Land of Darkness Discussion Thread

[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!”

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle – Game Owner


NAME: Grash

AGE: He’s not sure: somewhere in his mid-twenties.

RACE: Men

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: None but his wits (and whatever he can pick up from the corpses of the Tower)

APPEARANCE: Grash is lean to the point of emaciation but sinewy and tough like an old tree that has grown where none thought one could survive. His skin is dark tan from years spent in the sun labouring in Sauron’s fields in the south of Mordor. His hair is black and curly like an Easterling, but his eyes are blue, testimony to the mixed heritage of the slaves who fuel the machine of war in the land of Darkness. He is of average height and physically unprepossessing, but he can be extremely dangerous when cornered or threatened. He never smiles, and it is possible that he has never laughed in his life. By the same token, crying and expressions of sadness or pain are impossible to imagine upon his countenance. He is dressed only in a pair of ragged trousers and a patched shirt through the many holes of which his naked body is clearly visible.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Grash has been a slave his whole life and knows nothing of the outside world. Due to the brutality and the hopelessness of his life he has become fiercely independent, with a will of iron that frequently hurts himself more than it does others. He trusts absolutely nobody, convinced that the world is run by the same rules that have governed his existence from birth. To Grash, life is brutal, short, dirty and bestial; the only way to find meaning in this world is to force it oneself.

HISTORY: Grash was born sometime in the winter just over twenty years ago. He never knew his mother as she died soon after his birth, hard at work – as they always were – in the huge cornfields on the shores of the Sea of Nûrnen. He has spent his entire life in slave compound seventy-two, every day suffering beneath the lash and scorn of the orcs who drive them to and from their labours. In the early days of his manhood, he attempted to make friends amongst the other slaves, but they died so quickly, or were sent to other farms or to dig in the mines, that he gave that up. Grash withdrew into himself ever more, cutting off all possible contact with other people and cultivating the cold and stone-hearted spirit of the hopeless slave that he very nearly became for ever.

One hot day two years ago, however, he watched – as he had a thousand times before – as the orcs who guarded them turned on one of the other slaves. She had been too slow in bringing something, or too quick in walking away, and now four of the monsters were beating her with their whips. To this day Grash could not say what it was about such a familiar sight that made him act, but act he did. Seizing his scythe he ran at the orcs and before they could subdue him he slew two and mortally wounded a third.

He was taken and whipped, then bound in cruel ropes and made to walk all the way to the Tower of Cirith Ungol where he was made to slave in the dungeons for the orcs. Each day he is told that he will be sent into the tunnels to be fed to the monster that dwells there, but he is past caring. A constant stream of prisoners comes from Barad Dûr and passes through the cells that Grash cleans, on their way to the monster’s lair – and all that Grash can do is wish for the day that he too will find solace in death.

~*~

FIRST POST FOR GAME

Fordim Hedgethistle‘s post

The sounds of chaos died down from the courtyard above and Grash slowly emerged from his hiding place in the storeroom. Casting furtive glances about for the guards he walked down the dark hallway past the cells, looking neither right nor left at the prisoners. He had long ago ceased to regard the folk who passed through this place as actual beings. Rather, he thought of them as creatures like himself: dead already, without the formality of having their breath stopped or their hearts stilled. A few of the prisoners spoke to him, asking him to free them but he passed on as heedless as wood. He reached the stairs and climbed slowly, his every fibre tensed and reaching outward for signs that his captors were still alive. All he could hear, however, was the unnatural wailing of the Silent Watchers as they screeched their warning to the listening mountains.

He had been climbing these stairs for two years now, and did not need a light to find his way. He soon reached the top and marked without emotion that the door, which was normally locked and barred as tightly as steel, had been left open. He poked his head through the door into the lowering gloom that lay upon this land always and looked about. The courtyard was filled with bodies and body parts. There was no movement. He stepped out of the door and picked his way through the courtyard toward the gate. Once, from somewhere high above, he thought he heard a cry and he fell immediately to the ground for fear of having been seen, but there came no other cry to interrupt the wailing of the Watchers. He continued and soon got to the Gate, but he found his way barred by some unknown and invisible will. It held him back like a huge black hand and try as he might he could not move forward. Finally, panting and gasping with the effort he fell back from the gaze of the watchers, defeated.

The last time Grash had cried he has been but a boy, and a sound whipping at the foul hands of an orc had cured him of that weakness. But this was almost more than he could bear. His guards were dead, and before his very eyes he could see the road that lead to his freedom stretching out, but he could not reach it. Once more he threw himself forward but this violence seemed only to increase the resistance and he fell back into the court once more. As he lay there he thought about the freedom that was so tantalizingly close, and realised that it really was nothing more than an impossible dream. The wailing of the Watchers was sure to bring more orcs soon, and there was already, no doubt, one of the Dark Lord's Screechers already winging toward this place. Grash turned from the gate and crawled back to the cells on his hands and knees. Better to hide in the storeroom again and await the orcs than be caught out here. If he plead ignorance of the events he might escape with only a whipping.

As he slunk into the hallway once more, however, he heard the calls of the prisoners and a new idea occurred to him. Alone and naked as he was, escape was impossible. He knew the ways and paths about Cirith Ungol well, and could easily find a way down from here to the road that lead westward to Minas Morgul. But beyond that he was lost. Even to get to that point alone and unarmed would be impossible…but with the help of other folk, it might just be possible. He sat for a moment and thought this over. He had never in his life considered the possibility that other people might be able to help him, but as hard as that thought might be, in this circumstance it actually made some kind of sense.

His decision suddenly made, Grash rushed down the hall to where he had seen the jailer’s body lying in a bloody heap. He pulled the keys from the beast’s belt and began unlocking the cell doors.

[piosenniel]

CHARACTERS: NO FURTHER PLAYERS NEEDED


Six of the race of Men, male or female: (No Dunedain Rangers - as they would certainly never have let themselves be taken alive by the forces of Sauron; it would be nice to have Southrons and Easterlings, or slaves of Mordor in these roles.

• 1 Southron – Aylwen Dreamsong – Dedicated Player/see above
• 1 Easterling – alaklondewen - Dedicated Player/see above
• 1 Southron - Bethberry - Dedicated Player/see above
• 1 slave of Mordor – Durelin - Dedicated Player/see above

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• 2 slaves of Mordor – male or female – POSITIONS FILLED

~*~


Two Elves, male or female: (‘Low ranking’ Silvan Elves only - any from among the Noldor or nobility would be far too useful for Sauron to simply cast aside as a treat for Shelob)

• 1 Silvan Elf – Amanaduial the archer - Dedicated Player/see above

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• 1 Silvan Elf – male or female – POSITION FILLED

~*~


Three Dwarves, male

• 1 Dwarf – Kransha - Dedicated Player/see above

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• 2 male Dwarves – POSITIONS FILLED

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Character types which would not belong: Any not listed above

[piosenniel]

FIRST POSTS MUST BE SUBMITTED WITH YOUR CHARACTER DESCRIPTION

All character descriptions not accompanied by a First Post will be returned to their writers.

Players will NOT be chosen because they submitted their character earlier than the other players. The Game Owner, Fordim, will read each post and character bio and then make the choice for players accordingly.

[piosenniel]

Please use this form for creating your character to post on the discussion thread.

It is a requirement that all potential game players will either have posted in one of the RPG Inns (preferably in The Green Dragon) or have played in an RPG on the Barrow Downs.

Those who have not played before in a Barrow Downs' RPG will be given preference. Final preference, though, will be at the discretion of the Game Owner.
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Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES/NO - Which one?

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in?

List them, please:

Please note you may play in only 2 (TWO) Shire games at one time. (The Green Dragon Inn DOES NOT count as a game for this.)


3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? – YES/NO – Which one?

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For your character please include:

NAME:

AGE:

RACE:

GENDER:

WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armor only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.):

APPEARANCE:

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only):

HISTORY:

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First post:

PLEASE NOTE:

First posts should take place in your character's cell as he or she listens to the sounds of battle and then is freed by Grash. Your character can reflect on what brought him or her to this sorry pass, think about his or her confinement or dream about his or her past.

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Character Descriptions without a First Post attached will be sent back to the writer. They may be submitted again, once there is a First Post to go with them.