Land of Darkness RPG

[piosenniel]

Himaran's post

Dwali sat in the back of his small cell, listening to the sounds of battle coming from all directions. Such a horrid clamor did not bother, nay, even affect him; for it could only mean that some worse evil was approaching. Perhaps it is finally time to die. Time to leave this world of darkness... and enter another. Relaxing against the cold stone in a relatively calm fashion, Dwali contemplated what was to come.
Maybe it was the great spider they had spoken of, Shelob, or another rival orc army. Then the thought that it was a force from Gondor flickered through his mind, but the dwarf tried to ignore it. The mind is deceitful. It leads to hope, and hope slowly turns to reality. He shifted his postion, trying to find a comfortable spot on the rough prison wall.

And reality... is darkness. And death.

Although only a prisoner in Morder for three years, Dwali spent much of his time brooding in the inky blackness of his underground cell. He had been tortured for information about his race after arriving at the tower, but had since been left alone to guess his painful end; fed on scraps more putrid than orc fare. The dwarf's personality, already frayed since the murder of his parents, had molded into one of pessimism, sarcasm, and an assurance that his death was imminent. But on that particular day, Dwali's demise was not to be.

As the screams and clangs of metal began to fade, another sound caught the dwarf's keen ears. It was that of a key turning in a lock, and a rusty door swinging open. And then realization dawned -- it was his door! Dwali stood quickly, trying to recognize his rescuer (or murderer, more likely). It was a young man, but his other features were hidden by the darkness of the cavern. "You are free," he wispered. "Follow me, there are others."

Ignoring the nagging thought that it could be a trap, Dwali stepped out of his chamber. It was probably all some sort of trick, and he would soon be beaten and returned to his tiny prison; but even to be out for a few minutes would be worth it. Then he stopped, and hurried back inside. The dwarf felt around the bottom of the wall, hands digging and feeling about in a frantic manner. Then his left hand hit cold steel, and he pulled it out gingerly. There, it a hidden crack, was the knife he had stolen from a nearby guard over a year before. Perhaps it would be of some use afterall.

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post

Grash led them down the dark passage toward the storeroom at its end. They were a motley collection of folk and they were still adjusting to their sudden and unexpected freedom. Some were clearly joyous at their release, while others merely looked about them as though in a daze. All bore some mark of torment or abuse, and if Grash were capable of human feeling he would have been heartbroken by the pitiable state of them all. There was not a whole shirt or unrent garment amongst them: they were starved, exhausted, naked and entirely unarmed in the dungeons of their torturers. And yet they were free. Free – Grash let the word roll about in his mind, like a tasty morsel of meat about his tongue, tasting and relishing it. He had never known freedom, and was as yet unsure of its flavour. He felt it was sweet, but when he looked about him at where he was and who he had to rely on, his mouth went sour with the forethought of failure. Once more he thought about running away and hiding, and telling the orcs that the prisoners had freed themselves, but he knew they would never believe him. He had no choice now, but to continue with his plan of escape.

Reaching the end of the passageway, he led them through the low arch to the right of the Underdoor, behind which lurked the nameless terror that consumed all who dared venture into its lair. Never had Grash passed that door without a shiver, knowing that it was his fate one day to go through it, prodded on by the jeering insults and sharpened knives of orcs. He saw many amongst this ragged group glare at the door with similar feelings of horror.

When they were gathered in the storeroom, Grash turned to speak. At first, however, his heart failed, for in all his life he had never spoken to a group. Indeed, in the last three years the only speaking he had done had been to respond as curtly as possible to the rough commands of his captors. When he looked about him he saw the eyes of the prisoners glinting in the half-dark of the room, all of them looking to him for guidance and escape. Grash, hardened as he was by the long terrors of a life spent in servitude to the cruelest of masters, was afraid. He swallowed twice, though his mouth was dry, and began to outline his plan. “Krâzduk dakka, nit grankúl.” The instant he spoke he could see that few if any of them understood a word of what he said. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps they did not speak the Black Speech of Mordor, which had been his tongue since birth. He switched into the Common Speech that the orcs used when speaking with members of other tribes. “Food,” he said, pointing at the sacks and casks that lay about. “Water,” and he indicated the small cistern. “We take some with us. From here, in skins and bags. Grik, need weapons, armour, clothes. Search bodies and find these things; try to look like orcs.” He saw that they understood him, as uncouth as his speech might be. He gestured at the group, making motions with his hands as though he were trying to part them. “In groups,” he said. “We look in groups. Two or three; go above into courtyard, fraz Tower. Then meet here, and leave…through Door.”

There was a slight murmur as they took this in, and Grash could see that his plan was not being taken very well. One of the Dwarves stepped forward. He was sinewy and tough, like all Dwarves, but this one was darker than most, even after his years in the Tower. Grash had heard orcs speaking of him once, and they had said that he had been prisoner here for nineteen years. “Why must we go out through that door?” he demanded. “The beast which lurks there will destroy us all!” There were sounds of assent from the rest.

Grash tried to explain. “Gate closed by terrible creatures of stone. Cannot go out, cannot get past great wall that cannot be seen. You go to gate, you see.” He pointed out through the arch of the storeroom, toward the Door. “Only way, only way out. You come with me through there, or go back to cell now and wait for orcs to return.”

The male Elf spoke, then. Grash was awed by the two Elves, for he had never seen one until he had come to the Tower, and all that he had heard of them had been from the orcs who ruled his life. He knew more than to trust the word of an orc, but still he was somewhat afraid of the Elves – afraid that they might kill him and take his blood so they could live forever. “Why must we find weapons?” he asked. “Where are the others rebels? Surely they are armed, to have killed so many orcs.”

“No, no,” Grash said, shaking his head. “No others. No rebels. Orcs killed orcs, fought each other. Some ran away, will soon bring others. Other orcs and maybe,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “maybe even, Screechers – Screechers of the Dark Lord.” He shivered at the thought. “Hurry, hurry,” he said, “look for weapons, look for clothes. Go in groups, but come back soon; orcs coming, be here soon. We must be gone before they find us.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis rubbed her wrists gingerly, letting pain sear through them as the sweat of her hands mingled with the blood that slickened her skin. Pain was no stranger to the elf but...but this pain was of her own making. She was causing it. Her own choice... She clenched the fingers of her left hand tighter, digging her ragged nails in a little, as if testing as to whether it was actually real, then gasped quietly as the pain of her nails in her raw, bloody flesh laced like white hot pokers through her arms, lancing through her body. It was almost exhilerating.

"Stop," a voice said quietly. A hand grabbed Raeis's left wrist, pulling her fingers away from the wounds on her right wrist. Her reaction was a reflex: she lashed out, ripping her hand from the grasp of the other as she glared up at him. The other elf looked back at her in a sort of confusion, but a studied confusion. His eyes were sharp, intelligent - so very different from any that Raseis had seen in so many years that she felt captivated by them, almost drawn in...shutting her eyes tightly, childishly, almost petulantly, Raeis looked away, pressing her lips together firmly. His eyes seemed to wield some power over her and no one would have power over her.

She felt her wrist burn with renewed vigour - when Raeis had pulled away from the other elf, he had ripped another layer of skin away. She looked up at him angrily. "You hurt me..." she whispered, her voice soft, parched.

He shook his head, and Raeis was intrigued by the way his dark hair moved as he did so, a dull sheen moving across it in response to his movement. She could scarcely believe he was real, they were real, she was real... "If you damage your right hand, you won't be able to fight."

Raeis smiled defiantly. "'m left-handed," she shot back, then grinned again, surprised at herself. A sort of heady euphoria settled over her as she realised that she could say whatever she liked without punishment, could converse with another - and another of her species as well. She looked more closely at the other elf now, although she was careful to avoid those wise, captivating eyes. Dark hair, grey eyes, a shadow over his face from the years he had spent captive, but he was elven - an elf! An elf! - and Silvan, she thought.

"What is your name?" she asked, curious.

"Morgoroth Aranur," he replied courteously. Raeis regarded him for a second, head on one side and eyes glittering in the half darkness before she broke the habit of so many years of captivity. "I am Raeis," she replied grandly. Yes...Raeis...I am Raeis...an elf, and not a prisoner...ye-es....

"Food. Weapons. We must find these to escape."

The words strung together brokenly in the Common Tongue made Raeis spin around from Morgoroth to face a dark man, an easterling. He was like those men who sometimes came with the orcs to gawp and mock and beat and... Raeis's hand whipped out viciously towards the man, fingers splawed like a talon as she gave a cry of anger.

"No!" Once more, Morgoroth caught her wrist with incredibly speed, stopping her hand just a few inches from the other man's face. The other man stumbled back hastily, anger and fear in her otherworldly blue eyes as he looked back at Raeis. She watched him haughtily and Morgoroth let go of her wrist. She took a step closer to Grash, although he kept his distance, tilting her head again like a bird to observe him. After a second, she reached out a hand slowly towards his face. The man watched her warily, but did not flinch this time, although he was evidently nervous of the elf. "You freed me..." she murmured quietly, surprised. "But you will not hurt me. No one will hurt Raeis now..."

Smiling lopsidedly, Raeis turned away, thoughts of weapons and food leaping into her disjointed mind of a sudden. Stretching her arms out in front of her and flexing her fingers, she rolled her neck around to dispel a painful cramp then shook herself like an animal, before starting off in a stealthy run to where she knew she could find weapons...

[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.