[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.