Land of Darkness RPG

[CaptainofDespair]

Mirkwood...that is where the Elf’s distraught mind took him, flooding every sense with what memories he could scrape from the bowels of his soul. Memory was a portal for him, to a time long past, where he could live in quiet solitude, free from the confines of a world that only showed him hate, and fed him torment. His heart began to throb, and pound against the inner wall of his chest, he felt alive, but if for a brief, fleeting moment. His memories were happiness for him, a polar opposite of his current state. He could see his one-time home, and he relished it, grasping to hold on to it, longing for it. Various smells rushed into the void within his nostrils, replacing the acrid, caustic scent of Mordor. He could even feel the wind, blowing through the canopy of the forest, wafting many new smells about. What had once been a dream, had now become a physical aura, a gateway of an old life for him.

This is what kept him alive, those long years in Cirith Ungol, and Cirith Gorgor. When he had first been taken captive, he had tried to resist his tormentors. Yet, that was to no avail, even for one as strong willed as he was, and more so, how he had been. The tantalizing thought that he could escape lingered for a few years. It had been rekindled when he was transferred from Gorgor, and he thought it possible, to an extent. But those thoughts soon drove him to madness, as he realized there was no escape from the fortress-prison of Cirith Ungol. And soon, he began to despair, and death lurked in every corner of his cell, slowly creeping in upon him, waiting for the perfect moment to take him. Only the all-important visage of his mother’s caring and loving face kept him alive. And he soon discovered the power of his memory. Since he was not used as a slave, he had a great amount of free time on his hands, and so he put it to good use. At first, he would spend a few minutes, then hours, drifting into his past, delving into something long gone. Eventually, he mastered this peculiar version of hindsight, and he could spend days on end reliving his past, without being forced to consume the meager portions divvied out by the orcs. The orcs had not liked this change in him, for they could not taunt him any longer. And thus, they started beating him again, using any form of torture they could to break his spirit again. His memories saved him, and the orcs soon ended their bloody experiments. He held his memories ever tighter after that, keeping them close, to save him when he needed a reminder of what life he could have, should Fate intervene, and free him.

And Fate did save him, he sent to him the man Grash, to open his cell door, and set him free. But even with that pseudo-freedom, he was not totally over-joyed, for he was still in the realm of Mordor. His journey in the Tunnel provided him with a new ally in his desire to free himself from the Black Land. The voices that had spoken to him, and given him the tools to fight off Shelob’s ravenous, salivating jaws. They had left him for a time, alone, with only glimmers of memory to hold him above the raging waters that sought to drown him in their vehement undercurrent. He had seen Barad-dur, and shuddered at the horrors within, and only faint fading thoughts of hope kept his sanity then. The Stone of Sauron nearly broke him. The Dark Lord’s unquenchable thirst for domination was able to drive the weakened thoughts of hope from the Elf’s mind, like beasts flee before the tides of a dark storm. Then, when he thought he passed the last trial that the forsaken land could send out to harry him, the orc army of Morgul came marching, which a Nazgul at its helm.

His mind continued to wander, he had lost the memories that he had yearned for, of Mirkwood, of his mother, and they were twisted into visions of malice, and hate, of the Nazgul. He had been struck down, not by any blade, nor by just any of the Nazgul, but by the commander of Minas Morgul. Fate was not kind that day. Death had its clutches upon his neck, ready to drag him to the dark abyss that awaited him. He had given his live for one who, in time, would not remember his sacrifice. But it was for the best, for he was nothing now, if he ever was something beside a simple Elf. Yet he was saved, not by some memory of the distant past, but the ghosts of that past. His ancient saviors from the Tunnel came back to him, to repay their debt, for one final stand against the cruelty of Sauron. Like a disciplined legion they came, to face the hordes of the Dark Lord which slithered through his mind, infecting it with their scum. And those spirits of the dead came with wrath, and drove back the Enemy, scattering his power like dust caught in the wind. They saved him, and his hope was partially restored, just enough to carry him into the High Pass of the Mountains of Shadow...

Now, he was here, sprawled out upon the withered, rocky surface of this clearing in the desolate crags of a gloomy mountain spire. His trance had reminded him of a myriad of things, and he felt alone, with no one there for support, comfort far off in the distance. He awoke from his mediation, to see his...friends...scattered about, sleeping, if not with one eye open. He scoured their faces, seeing what he could see within them. He smiled wryly. Hope is what he found in their placid faces, but not a hope for him, for them. Yet, he questioned his motives, and thus he searched his heart, hoping against a dying glimmer of life, that there would be an answer for him.

In the midst of this, there came a shout. The man Zurumor had awoken to the sight of Orcs, and the Traitor. He yelled out, sounding a call to arms, and readying himself for a defense that would determine life and death for the company. Morgoroth arose as quickly as he could, ignoring the biting pain that coursed through his shoulder. He drew a small, glistening blade, the last remnant of his father’s memory, and prepared for his last battle with the soldiers of the Enemy.

The Orcs were of a good number, but they were not the Uruks, the pride of Mordor’s Orc commanders. They were mere Snaga. Under normal circumstance, they would be easy foes, and would be dealt with quickly. But the company was weak, and bore many injures, and thus the defense was made quite difficult. The Elf struggled to find a comfortable mode of attack, and he was forced to watch his allies face the strength of many fresh orc troops. The dwarves Bror and Dwali fought hard, for endurance was of their race, and their short stature awarded a certain advantage. Yet even that was not enough, for exhaustion and grievous wounds make for horrid companions. But the company was not as divided as it had been, and aid came from the race of Men, who, fighting side by side with their new friends, pushed the orcs back, if but for a moment. Within this short span of time, the Elf had gathered his strength, and caring not for the afflictions that pained him, he drove himself forward, to bring the justice of the Elves to the unholy, heathen orcs.

Grunting and brandishing their crudely manufactured scimitars, the orcs assaulted the company, which had now swelled to full force, as every member of the party rose to meet their attackers. After the orcs’ first attack, they were driven back to the Pass, where the company held its staggered line. Many times the orc came, but each time they were driven back, but with lessening force. Already the defenders began to tire, for their sleep was not a restful one. Yet still, there were a few fresh orc marauders ready to strike at the deteriorating front line. These soldiers began to mass, preparing for an attack that could penetrate the line, and allow for the rogue prisoners to be killed, or to be captured, and feasted upon for a hearty orc meal.

Finally, that charge came, as the orcs, uncaring for any harm to that might come them, ceaselessly crawled upon the defenders, hacking and slashing with axe and blade, hoping to cause chaos, and force the rebels to turn to flee, and thus be cut down. For a few moments, time seemed to slow, and all motion was made difficult, but yet, it seemed like the attack might be repulsed. Yet, it was not so, and the orcs broke the line, and surged through, forced on by curses and the ironshod fist of Lurg. And who was there to block the gap? The weakened Elf himself, alone. The orc saw the weakness in his arm, and thought to exploit, for they were eager to spill Elven blood. But the Elf had hoped for this, and he allowed them to exploit his injury. They tried to strike him upon his wound, and force him to plead for mercy just before they would deal his death blow. But it was to no avail, as the elven blade smote two of the attacking Snaga, leaving their helms dripping in blackened blood.

But the Elf quickly tired, and he had to force himself into weaker and weaker positions, so that he could exploit the orcs’ bloodlust. Soon, they overwhelmed him, surrounding him, shaking fist and blade at him, trying to corner him against the dark soiled walls of the mountain. Yet, his allies, having been beaten back themselves, were now regaining the upper hand. It was in this moment, he realized what he must do. “Hope is beyond me, only Death is my comfort. I must fight for the mortal kind, so that they may have a chance at life, for their lives are short, and must be spent in happiness, not sorrow and despair.”

The Orcs that had surrounded him were quickly growing tired of his game, as he rotated around a small section of the clearing, and they wanted to kill him, and be done with it. And when he leapt upon a rock, they grew all the more agitated, and attacked. The first went reeling back from a boot to the face and a dagger to chain-covered gut. The second was dispatched with a quick jab of his blade to the throat, spilling black blood across the dirt, staining the soil a dark color. Hopping down from his pedestal, he rushed as quickly as he could, limping slightly, to where he could do the most damage to the fiendish orc kind. Standing in the center of what was once the defenders’ last line of hope, he made his stand. There, he rallied the orc to him, hoping to draw their attention away from the others, to provide some manner of relief. His cries in the Sindar tongue awoke an ageless hate, one brooding over many centuries, passed down from generation to generation.

Many of the Orcs were already dead, or were fleeing back to Lurg, to regroup for another assault, and they caught the Elf. Standing alone, his would-be oppressors came on, swinging their rusty blades. A few managed to strike the Elf, but only gave minor wounds. He still danced doggedly, avoiding his enemies blows, and infuriating them further. But finally, the Elf’s end had come. With many foes circling about him now, he could no longer defend himself adequately, and he fell beneath a fury of blades, one landing upon his wound, leaving him crying out in agony and distress, and the final death blow, dealt by lust-filled snaga, a piercing blow to the stomach, which left him bleeding out, yet again. He could fight no more, but the Orc had lost him in the fray, and he managed to pull himself away, with his last ounce of strength, to a desolate, bloodless sect of the clearing, to die. And as he lay there, chest heaving spasmodically, and blood dripping from his many wounds, he laid out his blade upon his breast, and fell into Death, a wry smirk upon his visage.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Alaklondewen's Post

Exhaustion overwhelmed the Easterling woman. Her muscles ached, her eyes drooped, yet she continued to fight. She would not survive if the battle came to hand-to-hand combat. Luck, if she believed in luck, had saved her from the orc army. It would not happen again. Darash had begun gathering smaller stones, but Lyshka continued to work on the larger boulders. Her chest heaved as tried to rock the massive stone. The rock’s surface was cool against her sweating back as she pushed with her long legs against the worn path. Finally, the boulder budged beneath her, and she was able to get it moving down the path toward the enemy.

The enemy was getting smaller. Many had been crushed by the falling stones, but several had escaped by dodging the debris. Lyshka saw the dark elf fighting fiercely, surrounded by the beasts. As she watched from high on the path, time seemed to slow. A rusty blade thrust forward, piercing the immortal’s stomach. The Easterling woman cried out in despair as his body slumped onto the ground. “Dad-esh!” Lyshka shouted the Amazon woman’s name and pointed to the fallen. Darash paused and lines creased her brow as she met the Easterling’s saddened gaze.

Another noise took Lyshka’s attention immediately. It was the sound of dozens of more feet stamping against the cold earth. New shouts of war were lifted up, and the woman slowly turned to see the new Orc-arrivals streaming onto the path. They came from all directions, up the path and descending the walls on either side. The foul beasts were surrounding them and forcing them away from their destination of freedom. Lyshka pulled the small knife Darash had provided her from her vest and prepared herself to what she thought would be her final battle.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The orcs poured over the company as a consuming wave of heated flesh. Their breaths fouled the air, and their cries echoed amongst the rocks like the crash of dreadful machines of destruction. Morgoroth had fallen, and Aldor, their supposed companion, had betrayed them to their doom. Grash fought off the blades of the orcs as best he could, but he was no warrior, and had it not been for Darash and her slender blade, he would have fallen many times before now. Their bag full of stones was now empty, and though they had felled many of the beasts, more and more orcs were appearing from all directions, driving them down, and away, from the path that lead to the green land.

Grash felt a hand upon his arm, and he swung about to slash and rend his attacker, but his hand faltered, and his heart fell, when he saw the ragged and bloodied visage of Zuromor clutching him for support. Grash tried to hold the man upright, but it was hopeless, for the orc spear that had passed through his heart was quivering with the last beats of life in the Man. Grash’s hand slipped in the blood that came from the man, whose lifeless body fell into a heap at Grash’s feet without a word or sound.

There was no time to mourn. No time for Zuromor or Morgoroth, or for himself. Another orc threw itself as Grash, and for a split second in time, Grash did nothing to defend himself. He was tired beyond the bearing of moratility, in spirit as well as in body. The horrors that he had undergone to escape his captivity seemed now to have been hardly worth it. Three of his companions had fallen on the road that he had found for them, and soon all would follow. He did not lift his hand to defend himself, welcoming the death that came to him in the raging form of the orc. But a blur in the corner of his eye became Darash’s arm, and the orc fell with her blade buried in its neck. She scrabbled, trying to grab the weapon once more, but the monster twisted in its death throes and staggered backward amongst the rocks. More orcs sprang upon them, and they were forced back another step into the ever narrowing gully that would be their tomb. Darash, to his amazement, fought on with on only her hands.

The sight of her and the others, still so valiantly fighting and struggling on for their freedom, despite their failure to escape, and in the teeth of despair, shamed him, and once more raising his weapon, he turned to face his attackers. But this time, it was no faceless orc who came upon him, but the beast that had come to torture Grash and the others so many times, and who was now the leader of their enemies. He recognised the creature instantly as the one who had escaped them in the tower – so long ago now, that it seemed almost like another lifetime, one in which there had been at least the dream of green things and air. Snarling, the beast leapt at Grash, but this time Darash was too busy protecting her own life to defend him. Raising his blade, Grash sought to strike down the orc, but the creature merely swatted the dagger aside contemptuously. Sticking his blade into Grash’s side and twisting it, he leaned his hideous face in to the slave’s so close that Grash could make out the veins in its eyes, pulsing with malice. “Wretched worm,” the orc rasped, “you’ve cost me a difficult journey and the hard will of the Screechers. Well I’ve paid you.” It twisted the knife once more, rasping the metal against Grash’s ribs and grinding the bone, drawing from him a cry of agony. With a vicious motion the orc withdrew the knife and prepared to deliver the death blow, but it never fell for from out of nowhere there sprang the female Elf, Raies, her eye filled with a hatred that blazed and smote the orc with terror.

She was wounded, and broken, and as near death as the rest of the companions, but she was of the Elder race, and there was in her yet that which could quail even the most powerful orc. The beast fell back with a cry, but he soon recovered. He lunged at her with his blade, and aided by his maggot servants, he soon had her pressed against a rock. Again, his blade went high, but the man Jordo, all but forgotten by them all in the fighting, always strangely silent, leapt forward, throwing himself across the body of the Elf. The sword fell, piercing the man’s heart, who cried out and spun away, carrying with him the orc’s blade. Raies rose to her feet, but was immediately beset by the orc’s two followers. Grash had seen enough – too many of those he had lead from their cells had fallen; too many had he killed. With a scream unlike any he had made, or had thought possible for him to make, he sprang upon the orc who had slain Jordo, and with his bare hands he took the creature by the throat and wheeled it about so that its head was crushed against the side of the gully.

Seeing their captain fall, the other orcs seemed to falter and give way, allowing the companions a moment to cease their struggles, and breathe. There were only seven of them now: the Dwarves Brór and Dwali, Raies, the Elf, the women Lyshka and Darash, and Jeren and Grash. The others were gone. But they were not to die alone, for soon the orcs would come once more and the remaining companions would fall beneath them. The orcs had hemmed them in and forced them into a gully from which there could be no escape. The walls of stone on either hand rose up straight as walls, and angling in they met not ten paces behind them. They stood, their breath coming in great heaving gasps, their blood dripping onto the rock and mingling, becoming a single pool of red. But instead of attacking, the foremost rank of orcs began to gave way, parting to allow someone through. And then Grash’s heart gave way and he saw with bitter resignation their doom approach. In the hands of an orc there lay the vessel with the burning suverah with which Aldor had sought to overcome them. He was dead, but the orcs had decided to proceed with his plan. Whether the fumes of the substance had no effect on orcs, or whether it was just that the prisoners were so much more tired and weakened than their enemies, the smoke began to bring them low while the orcs remained impassive.

Grash fought to stay awake, but it was hopeless. The orc who bore the vessel placed it upon the ground close to where they stood, but they dared not venture forth to retrieve it for it was clear that they would be cut down should they try. The orcs clearly intended to take them alive…for their sport. Grash felt a touch upon his shoulder and he turned to see Darash motioning to his blade. He did not understand at first what she wanted with it – what use in fighting now? But she made it clear through her gestures that she wanted the blade so that she could use it on herself. Grash understood; he too, would rather die than be taken alive by the orcs. She could have the blade, but only after he had used it on himself. Putting the dagger to his throat me made to press it into his flesh, but at that moment, high above the raucous cries of the orcs, barely visible against the grey sky, he saw a bird soaring above their heads. At first he feared it was one of the Nazgûl upon their winged mounts, but he realised that it was a real bird, a bird of prey, not one of the carrion fowl of Mordor. The bird cried out then, and its call was clear and keen.

Grash moved the blade away from his neck, and shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “Not kill myself. I am free. Free. If I die, let orcs destroy me. Until then, I am free – I will stay with life. I will not leave.” He handed the blade toward Darash…

A sudden cry from the orcs drew his attention toward them. His eyes were swimming and his head was growing light from the fumes of the suverah but through the reek he could make out that the orcs were turning away from the companions and gesturing down the path at something. Swimming up from the abyss, Grash looked through the haze that was steadily falling before his eyes and dreamt that he saw dozens of green clad forms flitting amongst the rocks. There were cries of terror and of death amongst the orcs, and Grash dreamed that they fell and fled. His head swam and the earth spun and the rock of the mountain rose up to smack him in the head. He lay there, panting and gasping for breath, and he dreamt of strong hands lifting him, and bearing him away…

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

He awoke to the sound of birdsong, and to the feel wind upon his cheeks. He opened his eyes, but had to close them again immediately for the force of sunlight that bore upon him. There was a comforting voice nearby, and a cool hand pressed upon his brown, shading his eyes from the light. “It is all right,” the voice was saying, and it was noble and clear like the fall of water. “You are safe, and alive, although you are lucky to be both. You can open your eyes now, I have shaded them.”

Grash did as the voice bid and he looked up into two deep brown eyes that twinkled at him from a face that shone with health and vigour. Rising up, Grash sought to scamper away from the tall Man, but he was held by gentle hands. “Quiet,” a familiar voice said in his ear. “Friends. Safe. Free.” Grash turned and beheld Darash. She was clad as Grash now saw he had been, in simple garments of green that were clean and soft. They were the most comfortable things he had ever worn, and he could not believe that they were real.

“Where…?” was all he could manage.

“You are in Ithilien,” the Man said. “We are Rangers of Gondor, and we found you upon the path. The King has come again and we have reclaimed this land. We were scouting along the high path, looking for spies of Mordor, when my bird spotted something. We went to see what she had found and were surprised to see a mob of orcs besetting the strangest collection of folk we could have imagined.” He smiled. Grash stared at the man in amazement. “You save us?” he blurted out. “Save us? Bring us out of Mordor, and into green land?” And he felt the tears upon his cheeks as he laughed, the first genuine laugh of his existence. He fell back upon the ground and felt the gentle touch of grass upon his skin. He rose up, and the other companions were gathered about, all of them with the wounds bound and resting. The Man explained that they had all of them been on the brink of death from the smoke when they had been taken up by the Rangers, and that they had all lain unconscious for four days and nights but that the first of them had begun to awake this morning.

As the Man spoke, Grash felt a tremor in the ground, as though some great upheaval were taking place in the earth. The birds and the animals fell silent about them, and even the wind seemed to still. All talking ceased, and everyone held their breath in expectation, although of what, none knew. There came then a wind from the East, that raged through the trees, and it cried about them like a voice. Looking up, Grash watched in horror as a vast cloud rose above the looming form of the mountains, a great shadowy form, crowned with lightning, but it was dissolved in the wind and when it passed there came upon the heart of the slave a lightness that he could never have imagined. The land began to stir, and the Rangers gathered about stared at one another in amazement. The Man who had saved Grash looked about in awe. “What has happened?” he asked. “I feel as though some great change has been wrought, but what it is, I do not know.”

But Grash knew. Grash, who had lived his entire life beneath the shadow knew with his heart of hearts, that the shadow had been defeated. How it had been accomplished was beyond his imagination, but that it was so, he was sure. Sauron, the dark lord, was no more.

Grash was free.