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Old 06-20-2006, 03:05 AM   #7
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
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Durelin's character - Khamir

Name: Khamir, ex-slave

Age: 37

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Weapons: Throwing daggers and a long hunting knife, fairly crudely manufactured.

Appearance: Very tall for a human, he stands at about six feet, four inches tall. He is very thin, mostly built of lean muscle, not having had much to eat in years. His skin, a beautiful creamy brown, is barely seen through all the grime. His eyes are hazel, with specks of yellow often clearly visible among the soft brown. His hair is thick and curly black, and is usually tied back, or sometimes let loose, with only a band around his head to keep it out of his eyes a bit. He wears a worn shirt and pants, and scraps of rough leather armour strapped over that: a pair of pauldrons, a vambrace on his left arm, a gauntlet on his left hand, and a pair of cuisses, as well as boots. He wears a vambrace and gauntlet only on his left arm and hand because he lost his right arm from just above the elbow down. So that it stays out of his way, he ties the arm of his shirt around the stub.

Personality: Khamir is a man who trusts no one but himself. He has endured so many things that have made him loathe so many, and it has only really been his hatred that has kept him alive for so long. Ideas of revenge are very attractive to him, and he believes strongly in concepts such as ‘an eye for an eye.’ Overall, he has also has a deep sense of justice, though it has been obscured slightly after spending so many years in the darkest place in the Middle-earth. He is looked upon as the leader of a gang of ex-slaves who scavenge the Ash-plains of Mordor. He is not much of a leader, nor is he very eloquent, but he is followed. He learned the Common Tongue as a boy, having been brought up in a fairly well to do household, and is not at all unintelligent. He simply chooses not to speak most of the time.

History: A Southron, born just a few miles north of Umbar, Khamir did not desire to join Mordor, refusing to ever fight alongside anyone but his fellow men. He had no love for Gondor or any of the other peoples of Middle-earth, but he was fiercely loyal to his own people, and believed that becoming Sauron’s minions was the end to the Haradrim’s power and independence. Because he would not willingly join the ranks under the Dark Lord’s command, he was made a slave when he was sixteen years old. His own father was the one who handed him over as a supposed traitor. His younger friend Beloan was enslaved along with him, as he shared the same ideals and also tended to follow Khamir’s lead in those days. He and Beloan were made slaves and worked on the plantations for several years before the defeat of Sauron. After this defeat, the two were able to escape from the plantations, along with many others; but, unlike many others, they were never recaptured. They joined up with a few other ex-slaves, and working as a team (though not always in the best of terms), they were able to scrounge up enough food and water for them to survive, if very hungrily. Mostly they are forced to and choose to steal. After he was praised for his bravery when he went even to the Mountain to look for water, the group of ex-slaves grew until he became the undeclared leader of a full out gang that set up base in the southern range of the Ephel Dûath. They make regular missions to different plantations that remain under the charge of both Orcs and Men. Their last mission met with disaster, leaving their numbers lower than they had been in almost a year: fifteen. The dynamics of the group were a little different even before this catastrophe, with Beloan, who was always Khamir’s “right-hand man” becoming more and more of a second (and not necessarily at all secondary) leader, as his skills, charisma, and decision-making abilities have clearly matured further than Khamir’s likely ever will.


Durelin’s post – Khamir

The slaves snuck glances as the boy was brought back out to the fields. He had been gone for only minutes, but the rest of the slaves had been at the mercy of the whip if they even thought of pausing in their work while they were forced to listen to his screams. What they had done to the child the overseer would have liked to have done to all the slaves, but the survival rate was not good enough to risk losing so many of the laborers. The plantation owner would have his heartstrings for a necklace if he ever put his power and wealth at such risk. Neither was very abundant in Mordor since the defeat of Sauron, particularly wealth. Those who had any wealth or power were those who lived without the constant worry of what to fill their stomachs with. And who had control of the few sources of water.

The boy’s mother put herself at great risk, leaping forward to get to her son, dropping her work. The Orc who dragged the boy out to the fields kicked her down onto her hands and knees. There she groveled and begged just to hear that her son was alright, even though she knew he wasn’t and never would be. She had no hope for his future. She felt terrible guilt for even having given birth to him. He had not deserved it. Her son was completely silent. He had been since even before they brought him out.

“Tell the sow you’re alright and get her to shut up.” The overseer and the Orc holding the boy howled with grating laughter. The boy turned his head to look at his mother. There was a moment when the two’s eyes met and the boy opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His lips moved, but no words were formed. No words, no sound was heard. His mother collapsed to the ground, wailing, not rising even for the stomping and kicking of the other guards, so consumed by her grief. Her son’s tongue had been ripped out, and his vocal cords removed or made unusable through a procedure involving a hot iron. The mother cried and screamed as two guards, one a Man and one an Orc, forcibly pulled her up and dragged her toward the rough shed. She would be taken care of in much the same way, but she did not cry for herself.

The two had been among those who had tried to escape during the short-lived rebellion of the desperate slaves against their master. Mother and son had probably tasted some kind of freedom for a few hours, but they had been recaptured and were being punished and used as tyrannical symbols of fear because of the forbidden fruit that had bitten from. They had not been alone as escapees, though. There were of course others who had shared and would share similar fates, but there were also those who had made it to the mountains. The looming natural barricade of the mountain range seemed to mock them, and yet they saw the peaks as soaring freedom. Some actually planned to scale the mountains and escape to the world beyond; others simply wanted to get as far from the plantation as they could, and toward the southern range of the Ephel Dûath was as good a direction as any that were not back.

Four days after the rebellion, fifty-six of the escapees had collected themselves into a group, looking for others who had escaped and anyone who they could call an ally. Few, as they approached the mountains, actually considered climbing them, no matter how nice they knew or had heard the world beyond them was. For several days, the mountains acted as a hiding place for the fifty slaves that still lived, and become more of a cage than ever. But on the seventh night after their escape, they woke up to find themselves surrounded. Luckily, their stalkers were allies, and useful ones: a gang of ex-slaves, free for varying numbers of years, and staying alive mostly through theft from their former masters. Fierce fighters and superb survivalists, they brought more useful skills to the group. Some of them were truly thieves and killers, but they all had or remembered having family in various forms. They welcomed more hands, even if it meant more mouths to feed. And the two groups discovered quickly, if they had not known it from the start, that there was really very little separating them: both were more than ready for change.

Most had heard, though at least a year later than they should have, that Nurn actually belonged to them. Several years after Elessar’s declaration, word had spread to practically every being in Mordor that, according to the King of Gondor, the slaves were free. And yet they were still being whipped, chained, and treated as animals in the very land they were supposed to own. It was that knowledge that had given the slaves enough hope to risk rebellion, and it was what pushed them now to journey across Mordor to the southern reaches of the Plateau of Gorgoroth. A new wilderness meant a new beginning.

Khamir sat outside the caves in which the rest of the camp slept, the pitch black of night not intimidating in the least, and the crisp rushing of the river not loud to his ears. It was his watch. Every night, he had the last watch. It was just his way, and very few liked to stand in his way. He knew that the night around him could betray him at any moment, but he sat calmly, resting his mind in dreams without sleep. So many nights he had sat up in the same way amongst the sharp rocks at the base of the mountains. What made this night any different? For one thing, the company was different. There were now sixty-four men, women, and children sleeping nearby. It was no longer just the gang, and they no longer only had to worry about themselves. More was not necessarily better, but this group…they brought hope, something that Khamir had long given up on. It felt good to have it back.

He knew he was happier than he had been in years, though he did not smile. He knew the journey ahead would be the roughest he had ever taken, and he feared the numbers they might lose. He knew he had never had to figure out how to feed sixty-five mouths before, and hoped someone else had leadership in mind. He knew all of this, and yet he found peace lingering somewhere in the night air. Very soon he would be able to see the sun inching its way up the horizon. Perhaps it was hope of such a sight that kept him still. He knew hope was a powerful force.

But what he did not know was that, miles away, that same force drove a group shockingly similar to his own. The Orcs, the cruel masters, the savage monsters, the mindless followers of Sauron…they had families that they cared for. And they knew that it was time Nurn was abandoned, along with the old ways. They sought a new way, a new home, and a new beginning. Fifteen Orcs, male and female, young and old, would find a fresh wilderness just as attractive as sixty-five men, women, and children would. Neither knew they had dreamed the same dream, and neither would believe it if they were told so.

But if hope could be shared, why not a journey, a land? Why not a new beginning?

That morning, Khamir found what he could to write a letter that would show just how hopeful recent events had made him. He planned to write to the King of Gondor himself. It was he, Aragorn, Elessar, who had not forgotten the slaves. Perhaps this would be just another reminder? Was it a cry for help, a beseeching of aid, a simple report of the situation? Khamir found himself unable to write a single word for almost an hour, but when he finally started to write, the letter became all three of those things. He told of the slaves’ escape, of he and his fourteen men’s troubles, and of their plan to start anew together. He also told of the difficulties they faced daily, and how they would only double if they ventured to leave the safety of the caves and to a complete wilderness. The word ‘help’ was not there, but it was in every way implied. The letter was given to a trader heading back to Minas Tirith, and Khamir found himself praying for the first time.

Now all they had to do was wait in hope for some kind of answer: preferably one that did not come only in writing.


Durelin's character - Vrór

Name: Vrór Redfist

Race: Dwarf

Age: 91

Weapons: A large double bladed and an even larger single-bladed axe, hung one on top of the other on his back.

Appearance: 4’ 4” tall, Vrór has long, thick hair that can only be called orange hanging down only about an inch or two below his shoulders. Wavy and full, it is beautiful hair that many would say was wasted on the Dwarf. His beard is equally as thick, and has almost as much wave to it. It falls down to his thighs, just a few inches about his knees, making it longer than he keeps the hair on his head. Stocky, with broad shoulders even for a Dwarf, he is in every way a rock, his tough leathery skin, slightly tanned and clearly weathered, attesting to his strength and respectable age. Wrinkles crease his forehead and around his mouth from innumerable smiles. His eyes are small and beady, grey, a little too close together, and framed by considerably bushy eyebrows. His nose is rather large and wide, his lips moderately thick and as weathered as the rest of his skin, and his chin small and round. He normally wears a long dark grey tunic, black pants, black boots, and a black belt, and has a baldric to hold his axes on his back and a long chainmail hauberk for those dangerous times.

Personality: A fierce warrior as most of his people are, he is also fiercely loyal and loving. He is not one to ever give up on anything. He is a surprisingly cheery person, and though he is quick to temper and his rage can be shocking, it is quick to depart. He loves having a plan, and dislikes spontaneity, and is likely to explode into one of his quick bursts of anger if ‘the plan’ is interrupted or ruined for any reason. But he tends to be a bit of a problem solver, though he always refuses to take the easy route. Many of his tendencies come from his work as a craftsman: he knows that quality is the most important thing, and feels that if the job is not done correctly, with the greatest care, and does not yield the best product it can, then it might as well have not been done at all, and surely should have been done properly by himself. Vrór is always very proud of his work, though he waits for the right opportunity to show such pride (at least, the right opportunity in his opinion).

History: Born in Erebor a little less than a decade after the rebuilding of Dale, Vrór was accustomed to ‘other folk,’ particularly Men, from the time he was born. He grew up in a very large family, with seven brothers and sisters. As the fourth child, and the third son, he was inexplicably a middle child. And with ten people in the family, it was hard to him to feel really special. He and his brothers were apprenticed as stonemasons one after another, of course following in their father’s footsteps. His sisters were apprenticed as silversmiths, as their father would not have them be but simple housewives. Their mother never learned a tradeskill until she met her husband, who was exuberant about teaching her how to work with stone. Vrór, though, began to dabble in metalworking along with stonemasonry, finding it a good way to branch off from the family. He certainly loved his nine close relatives, but he found their whole way of things rather smothering sometimes. There were practically endless possibilities for him in Erebon and in Dale. He worked side-by-side with Men craftsmen, and once an Elf. His father held a more traditional view of Elves, but his mother often told her children stories of the Children of Ilúvatar behind his back, and, really, Vrór is more curious about them than anything else. A few years after the destruction of the Ring and the defeat of Sauron, even more possibilities opened up for the Dwarves. Elessar, the King of Gondor returned to his throne, called upon all the Free Peoples to help rebuild. And so Vrór ended up in Minas Tirith, leaping on the opportunity of such abundant and challenging work, as well as the opportunity to work in such a grand city, and to do his own small part in the reconstruction and renewal.


Durelin's post - Vrór

“Oi, watch that end of it!”

Two men were hoisting up a block of stone to find its place among the hundreds of other blocks that were almost seamlessly sealed together to form a great wall. Above them, the Tower of Ecthelion gleamed in the sunlight. Sweat glistened on their brow, and their skin was a soft brown from all the time they had spent in the sun the past few weeks. Working under the command of Vrór, they had received very little time out of it. But they did not grudge the Dwarf for it. He was just as hard working as any of them, if not more.

And in testament to this, Vrór was of course hard at work with hammer and chisel, shaping a chunk of marble that had begun as a block and was now far from cubic. Turned away from the two men pulling up the stone, he had caught out of the corner of his eye the block slipping to one side in its harness.

“So he has eyes somewhere behind that mass of hair,” the one muttered.

“And ears, too!” came a quick response from the Dwarf. It came as a gruff bark, grating with what many might call anger, but the two workers knew better. The one only rolled his eyes, while the other tried and failed to stifle laughter.

Vrór smiled as he heard the stone block clack safely into position, but did not pause for a moment in his work. He seemed to know exactly where to make the next chisel, and truly, he did. He had drawn out models and blueprints and charts, and even carved out a smaller version of this creation. Perhaps he wasn’t the speediest of workers, but it was obvious to anyone that he got the job done, and the finished product was perhaps even better than one had expected. “It always does look better up to scale,” he would say, obvious in his modesty, and perhaps even more obvious in his pride.

So engrossed in his work, he did not notice when he was approached from behind. “Excuse me, sir?” came a voice obviously nervous about disturbing a Dwarf in his work. “I have a message for you, sir.”

Putting down his tools, Vrór turned to look at the man. He seemed fairly young, still rather rosy cheeked, and probably had just recently lost his baby fat. Looked to be shaping up to be a fine looking young man, though. He was dressed in the fancy attire of one of the King’s servants. The White Tree emblazoned on his tunic, shining practically brighter than the sun with the light reflection off it. The Dwarf grunted.

“They’ve even got the messengers all dressed up these days? Well, I’ll be. I suppose this,” he gestured with his hand only slightly, but in a way that obviously pointed to the man’s entire outfit, “is a sign of prosperity.”

He paused for a moment, and was met only by silence from the messenger, though the workers found his words rather amusing. The one that could not resist laughter before didn’t even try to this time. The other spoke up, “Gondor will only get richer, but I’ll always be stuck with these linens.”

Vrór grunted again. The young man in front of him coloured slightly, and seemed to feel more awkward by the second. The Dwarf smiled at him, shaking his head. “We’re only teasing, lad. I’m surprised to see such a young man already in such a fine position,” he said with kindness and sincerity. “Now, what have you got for me?”

The young man smiled back, and with a short bow, he handed a piece of paper with the King’s seal to Vrór. “Well, now, don’t I feel special,” the Dwarf remarked, seeing the seal.

He opened the letter, and, as he read it, his eyes widened. It was indeed from the King himself, and… A Fellowship? Vrór let out a snort. And he supposed he was the token Dwarf for this venture. It noted his skill as a stonemason, and now he grunted at the paper before him. He scanned the page. No, nothing about his metalwork. Reaching the end of the message, he let out a sigh, shaking his head.

“Well, lads,” he called out to the two Men who had paused in their work, both still surprised that they had not been yelled at to get back to it, “do you think you’ll be alright without me?”


Minor Character - Slave escapee

Name: Adnan

Age: 15

Gender: Male

Race: Haradrim

Weapons: He was recently given a knife, with a thin blade of relative length – a stabbing weapon with a rather dull sides but a sharp point.

Appearance: A good height for his age, about 5’ 6”, long and lean. Dark hair, thick and curly, it sticks both up and out on his head, with always at least a few curls hanging down in front of his eyes that he has to try and push away. His eyes are a dark, muddy brown, and his skin is approximately the same colour. He wears rough pants, and only sometimes bothers with any kind of shirt. He always ties a cloth around his upper right arm, though, to hide the brand there.

Personality: His hopes and dreams have not been fully crushed by the few years he spent as a slave. He has a desire to make himself known, to be respected by many. He has a fierce hatred for Easterlings, as both the owner of the plantation he was enslaved on and the overseer he was most often punished by were from the East. Like most Southerners, he doesn’t think much of Gondor, either, and certainly has no love for Orcs. He likes to think of himself as a loner, but hates being alone, and regrets it when he shrugs off the offer of company. Overall, it can be said that his bark is much worse than his bite.

History: Adnan was a slave for three years on a plantation after being captured with his mother and four older siblings. His father’s death and his family’s descent into utter poverty made them prime targets for the remaining slavers who did business in Mordor. He has not seen any of his family since the day they were captured.

Last edited by piosenniel; 02-14-2007 at 02:07 AM.
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