worm,” the orc rasped, “you’ve cost me a difficult journey and the hard will of the Screechers. Well I’ve paid you.” It twisted the knife once more, rasping the metal against Grash’s ribs and grinding the bone, drawing from him a cry of agony. With a vicious motion the orc withdrew the knife and prepared to deliver the death blow, but it never fell for from out of nowhere there sprang the female Elf, Raies, her eye filled with a hatred that blazed and smote the orc with terror.

She was wounded, and broken, and as near death as the rest of the companions, but she was of the Elder race, and there was in her yet that which could quail even the most powerful orc. The beast fell back with a cry, but he soon recovered. He lunged at her with his blade, and aided by his maggot servants, he soon had her pressed against a rock. Again, his blade went high, but the man Jordo, all but forgotten by them all in the fighting, always strangely silent, leapt forward, throwing himself across the body of the Elf. The sword fell, piercing the man’s heart, who cried out and spun away, carrying with him the orc’s blade. Raies rose to her feet, but was immediately beset by the orc’s two followers. Grash had seen enough – too many of those he had lead from their cells had fallen; too many had he killed. With a scream unlike any he had made, or had thought possible for him to make, he sprang upon the orc who had slain Jordo, and with his bare hands he took the creature by the throat and wheeled it about so that its head was crushed against the side of the gully.

Seeing their captain fall, the other orcs seemed to falter and give way, allowing the companions a moment to cease their struggles, and breathe. There were only seven of them now: the Dwarves Brór and Dwali, Raies, the Elf, the women Lyshka and Darash, and Jeren and Grash. The others were gone. But they were not to die alone, for soon the orcs would come once more and the remaining companions would fall beneath them. The orcs had hemmed them in and forced them into a gully from which there could be no escape. The walls of stone on either hand rose up straight as walls, and angling in they met not ten paces behind them. They stood, their breath coming in great heaving gasps, their blood dripping onto the rock and mingling, becoming a single pool of red. But instead of attacking, the foremost rank of orcs began to gave way, parting to allow someone through. And then Grash’s heart gave way and he saw with bitter resignation their doom approach. In the hands of an orc there lay the vessel with the burning suverah with which Aldor had sought to overcome them. He was dead, but the orcs had decided to proceed with his plan. Whether the fumes of the substance had no effect on orcs, or whether it was just that the prisoners were so much more tired and weakened than their enemies, the smoke began to bring them low while the orcs remained impassive.

Grash fought to stay awake, but it was hopeless. The orc who bore the vessel placed it upon the ground close to where they stood, but they dared not venture forth to retrieve it for it was clear that they would be cut down should they try. The orcs clearly intended to take them alive…for their sport. Grash felt a touch upon his shoulder and he turned to see Darash motioning to his blade. He did not understand at first what she wanted with it – what use in fighting now? But she made it clear through her gestures that she wanted the blade so that she could use it on herself. Grash understood; he too, would rather die than be taken alive by the orcs. She could have the blade, but only after he had used it on himself. Putting the dagger to his throat me made to press it into his flesh, but at that moment, high above the raucous cries of the orcs, barely visible against the grey sky, he saw a bird soaring above their heads. At first he feared it was one of the Nazgûl upon their winged mounts, but he realised that it was a real bird, a bird of prey, not one of the carrion fowl of Mordor. The bird cried out then, and its call was clear and keen.

Grash moved the blade away from his neck, and shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “Not kill myself. I am free. Free. If I die, let orcs destroy me. Until then, I am free – I will stay with life. I will not leave.” He handed the blade toward Darash…

A sudden cry from the orcs drew his attention toward them. His eyes were swimming and his head was growing light from the fumes of the suverah but through the reek he could make out that the orcs were turning away from the companions and gesturing down the path at something. Swimming up from the abyss, Grash looked through the haze that was steadily falling before his eyes and dreamt that he saw dozens of green clad forms flitting amongst the rocks. There were cries of terror and of death amongst the orcs, and Grash dreamed that they fell and fled. His head swam and the earth spun and the rock of the mountain rose up to smack him in the head. He lay there, panting and gasping for breath, and he dreamt of strong hands lifting him, and bearing him away…

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

He awoke to the sound of birdsong, and to the feel wind upon his cheeks. He opened his eyes, but had to close them again immediately for the force of sunlight that bore upon him. There was a comforting voice nearby, and a cool hand pressed upon his brown, shading his eyes from the light. “It is all right,” the voice was saying, and it was noble and clear like the fall of water. “You are safe, and alive, although you are lucky to be both. You can open your eyes now, I have shaded them.”

Grash did as the voice bid and he looked up into two deep brown eyes that twinkled at him from a face that shone with health and vigour. Rising up, Grash sought to scamper away from the tall Man, but he was held by gentle hands. “Quiet,” a familiar voice said in his ear. “Friends. Safe. Free.” Grash turned and beheld Darash. She was clad as Grash now saw he had been, in simple garments of green that were clean and soft. They were the most comfortable things he had ever worn, and he could not believe that they were real.

“Where…?” was all he could manage.

“You are in Ithilien,” the Man said. “We are Rangers of Gondor, and we found you upon the path. The King has come again and we have reclaimed this land. We were scouting along the high path, looking for spies of Mordor, when my bird spotted something. We went to see what she had found and were surprised to see a mob of orcs besetting the strangest collection of folk we could have imagined.” He smiled. Grash stared at the man in amazement. “You save us?” he blurted out. “Save us? Bring us out of Mordor, and into green land?” And he felt the tears upon his cheeks as he laughed, the first genuine laugh of his existence. He fell back upon the ground and felt the gentle touch of grass upon his skin. He rose up, and the other companions were gathered about, all of them with the wounds bound and resting. The Man explained that they had all of them been on the brink of death from the smoke when they had been taken up by the Rangers, and that they had all lain unconscious for four days and nights but that the first of them had begun to awake this morning.

As the Man spoke, Grash felt a tremor in the ground, as though some great upheaval were taking place in the earth. The birds and the animals fell silent about them, and even the wind seemed to still. All talking ceased, and everyone held their breath in expectation, although of what, none knew. There came then a wind from the East, that raged through the trees, and it cried about them like a voice. Looking up, Grash watched in horror as a vast cloud rose above the looming form of the mountains, a great shadowy form, crowned with lightning, but it was dissolved in the wind and when it passed there came upon the heart of the slave a lightness that he could never have imagined. The land began to stir, and the Rangers gathered about stared at one another in amazement. The Man who had saved Grash looked about in awe. “What has happened?” he asked. “I feel as though some great change has been wrought, but what it is, I do not know.”

But Grash knew. Grash, who had lived his entire life beneath the shadow knew with his heart of hearts, that the shadow had been defeated. How it had been accomplished was beyond his imagination, but that it was so, he was sure. Sauron, the dark lord, was no more.

Grash was free.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis was alert in a moment and simply rolled sidewards behind one of the large boulders nearby as the sounds of the orcs filled the air. She sword viciously as she squeezed her eyes tight shut and her fists clenched furiously. They were so close, so close! Feeling sadness well up, the elf opened her eyes and blinked furiously. They would have no satisfaction from her, none of the satisfaction they had taken from her in the long dark years... Raeis touched the handle of the long, jagged knife that hung at her side: her sword had been lost but the twin of this knife was with Zurumor. She twisted around to peek out from behind the rock, unseen from where the battle raged...and saw no sign of Zurumor. Something inside her heart seemed to pluck at one of the strings like a harp, and Raeis was surprised at it's unexpectedly strong resonations of anxiety for the Man.

But she knew what they meant. Her lithe fingers wound around the handle and she stood slowly, coming out from behind the rock as if in slow motion and drawing the knife from her ragged belt as if it was the finest of swords pulled from the sheath of a Noldorian warrior, raising it slowly straight up in front of her. The orcs nearby noticed, and some sneered at the elf, laughing their vile corruption at the silent elf; but others were not so cocky, for there was something about the elf's silent confidence that was terrifying, and that resonated deep within some ancestral memory: a memory of the screams of orcs and the bright light surrounding almost celestial hosts of bright elves....

In this dark place, there was no light surrounding Raeis.
But within, the Light of the Valar burned like wildfire.

Ignited, the elf swung suddenly into action, her knife coming around in a blur towards the first of the orcs nearby and slicing cleanly through his throat. Head hanging off from a string of gristle, the orc's eyes bulged in the sudden shock rather than pain, and died, the sneer still half affixed to his gaping lips. Raeis paused, as if confused at the swift, expert motion: but it was coming back to her now.

She had been an expert...

...the blades glittered dangerously in the afternoon sun as the two figures circled one another, utterly focused on the other, their hands held at 45 degree angles to their bodies and feet silent as they padded on the soft fallen leaves of the forest floor. With a sudden movement, one spun around, the blade flashing forward towards the other as her long hair spun behind her...

Like one in a trance, Raeis spun suddenly, the long knife slicing like a shadow through the air towards the orc who rushed towards her...

...and met her partner's blade with a metallic ring that resounded throughout the still of the forest. The latter laughed as he withdrew, winking at her cheekily. "You'll-

Her blade slashed at the orc's stomach and her bent double, falling to the dust in front of Raeis. There was no laughter, no winks, just the still calm of the elf as she thrust her blade downwards into her fallen victim's back.

"-have to do better than that for me, Raeis."

"Better? Against you?" The beautiful elf laughed, tossing her many shaded hair outwards as she repositioned once again, her eyes levelling with her oponents. "Don't make me laugh: I may love you, but to let you win? Well, my-"

Love. Zurumor. Where was he? Raeis looked around, unblinking, her eyes unheeding of the dust that filled them. There. There he was, falling, bloodstained. Nearby, another, Morgoroth, self sacrificing, finally self sacrificed, dust stained lamb broken on the floor of the path. Eyes jerking open, limbs jerking towards him, knife jerking lazily down from it's position...

Pain.
Pain in her side.

Who?

Raeis jerked awake from her reverie, and saw Zurumor fall, mirroring her own knees buckling as she clutched her side. The orc's blade had sliced through an old whip wound and the whole wound seemed alight now. Raeis gave a small cry and in the still of her mind, it was all she heard...almost. There was another noise now, like laughter, quiet and easy, a sound to make the rippling of the most refreshing and beautiful waterfall seem less than a single drop of water. Raeis smiled softly as she recognised the voice that laughed and murmured in her mind, her face almost childlike where she knelt on the floor, unaware of anything outside of her mind: the Gods had returned to her.

Strength surged back into Raeis's limbs and the her hands tightened on the knife. In a flash second, she whipped to the left onto one knee, sword scything around at thigh level - it was her blind side, but no accuracy was required for this vicious motion. The orc gave a hideous cry of agony as his legs were cut from beneath him and he fell beside her, only to be dispatched in a moment. The elf rose once more and spun around viciously, arcing around blindly to remove any limbs in the near vicinity. Her limbs were on fire with action as the old skills and motions returned to her, but her mind was aflame with thoughts of her companions. Aldor, Dorim, Morgoroth... her companions had fallen one by one, freed from their prisons but never to escape. Now they had gone, fallen to treachery or the dust of the plains, and how many remained?

Seven.

Raeis smiled absently despite herself, her lips forming the now almost familiar shape without her noticing.

Lyshka, Darash, Grash, Bror, Zurumor, Jeren, Dwali...
Yavanna, Nienna, Mandos, Aule, Ulmo, Manwe, Varda.

The mirror was perfect: a Lord or a Lady for each of her fine companions. But no...no, they were in danger. The perfection - it would be broken!

"No!" The elf's scream was the first sound she had made in several fierce minutes and it ripped from her throat like a jagged claw. Rolling underneath the attacking club of her nearest enemy, the bruised and battered elf came up agily in front of the orc who assaulted Grash, her blade crashing into his with power that belied her size. The orc stumbled back from his prey, and the fierce light of hate in the elf's eyes for a moment quelled him, before he came again forwards. Raeis gave a bellow of anger and the light burned bright in her eyes as she fought them off, standing over Grash's body.

"No! Seven of us there are, and seven of us there will be," she cried, every inch the Noldor of her ancestors, held strong and true by the Seven. "As long as I draw breath, not one of them shall fall, upon the Lords, I swear this!"

The elf was beset upon from all sides, but even as she fought hopelessly against all odds, the power of her vow and the faraway West all that were holding her up, a blade identical to hers joined her fight on the left hand side. Raeis did not need to turn her head to see who it was, but instead she felt a warmth of a different kind inside her. Bloodied and almost wounded beyond repair though he was, he had come once more to defend her blind side, as he had in the caves of the Spider: ever kind and understanding, thoughtful...and self sacrificing.

Raeis clashed her blade momentarily against his and raised her free hand to the handle of his blade as she flattened herself against Zurumor's warm back to fight the other side. Leaning her shorn head against his, she whispered softly, "If you go now, we go together."

When the rangers came, horns blowing fear into the twisted black souls deep in the bodies of the orcs, they found a strange sight when they saw the fair, scarred elf and green eyed Man, back to back over the body of another and fiercely defending this, all they had, with anything they had, and more. The elf would even have fought the men of Ithilien, the light in her eyes so fierce as if was, had Zurumor not stopped her, laying his hands against her and resting her head against his shoulder as she calmed down: lending her a gentle touch that would hold her to him forever until she fell in a bloodied heap onto her knees.

The broken of Mordor who have been betrayed by all who ever knew them know nothing of distinction. They care little, in the end, for the outside casings that make a being: elf, man, dwarf, scarred or beautiful, there is no definition between these things when the captured are cornered in battle. Their world is a mass of greys and blacks in this, this Land of Darkness.

So when true light shines, all see it's true beauty.

[Bêthberry]

The blade never reached the hand of Darash, for, ironically, the orcs had destroyed any chance she had to use it again. In fighting with her bare hands, her arms had once again been broken. Her hands hung uselessly at the ends of her forearms, which were covered with bloody gashes where the orcs had slashed her flesh. Through immense effort, with salt biting her brow, and hot pain roiling through her body, she could tighten her muscles and try to will her hands to grasp and hold off assailants, but the sharp edges of her broken bones tormented her flesh as much as did he external cuts to her arms. And the smoke of the sulverah smote her nostrils, burning them, and spread through her head, confusing her senses. She thought she saw the orcs retreating, but her rational mind told her that was impossible. Suddenly, she sensed more around her, not orcs, but men nonetheless reaching out to her body, catching her in her fall. She would have fought them off; she tried to, but she swooned under the combined effects of blood loss, fatigue, pain, the drugged smoke which she herself had used on the spider's spawn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

How long she had slept she did not know. She knew only that when she awoke, it was with a headache and thirst she had never known before. And then a surging fear as she saw a tall Man standing over her, clad in green and brown, placing his hands on her shoulders to keep her down. She would have struggled had she not hear his calming voice.

"It is not an orcs' hovel we have brought you to. You are safe here. The Rangers of Gondor do not harm the weak or the disabled. And Ithilien is not Mordor."

Darash lay back, remembering the pain in her arms and feeling them now spread with cooling ointments and held in place by splints and swaddled with clean cloths. The excruciating pain was gone, replaced by a numbed soreness which felt strangely like sleep. The Man reached over her once again and gently lifted her by the shoulders, holding a cup of mildly sweet liquid to her lips. At first, her cracked lips could not manage the lip of the cup and the fluid spilt down her chin, but as it flowed over her parched mouth she found she could drink more ably. The Man let her lay back to recover some strength and then lifted her again to allow her to drink. Her eyes thanked him and courtesy and respect in his shone back at her.

"Others,?" she panted. "Safe too? Where?"

"We count seven of your companions, although a stranger group of comrades I have not set my eyes upon."

She nodded, and sleep, precious balm, overcame her again.

~ ~ ~ ~
Yet when next she woke, she was able to rise and even, tentatively with arms still wrapped in splints and bandages, take advantage of the basin of warm water near her bed, and the fragrant soap embedded with herbs. Clean new clothes lay on her bed. She struggled to pull on the leggings and lift the tunic over her head but the softness of the garments seemed to fall over her easily. At her door, she was met by the Man again, who beckoned to her to follow him. He brought her to Grash, who lay still but breathing regularly on a pallet of straw. When he awoke, she comforted him with the news of help and listened while the Ranger explained to both of them how his bird had spied them in their need. Darash chuckled to herself, thinking of the old Amizgh story of the trapped animal who changed into a bird to escape. Stories have a way of coming true, she thought to herself.

Then the ground trembled and a great shudder went through the world. She swayed, and held onto the pallet for support. She might even have touched Grash's shoulder. The wind wrapped around them and the oppressive weight she had felt when she had been brought to this Northern land suddenly and at last lifted. She breathed deeply and freely for the first time since she had been kidnapped.

Grash looked at her. "Darash,?" he began. "We are free."

She lifted awkwardly her bandaged arm to stop him.

"Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re," she said, her throat muscles relaxing in saying her true name aloud for the first time in his presence. As she pointed to herself, he nodded and repeated her name and lay back upon his bed, his face showing a mixture of light and apprehension and joy he had never known before. What is freedom? he wondered aloud. She smiled. "See now," she said, briefly, with a hint of discipline and sternness in her voice.

One of the Rangers spoke up. "He needs his rest, the wound in his side is deep, and I promised to teach you how to read our sky. Will you come now, Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re?" She nodded and followed the Ranger out, full of curiosity to know what this man who read the earth and sky as she did would show her. "Show me Lyshka too," she asked.

[alaklondewen]

A sweet fragrance fill Lyshka’s nostrils, and she breathed it in deeply as she ran her fingers through the grass, relishing the way the blades pricked the soft flesh of her palms. Many years she had dreamed of the greenness of the grass, unmarred by the evil that had always surrounded her. The Evil was gone now. She had felt the tremor, and had first been afraid, but as the fresh breeze came and the heaviness of her heart lifted, she knew. The darkness that had controlled her every waking moment would never hurt her again. She was free.

The Easterling had awoken early that morning to find herself in the most beautiful place she had ever seen. “Ith-il-ee-un,” she treasured the way the word tasted in her mouth. She had decided she would not utter the words of the Dark Lord again. This new language, the language of freedom, would only leave her lips now. A smile crept across her face. Such a simple thing, a smile, yet she had not experienced this pleasure since she had been taken from her people. Pushing the memory from her head, Lyshka broadened her smile, letting the corners of her mouth push up to their extremities. If she had seen herself, she would have thought she was ridiculous, but this feeling of joy was so nature here.

“Lyshka!” The sound of her name pulled her from her thoughts. Darash! The Amazon woman stood a few feet from her, dressed in the same garments as she. Lyshka pushed her weight up and met the woman who had been much of her strength through that last many days. The women looked at one another without saying a word. Their experience reflected in their dark eyes. Lyshka felt hot tears rise beneath her lashes, and she stepped forward and embraced the dark woman tightly. The tears fell gingerly down her cheeks. “Thay-nnk yoo, Darash,” Lyshka whispered.

Darash pulled back from her and shook her head negatively. “Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re.” Lyshka tipped her head to the side, not understanding the meaning of these words. The taller woman took the Easterling’s hand and placed it on her shoulder. “I am Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re.”

Lyshka’s eyes widened with surprise, yet she understood. This new name was her name of freedom. Lyshka tried to pronounce it with Darash, no, Kashtia’s aid. It was a poor attempt, and caused both women to laugh freely.

One of the ranger men stood behind the women, and he now made himself known by clearing his throat and speaking to Kashtia. Lyshka was surprised that she was not frightened by his presence. Until now, any man’s presence unnerved the Easterling, and put her completely on guard. Now, she smiled at the young man and walked confidently alongside him and Kashtia as they walked to the peak of a grassy knoll. The man pointed to the sky and spoke to the women. Lyshka did not understand his words, but she hung onto the sound of it.

The sky was clearing and the sun shown down upon them, warm and strong. Lyshka took in its strength and knew that she was free to walk wherever the sun touched the brown of the soil or the green of the grass. Once more, but not for the last time, Lyshka smiled.

[Himaran]

When the uruks had attacked, Dwali was right in the middle of them. Rage had taken hold, like nothing he had ever felt before. His axe cleaved through them, winding its way on path of destruction. No longer would he flee, and leave it to others to protect him! No longer would he fall off to the side, and listen as his friends battled for their lives! Those that charged him were instantly slain, for the young warrior was in his element. No longer will I let you live!

Addreneline, however, does not come in endless supply. Soon the dwarf was exhausted, and making mistakes which could prove deadly. His guard was often down, going for a kill when he should have defended. Then a club crashed into the side of his head, and Dwali stumbled forward. He turned and slew his assailant, but was immediately attacked by another. And at last he fell to his knees and collapsed... for to him, the sound of the Rangers' horns were trumpets announcing that his time in this world had ended.

But it was not to be.

***

The grass under his feet... the fresh, crisp air... the songs of nearby birds... all had been distant memories. As if living in a dream, Dwali lay on his back and took in everything. His world had literally changed overnight, from the land of darkness to the land of light. It was all so peaceful, without guards and whips, cruel blades and filthy cells. Cirith Ungol was a thing of the past, and the dwarf hoped that it would remain so, along with his escape from it. How the rangers defeated the remaining orcs and saved the surviving company meant little to him; many uruks were felled by his blade, and that was of sole importance.

Surrounded with such peaceful beauty, it was hard for the dwarf to feel pessimistic or at odds with a particular party. But there was still a deep sadness for the dear friend he had left behind. Dorim would never be able to hear the sounds of the woods again, or enjoy the cool taste of fresh water from a running brook. No, he would remain forever in Mordor... but not in the clutches of the orcs.

Dwali stood and walked around the clearing slowly, once again admiring Ithillien's beauty. Now he was free, to live and decide what his future would be. Excitement pulsed through him; there was so much left to see! The land of darkness was gone, and it would never return.

Goodbye, Dorim. You cannot traverse the rest of this great world, but I will do it for you. And we shall meet again, somewhere... in a happier and brighter place than this.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The eyelids of sound sleepers flying open, the shouting of distraught escapees, the fumbling for some sort of weaponry; the movements seemed so effortless and graceful, as if they were meant to happen and that the actions had already been planned out for play. The fading scent of suverah floated gently through the thick air as the company fought their enemy. Beings became blurred figures in Jeren's foggy vision; shouts of defiance and rage morphed into simple sounds of restlessness in his ears; events and occurrances became slight replays in his weary mind.

The scene moved too quickly almost, and Jeren basked in the glory of a battle that felt like the last. The Southron learned more than he wanted from the little group, more than he thought he would, and more than he cared to admit. Lessons had been indirectly taught to him by the actions and the strange ways of the former prisoners that he had escaped with. Trustworthiness, caring, responsibility...all traits that Jeren knew existed in the depths of his mind and soul, but never needed in battle until now. For now, he finally had a cause worth dying for, and a company worth caring for, and a reason that he understood all too well.

Jeren would have been content to die where he stood as he fought those that would impede on his freedom and the freedom of his companions. They had all gone so far, faced so many dangers, and grieved so many losses. The Southron man did not know where he would go if...when he got his freedom, but freedom most certainly was the only ideal and hope that Jeren would not mind dying for. Perhaps that is what kept him alive so long, fighting the battles of others and not wishing to die for that which he did not believe in. Perhaps that is why Jeren never fought harder than during that one battle.

--

It was not until he felt the grass beneath his feet and the air brush against his face that he began to truly remember what he had lost. Though his days in Cirith Ungol were fewer than the others', Jeren had long forgotten the smell and sight of freedom. The hope seemed akin to flame within a closed space: quick to flicker, die out, and be forgotten. Jeren had never felt so wonderful.

Colors shone brighter, scents seemed sharper, and sounds came clearer than they ever had before. Cirith Ungol, or more specifically, getting out of Cirith Ungol had at the very least taught Jeren to appreciate what he had always taken for granted before his imprisonment.

Still unsure of where he would go and what he would do with his newly reacquired freedom, Jeren pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind and chose instead to revel in the simple beauty of Ithilien. The lovely atmosphere kept his mind off of the future, but there was nothing that could erase his mind of the past.

Jeren refused to erase the events of the company's escape.

Erasing meant forgetting, and Jeren did not want to forget all that he had learned from his new companions.

From my new friends...Jeren corrected himself.

[Kransha]

Brór was one of the few who did not succumb to the enigmatic veil of slumber that had settled above the company when Rangers from the West descended upon the black shadows as they were at last driven back and routed. His eyes remained fully open, lids refusing to lower even as tears welled up beneath each watery sphere. He could not blink, or shut his gaping eyes as the horn-calls filled his closed ears. He heard the echoes of sunny sound, like light upon his shadow. The orcs, shrieking in terror, took no time to flee and scatter, limbs and armaments akimbo, and madly dashed away from the sudden uproar of righteous power. The fight, as fast at it had sprung up, evaporated and concluded, its resonating chords and clangs washed away by a single, joyous sound from the Rangers’ horns, men who had appeared out of thin air, apparently. The bright, sylvan colors of their garb as they flooded over the battlefield sharply contrasted the red and black of Mordor and the Vale on Anduin. They visages of every companion, Dwarf, Man, and Elf, were suddenly altered drastically as the Ranger swept onto the edge of the rocky road, firing swift bolts at retreating uruks, leaderless and impotent. The weight was lifted, the threat was ended, and the gates to freedom lay within their reach. The final stretch had come, and the last step would be tread upon, the last river forded…at last.

They all collapsed, even those not overcome. Many tears were shed, even those of Bror. He looked across the jagged, rocky plain of battle as men filled the air around him, hurrying to either aid or hinder him. Eyes peered at him in passing, curious and bewildered, but he did not feel nor care about their presence. They were mannish eyes, but not those of Zuromor, Grash, or the others. They were natural and full of color, tempered with both belligerence and justness, as a warrior’s should look. Brór’s head could barely turn in response to the Rangers as they began to realize what had occurred, and who were the ones who needed saving. As darkness was lifted, the Morgul Road served as a place of rest for many of the companions. Grash and Darash lay upon the scraggly stones, succumbed to the vile stench of suverah. Morgoroth, the dark-humored Elf, was dead upon the field, a fact which did not register in Bror until he saw the blood beneath him, which had spawned crimson rivers in the orifices of the black rock. Zuromor, though injured grievously still, yet stood, clasping Raeis to him, like a vision of sunrise that crested Brór’s icy horizon. Dwali fell not far off, unconscious and bloodied, but not slain. Aldor the traitor to was dead where he lay, in a sleep he would never wake from. Lyshka and Jeren stood as well, panting mightily to recover from the strange stupor now upon them. They felt freedom as the Rangers helped them to their feet and took them from their pain and suffering, into light…

…Now, as he thought of all this as if it were happening, he was bathed in true sunlight, not the falsified light of Mordor fire, or the flash of foul substance borne in the dark lands that had been used against Shelob. The great, terrible eight legs of the Spider clawed at Brór’s withered mind, the whispering breaths of Sauron boomed in his hollowed skull, the cries of orcs and comrades created a near-fatal cacophony that pounded like drumbeats upon him. But, moments before, the drumbeat had gone. Now, as he stood in greenery and woodland, he felt the presence that infected him wither and disintegrate, moaning in agony as its power was severed from it. With Sauron’s wroth Eye gone from its perch and his form gone from Arda, the pain that leeched from Brór’s countenance left wordlessly, leaving him to his own devices, to his own fate. He felt the jets of flame that had poured through him, from wounds inflicted by the Mistress of Cirith Ungol, disappear as if they were no more than pestering gnats. Feeling renewed, but still in the misty shadow, he turned around and around again, looking to the rangers as they attended his brethren, many of whom were healing from near-mortal hurts. The Dwarf, though, turned first and foremost to Zuromor, who was outside, in the midst of rangers, on a bed of straw near that which bore Grash like a bier. As Brore tore his way past two discoursing rangers, Zuromor’s deep eyes looked up at the Dwarf and he spoke.

“Brór…” he whispered, “My comrade…Did I not tell you we would be free?”

Brór looked to his compatriot sadly. Thankfully, for him, the boy’s wound was not mortal. He would live, which consoled Brór’s unhappy temperament to no end. He nodded, drawing his gauntleted hand along a bruised cheek to extinguish a solitary tear from existence, the first of several that had set a record number for the battle-hardened Dwarf. His nodding head moved vigorously, with youth flowing in his poisoned veins again. “Aye, lad,” he said, choking on the relieved words as they rose up in his throat, “you did…you did.” He could barely bring himself to continue and lay his hand upon Zuromor’s sagging shoulder where he lay on the pallet. “And now you are.” Zurumor looked up at him, still weakened and awestruck by all the happenings. His chipped eyebrow rose slowly, arching over a wide orb, and his wry grin became a perplexed frown. “We both are, friend, remember?”

Now, Brór shook his head from side to side, the madly dispersed hairs of his great beard still as unkempt and untamable as they had been on that day when the door to his two-decade prison swung open with the slightest of ease. “No, Zuromor,” he said, and let his hand slide dejectedly off Zuromor’s shoulder, “you are free. My freedom will not come for many years yet. The light may be just over the horizon, but the sun is still a mountain away. The mountain can be scaled, but I do not intend to ford the obstacle…not yet. Be happy, Zuromor, and revel in your freedom.” Zuromor still looked confused, and his back arched as he rose from the bed, swiftly assisted by one of his saviors who helped him to his feet at last. Again he looked down on Brór, but Brór did not look up at him. A call from Dwali, who had awaken from his state moments ago, stirred Brór to turn around.

“Come, Brór.” said Dwali, materializing behind his fellow dwarf, “We must engineer a way back to our lands. I am told by these men that there is a dwarf in the company of the Gondorians. Perhaps we can seek a route to our homeland with him. Now, Brór, that we are free of the accursed Black Lands, we must go home.” His voice gained energy and excitement, though all words were delivered with a serious notation, like a merry dirge, contradictory as it was. Brór, hesitating greatly, turned at last and walked back, away from the straw bed, the rangers, and Zuromor behind him. “Indeed…” his nod and pause was painfully solemn. “We must.”

Finally, wholly removing his gaze from Zuromor, Brór Stormhand dragged the two tired feet beneath him forward, as Dwali looked concernedly at him. But, though melancholic in his gait, he smiled at long last and clasped the other Dwarf’s hand, shaking it powerfully. Dwali’s face lit up at the change, and the two dwarves looked, with stern but satisfied seriousness, at each other and Brór continued to move past, at a brisker, jauntier pace. Suddenly, though, Zuromor moved rapidly towards the back of his Dwarf kinsman. He clapped him upon the back, halting him in his tracks. “Brór,” He said, with more genuine serenity than ever had been present in his voice before, “You will not say so, but I know the darkness is gone from you.” Brór turned again, his head tilting up and his eyes peering into Zurumor’s, each eye holding all the memories, all the emotions, all the feelings that had been secreted there during his stay in Mordor. “Yes, Zuromor,” he said quietly, “the darkness is gone, but only the darkness of Sauron. Some shadows still linger, shadows that do not fade with time, or heed the passage of years. I will keep my shadows, Zuromor, and you may keep yours, but you may shed those that lie in you, for you have a light to extinguish the darkness. Keep your light, my friend, and live in peace and happiness. Knowing you, and all your kindred, has been an unmatched honor. I will e’er remember the lad who befriended me in the land of darkness.”

And he turned for the last time and, with Dwali just behind, headed off to consider options yet again. Behind him, Raeis, the Elf, rushed to Zuromor, though the young man’s eyes lingered on Brór for just a moment longer. Their pact made many days ago had not been for naught, as Brór had said. He watched as Brór sat, just as he always did, but he had no prison wall at his back, or bars before him, casting shadows on his face. He heard one last sound come from the dwarf in the distance, words that carried over the small camp. “Baruk Khazâd. Khazâd aimênu.” The battle-cry of the Dwarves…and of Brór Stormhand.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ergon shifted nervously from foot to foot, awaiting the arrival of the Heroes. He had heard so much about the Ring-bearers, the two little Halflings from the distant reaches of the North and the mists of myth, that he hardly expected to see them in the flesh. The men of his command were gathered about, all of them dressed in their usual green and brown by the particular order of the Lord Elessar, who wished to see the Rangers of Ithilien in the robes that they had worn for so long in defense – and defiance – of the shadow now departed. Upon either hand and gathered about in all corners of the Field of Cormallen were the Men of the West, resplendent in glory, and glowing in the joy of a victory unhoped and unlooked for.

Ergon and his men had spent the day before preparing the grounds, including the throne of turfs, fashioned after the old Ranger method. Beside the throne stood the Lord Elessar, taking counsel with his captains, for while the shadow was past, there yet remained many servants of the now departed dark lord, and there was much still to do. At the thought, Ergon’s eye moved to where the strange party stood near the fringes of the crowd. Since the day he had rescued them, almost two weeks before, they had not ceased to amaze him. Their story had been told hesitantly at first, for their Road had been a hard one – darker and more dangerous than most. But as the details of their struggles had emerged and word had spread of their deeds, more and more men of Gondor had come to meet with the companions and hear of their exploits. The attention had unnerved them, and by the command of Elessar they had been given privacy. The Lord Elessar, however, had not been able to restrain his curiosity, particularly with regard to the passing of Shelob, and yesterday he and Mithrandir had called the companions to them and spoken with them of all that they had seen and experienced in their terrible road. None among the host knew precisely what had passed in the interview, but when the companions had emerged from the pavilion at the end of the day, they had looked changed and oddly tired. Of what they had learned, Mithrandir and Elessar would say little, only that there had been deeds of such renown performed by this odd collection of beings, as to make them among the honoured of the age that was now passing.

A cry went up from the far side of the field, and Ergon strained with the rest to see the Halflings as they were led to Elessar by Mithrandir. The Heroes were abashed by the cries and seemed to shrink toward one another, casting about with nervous smiles. Something in their manner reminded Ergon of the companions. Elessar took them by the hands and bade them sit upon the throne. There then stepped forth a bard, and soon Ergon was lost in the music.

When the song was over and the crowd was dispersing, Ergon saw the companions once more. This time they were being led by Mithrandir to meet with the Halflings. Like the Heroes, they had passed through the darkness to the light, and it seemed only fitting to the Ranger that they should be presented to those who had destroyed the Dark Lord.

Later that night as the host settled themselves about the fires that had been lit for the celebration, Ergon was pacing back to his tent. He paused by the small fire that had been lit near his own, around which were gathered the companions. They did not see him upon the fringe of the small circle cast by their fire, and he did not call out to them. They did not speak, but stared instead singly into the flames, each of them lost in their own thoughts or dreams. There was a peace to the scene that spread out to Ergon and he felt, for the first time, what had been gained by their victory. Lightness settled upon his heart, and quiet grew in his soul.

The companions stirred and moved their hands toward one another. Ergon could not tell if the act was begun by one of them, or if some instinct had seized them as a group, but reaching out, they took hands forming a ring about the flame.

Turning away so as not to disturb them, Ergon left, and sought his bed.

[piosenniel]

~*~ Finis ~*~

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~