Land of Darkness RPG

[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.