Land of Darkness Discussion Thread

[piosenniel]

DEDICATED CHARACTERS

1.) Amanaduial the archer - Silvan Elf

2.) Alaklondewen – Easterling

3.) Kransha – Dwarf

4.) Durelin - Man

5.) Bêthberry - Southron

6.) Aylwen – Southron

7.) Fordim Hedgethistle - Man

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial the archer – Silvan Elf


NAME: Raeis (Ray-iss)

AGE: No idea really. Over two hundred, that much she knows.

RACE: Elf (Silvan)

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: None, but she fights like a demon with her bare hands, feet, elbows... Also, anything she can pick up. She is, or at least, she was skilled with a range of swords, and is fairly good at using a bow, or a sling.

APPEARANCE: Once, Raeis was a beauty among her people, but that was long ago. Her good looks remain though, in part – her face is high-boned, the structure belying her low birth, and her hair is fine and light brown, flecked generously with gold. Her eyes are dark blue, flecked with lighter blues and white. Her hair is not the wavy, golden abundance it was once though – it was cut short when she was first taken prisoner: having stolen a dagger from one of her guards, she had hacked it off from right close to her scalp. It has grown since then, though, has had plenty of time to do so: it now comes unevenly to approximately just below her ears, but is dirty and unkempt from lack of care. Her skin was always pale, a fine almost alabaster-white, but this is even more accentuated now from lack of sunlight. But despite the lines of pain that are now more obvious on her face, the right side of her face is still beautiful, despite the dark bruise that currently adorns her high-cheek area…but the left is a different matter. A long, thin scar runs all the way down her left side of her face from an inch above her broken eyebrow to her jawbone, crossing her eye and forcing it closed, a vicious, sharp burn made from a heated blade that was pressed against her face. It mars her beauty totally, but she cares little anymore – what does it matter when no one will see it? She stands at about 5 ft 9 and is lean – her muscles have not deteriorated entirely, but beyond them there is virtually nothing else. She is painfully thin and scars, both old and new, cross her body along with bruises, the most obvious the long thin ones that crisscross her back and a long cut running from collarbone to navel. She wears a thin, ragged shirt, the sleeves torn off for practical purposes to leave her arms bare, and a sort of short, ragged skirt.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: In the years since the elf has been imprisoned, Raeis has stopped caring about many things; her appearance for one thing, for what good is it to mourn for her lost beauty when the only ones who will see it are her monstrous captors? In a way, she almost revels in it sometimes, for the ugliness of one side of her face, marring her pureness, puts them off some of their vile sport. She almost managed to block out the physical pain and humiliation which she endures so often, for she has suffered so much that the only respite she gets is to know that she will give them no satisfaction by seeing her pain. But she has not stopped caring about everything. One thing always remains on her mind: escape. It is a wild dream, and one that she barely believes in, but which she wishes for so fervently with every inch of her body and mind that has become something that she would do simply to achieve it, to spite her captors, to cause them some of the beatings she has endured for letting her escape. If she could get out of this cell, she would die spitefully happy – she is past wanting to do much else but feel the sun on her face once more. Indeed, maybe the cell has actually driven her mad: the elf had no-one to talk to for weeks on end quite often, and her own voice was all that stopped her from going entirely insane. That and her thoughts and memories, or what might be memories: she gets confused as to what has actually happened and what is real or not. Reality is, for Raeis, an illusion – if her life in Mirkwood was reality, then this existence cannot possibly be real, but if this life is truly happening, how could she ever have missed the fact it was happening when in Mirkwood? The thoughts and questions as to what is real and what isn’t torment the elf in her silent prison. She is withdrawn and vicious, violent whenever anyone comes too near her (for the only ones that come close are those who want to hurt her) and fights like a cornered wildcat with no regard for herself, only wishing to hurt and deter her opponent. But although the innocent, idealistic persona that she once possessed is obviously destroyed, behind her half-mad, wild exterior there is still probably the softer, gentler being that once lived in Mirkwood, quick to argue, quicker to laugh, ready to love. But what is love now? Is that also an illusion…?

HISTORY: Raeis was born to a hardworking but lowly family Mirkwood, some way from the palace. She lived with her family and worked hard and honestly, carving and sewing with her mother and selling the items they made with her father and two brothers. But she always yearned for something more, sure there must be more to life, and so when she was nearly two hundred she went to work in the palace, with illusions of becoming a fine courtier, close to the king, a loyal advisor to him and friend to the princes… However, such fantasies were soon put straight when she became a maid in the palace. Once again, it was honest hard work, decently paid and not overly hard, but it still left the idealistic young elf to dream about more. But she endured it, gaining promotion and working hard to keep her place and to keep sending the money to her mother. After she had worked there for a few years, her courtship began with another elf who worked in the palace, a chamberlain by the name of Caromanieth (although Raeis cannot even remember her full name, she both cherishes and curses his, burned on her memory with love and regret). He was as idealistic and gentle as she, a dreamer with his head in the clouds but, like her, his feet still on the ground.

But one day, on a sudden whim, the pair decided to search for adventure themselves. It was painfully clear that it was not coming to them, and they both yearned for the ‘more’ that they thought they knew must exist. Within a few days, they were ready to do, eloping together away from Mirkwood and from everything about the old life that they had known, heading South.

But things beyond their control, beyond the control of any, were not stirring further South, and when the pair came to the plains of Rohan, after a few months of happy, blissful, carefree travelling, their life was suddenly shattered. Warg riders. The orcs killed Caromanieth and, in a way, they stole Raeis’s life as well – by taking her prisoner they destroyed everything she had ever and would ever have. Elves were valuable, and they took her back to Mordor in the hope of reward.

Raeis never told them her real name, or her family details – stubborn to the last, she endured many different types of inquisitional torture as they attempted to find out whether they could use the elf-woman as currency, blackmail. Raeis had always been taught to be loyal and faithful, and so she didn’t say a word to help them. All they ever found out from her was the shortened version of her name: Raeis. It was the last word Caromanieth had cried out before he died. ”Raeis, run! Get away, for the sake of…run, Raeis...” Eventually they grew tired of trying to find information from her, but they were not yet tired of her – they kept her alive as a…toy. Something to do. And so her torture continued, both physical and emotional, all sorts of abuse whenever the guards wanted something to do, something to occupy themselves. She fought back, always fought back, at the start anyway…but as she lost track of days and went without company or sunlight for so long, tortured by the thought that her family must think her a callous deserter, she was nearly driven mad, alone and isolated both literally and in her mind…

~*~

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 – Easterling


NAME: Lyshka (LEESH – ka)

AGE: She knows she is close to twenty years, but whether she has passed the mark yet or not, she is unsure.

RACE: Easterling

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Lyshka has no possessions whatsoever.

APPEARANCE: Lyshka’s long face is framed by short, thick, uneven black hair that one of the men she had worked alongside chopped with a crude knife in return for a blow she administered to his gut after he touched her inappropriately. Her small, dark-brown eyes peer over a short pointed nose with a visible scar across the bridge. Her lips are full and firmly pressed together. Lyshka wears a stern expression and has not smiled since she was a small child.

Lyshka is tall for her gender and her frame is so thin from starvation combined with hard labor that her dark skin appears to be simply stretched over her bones. The filthy, torn rags that cover her body do not hide her flesh and provide no protection from the elements.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lyshka is tough, but she’s had to be. She’s had to protect herself in the fields of Mordor, and she sports several scars as trophies to her grit. Once there had been the spirit of a loving and beautiful little girl deep inside her heart, but now she was hardened, cold, and eroded.

Every person Lyshka trusted in her life betrayed her and she eventually pushed the pain so far down that she was numb. Numb is how she remained. She trusts no one, especially men for they have done nothing but use her.

HISTORY: Lyshka came from a family that lived with a group of wayfarers that traveled in the southern lands of Middle Earth. Her mother was distant and emotionally detached, and her father made his living through thievery and gambling. One night her father made a bad bet to some Southron soldiers on their way to Mordor. Not being able to pay the men and facing death or torture because of it, Lyshka’s father gave them his little girl to pay his debt. Lyshka was only five years old at the time.

The soldiers abused her and took her to Mordor where she was made to work in the fields in the south. As she grew she gained more attention from men, not only guards but those that worked and housed beside her. She had to learn to fight to protect herself from their advances, although she still lost occasionally to them, especially when they would gang up and several would attack her.

One evening as she made her way back to the stall where she slept, a guard waited for her and as she passed him, he attacked her. Caught off guard, Lyshka tried to fight back but he was too big, too strong. They had struggled for several minutes, when her eyes and hands found his short dagger. Before he knew what was happening, Lyshka stabbed the guard several times until she could push his limp body from hers.

The Orc guards that found her considered killing her on the spot, which in truth she would not have minded, but instead, they decided to send her to Cirith Ungol where she would wait until her turn came to be fed to the beast in the mountains.

~*~

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]

Kransha – Dwarf

NAME: Brór Stormhand

AGE: 103

RACE: Dwarf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: At the moment, nothing, but he fancies himself very good with his fists.

APPEARANCE: Brór has narrow, brown eyes almost hidden between a bulky brow and thick eyebrows. His skin is rough and darkened tan from time spent in the sweltering outdoors, but that only serves to augment his already dark composure. He has a long, bristly black beard, speckled with the first strands of misplaced grey, unkempt hair of the same color which has grown long, reaching to his shoulders now, and a stony face, seemingly capable of only a few expressions. He is relatively sinewy, just as most dwarves are, sturdily built and stands with his head high, even in his current state, reaching a height impressive to some dwarves, roughly five feet and one inch off the ground, but it still not very imposing to higher-headed folk. He wears nothing but an extensive layering of multicolored, tattered rags shoddily slapped together.

PERSONALITY: Once a very jovial, merry, and talkative dwarf, imprisonment somewhat subdued his common nature. Like most dwarves, but more so than some and less so than others, he is stubborn and prideful whenever he gets the chance to be. Despite his irksome obstinacy, Brór is always staunchly loyal when he finds something to be loyal to. He is secretive about what he knows, but tries to discuss as much as he can about the old times with other dwarf prisoners, though he rarely gets a chance to so away from the watchful eyes of orcish captors. When set on a cause, he follows it through to the end, but will sometimes take dreary hiatuses from any goal, especially during his imprisonment in the Tower of Cirith Ungol. He is quick-tempered at times, and does not take insult or scorn lightly, with his fiery temperament and strength to back him up. Bror sometimes acts before thinking, but has done this much less since the date of his arrival at Cirith Ungol.

HISTORY: Brór was born in year 2916 of the Third Age, among the ranks of Durin’s Folk in exile, lorded over by their exiled king, Thorin Oakenshield. He was too young and inexperienced to fight very much, or very well, when the dwarves reclaimed Erebor, but soon became one of the many revered dwarven warriors in the halls of Erebor. He trained himself in the ways of war beside his brethren at the Lonely Mountain.

In 2989, Brór followed Balin from Erebor with a troop of dwarves to retake Khazad-dum. On the route south, a raid by goblins, barely a skirmish, resulted in the capture of Bror and several of his brethren, much to their chagrin. The few dwarf prisoners were taken at first to less well-guarded orcish camps and made to work for them, Since the goblins were an unorganized band, relying on brutality to keep order, one of Brór’s close friends who’d been captured as well began devising a plan, which he indoctrinated the rest of the dwarves and prisoners in the camp into. The prisoners rebelled but the orcs proved more powerful than before and quelled the uprising. All the ringleaders, including Brór’s companion, were brutally tortured and slain in cold blood by the orc forces, but the others were spared. Bror, determined to die with just as much honor as his friend, attempted to rally another uprising shortly after, but it was quelled with more ease.

Realizing Brór’s purpose, the orcs decided it would be best not to kill him. Instead, he and the last dwarves in the camp were taken to the dungeons of Cirith Ungol, where he was again imprisoned. Before his first month, almost all of his brethren had succumbed to the strain of life in the tower. There were not many dwarves in the dungeons, and Brór did not seek to make friends with the men and elves. The dwarf hoped eternally that he could do something so vile that it would provoke the orcs to give him to spider that lurked in the pass nearby, thinking optimistically that he might take the beast with him, but his captors never did. He spent most of his time not working for his captors trying to keep his knowledge of Khuzdul, the tongue of the dwarves, sharp in his mind, as he began to forget as years passed. He spent 19 years in Cirith Ungol, and developed two goals, each an alternative to the other. He resolved to either die fighting the orcs, or somehow manage to escape…

~*~

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]

Durelin – slave of Mordor

NAME: Jordo

AGE: Older than 20

Race: Man of Gondor

GENDER: Male

APPEARANCE: Relatively short and stocky with dark hair and eyes, pale skin and a few freckles around his small nose. He has thick limbs, strong, muscular arms and legs from years of exerting work. His body has adapted to the lifestyle that has been forced upon him. His skin has grown rough and hard, his feet to the greatest extent, resembling those of a hobbit. His hair has been unkempt for too long, and has grown very coarse, but it remains curly and untamed through all abuses. It never grows far past his shoulders, though it has only been cut twice in his life. He is not allowed much in terms of clothing, but even orcs understand the dignity in covering certain parts of the body, thanks to their very few humane attributes. A basic body tunic composed of an unknown material is all that is allowed, and it is considered to be enough. The slaves are actually quite happy with such a small amount of clothing, as the heat from ever burning fires surrounds them as they work, though there is no sunlight. At night, or whenever they sleep, it is fiery and sunless as well, of course. It is always night in Mordor.

PERSONALITY/HISTORY: Born a slave, Jordo knows nothing but fear and obedience. He has lived as all but an animal. His mother tried to nurture the seeds of humanity within him to growth until her death several years ago. He has been told of how humans live and how they should be free, but it is hard for him to believe in even the existence of a human world. There has never been any proof of this, other than the stories his mother would tell. And he never had understood why she told them if they made her so sad.

After years of watching his mother in pain, too proud to cry out until the pain made her forget anything but, Jordo has determined that he must obey. He knows of some of this pain himself, though he refuses to believe that any of it reached the greatness of what his mother withstood. After watching his mother die in the hands of his masters, Jordo is afraid of pain above all else. And the greatest pain, he believes, is found in death. He knows; he has felt it, hasn’t he?

His name even reflects this situation, at least the name he relates with himself. His full name has been lost in the small capacity of his mind and memory. Most of his memories revolve around his mother, and ‘Jordo’ was what his mother had always called him. It is an abbreviation of his real name, but he is not aware of this. He is aware of very little, and even his speech is limited, mainly just because he is out of practice. Since the death of his mother, he has had little contact with real human. She had been one of the strongest of the past generation of slaves, the generation that had known freedom, and many had fallen under an orc sword, whip, or hand, never to rise again, before her. Jordo sees little but orcs and creatures such as himself, and that little is made up of monsters much worse than his taskmasters, as these terrors are taskmaster to them.

Jordo has come to understand that he is there to serve, to do as he is told, and he has made it impossible for himself to disobey. Luckily, though he does not see it as lucky, his mother has done enough to keep disobedience as a thought in his mind. He has ignored this thought for years now, though, and it has begun to fade from being at all a temptation. Jordo has even begun to think of rewards, the few and pitiful ones that are given to those who serve well. But the desire for these ‘treats’ always brings guilt upon him, as the memories of his mother tell him that this is wrong. Jordo has begun to be unsure of what exactly is wrong much less what is right. Truly, he has never been able to – much less had the chance to – seize either concept as truth.

~*~

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]

Bethberry – slave of Mordor

Race: Southron (from Far, Far Harad)

Gender: Female

Weapon: None but her wits and her training as a protector of her tribe. If she can find one on a dead orc, a bow, but with now crippled arms she might not be able to use it.

Appearance: Her real name is know only to herself, Kashtia Ma’at-Ka-Re. She was called by the orcs in the rudeness of their tongue, Ghâsh’naga but has been renamed by Grash.

She is not emaciated, for the slaves of her labour were fed decently and, even, pampered for a time by other slaves and she would swim daily, obsessively, for long hours, in the perfumed baths available to her once her forearms healed, broken early in her captivity in the malignancy and cruelty of her captors as a means of restricting her resistance. She has a supple and shapely musculature which speak to her past life of athletic prowess, but her arms have mended poorly. Her skin is a burnished, dusky caramel underlaid with rippling shades of dark tea but it is marred by bluish-grey blotches of extensive bruising. Eyes of glowing topaz look out on upon a world with a proud self-possession which suggests the very opposite of vulnerability: an impenetrability despite the abuse she has faced. Indeed, they complement the handsomeness and regal dignity of her facial bone features. Her hair is the colour of dark pools of water at their deepest depth and her earlobes are torn in two, where earrings were brutally ripped from her ears. She is tall for a woman, at least as tall as Grash if not taller and a proud, effortless carriage can still be detected in her movements. However, in her demeanour can be seen a deliberate effort to neglect and even besmirch the features of her beauty: her intricately braided hair is unkempt; the dirt of the cell cakes her legs and feet; her nails are filthy. Her feet bare, she wears a ragged, faded shift of once ornate and splendid colour and pattern, with ripped sleeves and torn edges, as if its tearing was a desecration of her culture and tribe. She wears it nonetheless with a solemn pride.

Personality and History: She was a fiercely independent protector of an ancient tribe in the distant reaches of Far Harad. Her tribe she calls the Amazigh and, if she would speak of it, she is of the city of Makhubela. She is in fact a figure from old mythologies, an Amazon warrior. She is a woman who has known no inferiority or inequality. She has the self-sufficiency of a matriarchal warrior and has developed during her captivity great disgust for the men of northern cultures, and, indeed, for what she sees as the depravity of northern cultures. She rarely speaks, for who would know her language, and she despises the Black Speech which has surrounded her; she reacts with a strangely calm, stoic passivity which in fact represents a profound indifference to her captors and their power over her. She would move swiftly at the opportunity of escape, not simply from the Tower, but from the entire region, to make her way back to her tribe, but the different star patterns of the more northern sky perplex her and she has yet to learn their ways.

She was captured over a year ago by a roving band of marauders from Umbar who had attacked her village seeking treasure and slaves for barter with Mordor, where her unusual form of beauty and status fed the curiosity and contempt of the men of Mordor towards the cultures they wished to colonise and enslave. Her studied indifference and the blemishing of her prime beauty through abuse and neglect and assault has ultimately led her captors to tire of her and so she was sent to the Tower to become a feast for the monster. She has languished in her cell, watching curiously the relative freedom of Grash and listening closely to the patterns of events in the Tower for any signs of how she can escape.

~*~

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]

Aylwen Dreamsong – male Southron

Name: Jeren

Age: around 25

Race: Southron of Khand/Harad

Gender: Male

Weapons: All his weapons were confiscated when he was caught and brought to the tower, which angered Jeren almost as much as being captured in the first place. However, Jeren knows well how to use the bow and a set of arrows, and has a fair hand with any set of daggers set before him. While he never had extensive training with any kind of blade longer than a dagger, Jeren would rather use a broadsword or rapier than go into a fray empty handed. But this silly thinking is what got him caught in the first place, so Jeren is hesitant to ever use a long sword again.

Appearance: Strong and athletic, Jeren has the warrior build of his people. His dark mahogany curls frizz easily, falling just into his eyes and right below his ears. Stony grey eyes sit just about proud cheekbones and a determined, set jaw. He rarely smiles, and at most times there will be a contemplative look upon his brown-tan face. He wears a light tunic with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shirt has tattered since arriving at the tower, as have the hems of his brown breeches. He used to have a pair of nice, black leather boots, but they were taken upon arrival and deemed as a ‘nice find’ by the guards. Without his shoes, his tribal tattoos are visible all along the outer side of his calves.

Personality: Jeren’s appearance mirrors his persona. He will be strong for others, and will rally others to bring them to the best of their abilities. He is always up for the challenge of being a leader. He will never show outward weakness to others, and tries his best and hardest to hide all inward weaknesses, though he has yet to perfect the latter endeavor. While Jeren will always motivate and be determined for other people, Jeren has a hard time fighting for himself. Jeren feels like if he has no one to disappoint but himself, he does not try as hard. However, when he has people depending on him Jeren rises to the occasion, never wanting to let anyone down. Jeren’s most intense fears are disappointing others and being a failure to them.

History: Jeren comes from a strong warrior clan that roams the borders of Khand, Near Harad, and Mordor. While not a leader of his clan, Jeren led many fighting expeditions in his time of freedom. During the years of the war, Jeren worked as a strategic captain and led some of his and other clans’ best warriors on reconnaissance work, indirectly for the purposes in Sauron’s fight for leadership of Middle Earth. Jeren and his troop traveled as far west as Dol Amroth and as far north as Rhovanion and Rhun working for the forces of Mordor.

On one expedition to the areas near Mirkwood, three of Jeren’s men were caught by the light-footed elven kind. Interrogations revealed plans for an attack on the border of Mirkwood, and plans went awry for the battalions fighting under Sauron as their enemies had been informed and could prepare for battle. After learning of the lost men, the leader of Sauron’s forces at Mirkwood blamed Jeren for the mishap and loss. Jeren was stripped of his title as captain and taken back as a prisoner of Mordor and branded a traitor of their cause.

~*~

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!”