Land of Darkness RPG

[piosenniel]

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’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]

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]

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]

Sarin Mithrilanger’s post

Darkness spanned Zuromor’s entire cell once more. It was always dark and gloomy beyond all imagining. He sat in the darkest corner of both his cell and his mind. Dark thoughts came to him, besieged him. In an effort to shake himself away from such things he began to exercise, though he now tired of even thinking of doing such things. The orcs were not without intelligence however and they usually had a guard outside the group of cells his own was in – in case any of the slaves tried something foolish. But this night (or day) was different. There was no guard on watch. This seemed strange to him, but strange things often happened in Mordor.

He was just finishing up his routine when he heard raised voices and odd noises that soon sounded like keys. He approached the cell door and peered down as far as he could. Soon he saw a figure approaching. He sighed and stood in the center of his cell expecting an orc to come and threaten him. But in a matter of moments a man stepped in front of his door and unlocked it.

Zuromor was so shocked he dared not move. The man looked at him for a moment and then waved for him to follow. Zuromor hesitated - freedom seemed like another prison, just bigger. But maybe there is a land where orcs do not roam. He smiled briefly as the thought crossed his mind. He quickly followed this mysterious figure to his first taste of freedom. He was out of his cell and for the first time, there were no orcs around him.

[piosenniel]

Novnarwen's post:

A four legged oblong thing came sneaking through the closed bars this morning. Yes, for it is believed that it was morning. It ran hurriedly after the smell, of which it had been eager to get closer to for a long time. It was a nasty smell, the smell of rot and dried blood. But this little creature didn't think it horrible at all. It came closer and closer, having its nose sticking up in the air, squeaking, trembling with curiosity. Its long, thick, tail could only just be seen as the dim light crept through the bars and into the square room. The tail made a whispering sound now and then, as it was dragged, quickly, over the stone floor. Suddenly, what it had been waiting for; there were movements in the corner. Its yellow eyes lit up, its mouth twitched and its tail slid more quietly along the floor. Not long now...

In the dark corner of the room, something was indeed moving. A steady movement it was, someone was breathing. Rags and old clothing covered what was beneath.

Finally, it was there! It ran, scraping its sharp nails on the floor, through a hole in the clothing. Sniffing, letting in the stank of rot, dried blood and sweat, it set its teeth into the flesh.

"OUCH!!!"

A voice, so loud that the bricks in the wall trembled, exploded from underneath the rags. The rags moved quickly from the ground, and a pair of feet could be spotted; a man arose. His face was pale and his eyes red and bleary. He was covered in sweat and dirt, this, making him look old and grim. The rings under his eyes showed the number of days, weeks and months he had staid here. His eyes looked desperately around. Cursing like mad, lifting a hand to where he had been bit, he discovered the creature crawling pettily towards the bars again. With gritted teeth and a malicious look in his face, he sprang over. As there was a crack, the man lifted his foot gently and laughed gruffly. "Never bite a sleeping man. Never!"

Rhând sat down, laid his head on the ground and stirred into the dead rat's eyes. The open wound the rat had left him, made him writhe with pain. "Darn you rat!" he said slowly, feeling the pain in his neck die away for a bit. "Where did you come from?" he smirked and paused. "Was it through the bars or was it elsewhere? Is there another way to get out of this hole?" he shuddered, biting his lip. He cursed the rat, the hole of a cell and all the servants of Sauron. How had he ended up here? He knew very well how, but he had difficulties coping with it anyhow. He cursed once more, loudly this time. Offering the dead rat one last look, filled with hatred that is, he rose to his feet and clapped his hands together. Thirteen months inside of this hole, it was too much! He clapped his hands together once more. Clever they are, the free men, he thought to himself. They must have known that he wasn't who he claimed to be, and set him up. He frowned. A year had passed and he didn't even know the truth about what had happened. He wasn't sure whether it was the Gondorians who had set him up or whether it was Sauron's faithful servants. He supposed it was the Gondorians though. "Those foul folk of free men!" He yelled and cursed. He should have known that day, when that ambassador had called him in for a meeting. The ambassador must have already known, Rhând was certain of it. Why else would that filthy Gondorian have smirked so annoyingly at him that day? He clapped once more, jumped up and down, dancing. He broke into a song; which touched every aspect of his life now and what it had been before. He grabbed the dead rat, held it in is tail, and swung it in the air.

Some would call him crazy, but the months locked up in the cell had made him different from what he had been like. From the very first day he had been brought to the Tower, or rather; from the day he had been interrogated, Rhând had been tortured. He usually screamed, asked for mercy or tried again to tell the truth about being set up, but this only made it more enjoyable for his interrogaters. However, as Rhând got to know their ways of tormenting, he was more aware and tried to make friends with his keepers. Sometimes, he found it good fun to learn about their miserable lives, even though they probably never spoke the truth. By doing this, he also made them forget about him, as they all believed he was both crazy and harmless.

"This is good fun," he muttered to himself, still having the rat in his left hand, swinging it back and forwards. But he was interrupted by a terrible uproar. He cast himself to the floor, slightly afraid that they were coming to get him. What was he supposed to tell them today? He wondered. He had already listened to their pathetic lives; he would have to figure out something new, creative. Maybe the torture would stop completely then. He lay down, covered his head with his rags, casting the rat towards the bars. Rhând focused, trying to hear what was going on. There was shouting, no; roars, coming from .... somewhere. Rhând even got the odd feeling of whoever it that was shouting, weren't coming his way. He frowned; almost disappointed that no one was visiting. It was after all quite lonely staying here day after day in this dark hole.

A few minutes had passed, when at last Rhând realised that someone was coming. He cursed, and regretted that he had even thought that some of these nasty, treacherous creatures, could be good company. He curled together on the floor, making himself look small; hoping that whoever came by, would just leave again; thinking that it was just an empty cell. He spent his mucles, in case they would burst into the room and grab him. He felt the bite on his neck burn with pain, and he cursed the inner circle, before letting out a sigh.

"Anyone there?"

A voice from the other side of the bars muttered silently. Of course, Rhând heard the whisper quite well, but grew uncertain about what to answer. This did not at all sound like the voice of the orcs who guarded the Tower or any other he had got to know through the torturing. Gritting his teeth, he realised that if it was indeed someone else, something terribly wrong was at hand in the Tower. How could possibly a normal man or woman, who weren't prisoners, walk freely around in the Cirith Ungol? Unless.... they were prisoners, he thought.

Next thing he knew, he was out of the cell, trotting behind a man he had never seen before; named Grash.

[piosenniel]

The Perky Ent's post:

The festering odor of orcs emanated through Dorim’s cell. The constant darkness that filled his prison remained its putrid hue. Dorim’s back was firmly against his wall, where no light could reach him. Drops of water dripped from the damp ceiling and landed in front of Dorim’s barefoot feet. Inside his head, nothing passed through Dorim’s mind. No thoughts of heroic escape or fantasies of love. Nothing, as he had nothing to live for. In the last 15 years of his life, he was deprived of purpose. The only things that could move his in-animate body was either if someone opened his cell, or if Sauron decided he was worthless and should be killed. Fortunately for him, fate would choose the first option.

Hearing a giant crash from the ceiling, Dorim didn’t bother to look up. Whatever it was, it surely wasn’t important enough. Soon after, Dorim began hearing even more loud sounds. He could hear people of all races mumbling in their cells. All races of Middle Earth had somehow found their way into the hell that Dorim waked up to every day. Then, as he closed his eyes, Dorim could feel sand from Harad beneath his feet. What little light crept into the cell vanished, as a pillar of light smiled down on Dorim. Behind him, he sensed something, and behind him was a lone Haradrim, holding a dagger. Dorim reached for his ax, finding nothing. The man was facing the other way though, not looking at Dorim. Then, another, larger beam of light came, and revealed a large group of Haradrim in a circle. They all pulled out their daggers, and began to make the circle they were in smaller. Suddenly, there was a shout, and a red bead of light shot upward from the center of the circle. Suddenly, the lone Haradrim dropped to the ground, revealing a dwarf with a piece of glass in his hand. Dorim. Suddenly, one of the men sliced Dorim’s head, and all the lights went out.

Suddenly, Dorim heard something he never thought he would here. The opening of cell doors. There was a confused merriment being flushed through the cells. It flowed past Dorim, having little effect. There were still rumbles in the ceiling, but they were significantly lighter. Suddenly, a dark figure ran to the barred door of his cell. Dorim could faintly hear the jingling of keys. Suddenly, in an instant, the dark figure opened the cell door, and ran. Dorim, if he were still as foolish as he used to be, would have stood there in amazement, pondering the occurrence. Dorim rushed out of his cell, cutting his foot on a rock. It didn’t matter. Freedom was in his grasp.

Looking out of his cell, Dorim noticed several others had been released. The fact that no guards were in sight troubled Dorim. “Maybe it’s a trap?” Dorim thought, wondering why fate had chosen this to happen. Dorim always believed in fate. He thought his capture was meant to be. That like his parents, he wouldn’t be remembered. His pessimistic thought came through Dorim’s mind every time something happened. It was just his way of looking at life. “It must be a trap! It must be! That blasted spider must be hungry!” Dorim thought, starting to back away from the exit. Then, he heard the scream of an orc, and realized something was wrong in the tower of Cirith Ungol. This was no mass feeding. It was freedom.