Land of Darkness RPG

[Kransha]

Brór walked slowly, dragging his feet, which were feebly garbed by withered rags and threads, along the cold, rock-solid earth beneath. Fresh air was not unknown to him, though the vile air of Mordor bore a furious, deathly stench as if a smoggy haze had descended on the tower and interspersed parapets, the cloud working its way down with a insubstantial, slow speed as it pulled itself over the land, groping as the clawed digits of orcs would…or the rough a multitudinous legs of the beast that waited for its prey just outside the shadowy tower. Brór’s eyes shifted up, with a threadbare hint of anxiety in them. He was struck, as he saw the billowing clouds wafting through the sky as ominously as ever, by a disjointed paroxysm of fear, and then of hope, and then of both together. It was a strange, lancing feeling that jetted through him, but was whisked away by the passing wind, the first breeze Brór had ever felt in the land of shade.

He glanced around as his pace increased, still weak and tediously wrought, but with some notion, though vague, of vigor, which he had not let attach to him in fifteen of his nineteen imprisoned years. Beside him, as the trio of dwarves hurriedly ascended into Cirith Ungol’s high depths, were two others of his kind. One was less than half his age, by the look of him, and the other barely that half. They both seemed older than they doubtless were, an effect which leeched life from all those imprisoned, but Brór’s quick thought told him the summer’s they’d seen. As he threw his feet, one by one, up the jagged, chipped stone of the stairs to the next level, he turned from them, moving in front. Most knew that many weapons would be found in on the higher levels above the courtyard and overlooking it, since many orcs congregated there from time to time.

“This forsaken place is rank with orc stench, even after they are gone.” Said one, the second oldest, who Brór knew to be called Dorim, with disgust evident in his tone. Brór looked at him icily, his gaze as cold as it was years ago, unchanged by anything, even this new possibility. Dorim kicked aside a body, colored dark as coal and decked with jutting prongs of misplaced steel, which lay in a twisted, wrenched position on the stairs. “It is the stench of death,” Brór corrected quietly, “not of orcs.”

“Death and orcs share the same jagged blade.” Retorted the one called Dorim, with the same flat, unemotional treble that Brór bore in his gravelly voice. He leaned down, not hesitating to heave the orc over onto his back, sending the knife which was there embedded deeper in. The orc, though dead, gurgled and twitched violently, but the dwarves remained unfazed. Dorim inspected the corpse for weaponry and, finding none, instead flipped the stiffened husk again and yanked the rusty, crimson-soaked blade from his back, buried hilt deep. He examined it too, and clutched it in his hand.

“It would seem not,” interjected one who Brór did not know, a younger dwarf, “if one blade has crushed the other here.” Dorim nodded astutely as he wiped the blood from the knife on his rags, almost delighting in it. Brór nodded as well, walking forward across the open, cracked stones, examining the many lifeless carcasses, cast aside as useless puppets might be from their masters’ hands. He looked at their battered forms, the blood that stained the earth beneath, the wreckage and debris spread around. Limping unconsciously, he leaned down and drew one of the more intriguing, and pain-inducing weapons from beneath an orc, a crude mace, with spikes and points welded upon it to make it formidable. In some dark, horrible way, it reminded him of the ax he’d once sported in the days of his freedom. He hefted it onto his shoulder.

“Yes, crushed and broken indeed. We’ll be lucky to find a weapon intact.” He looked relieved to have what he had, which was still very unruly a device. Most blades were broken, shattered into metallic splinters on the floor. “I have my own” the young one shot in swiftly, but still pessimistically, “…this.” He drew out a small glinting object, a knife or dagger of some sort. Brór looked at it dismissively and turned, prodding the last jerking bodies with his new weapon. “That won’t do against the mistress of the pass. One slave thought, in the foolishness and youth of his heart, that he could take the spider with a knife he stole. The orc who saw him off said he’d been struck down before he neared her, and that he’d made a great meal.” Brór considered momentarily the thought of being unceremoniously devoured by that dark being, that spawn of Unholiant, who inhabited the pass so nearby, the pass that must be taken. His mind winced, flinching from that fate, but his heart, wanting death whenever it could come, did not. His heart invited it instead, and his arm swung the mace he held just to illustrate his purposeful dedication to his rebellious thoughts.

“We have numbers, at least,” remarked the youngest dwarf, “and we can take the fiend with us.” Brór nearly smiled at his defiance, but the facial expression could not creep across his wizened, pain-ridden face. “I know not if we can,” his voice sounded all but mournful, as it should, for it seemed that he might even be happy to go down beneath the tendrils and venomous fangs of the spider, “but we can try as we may.” Now he paused, his narrow eyes widening to let the sight of sky seep into every niche of them. He turned to the young one, “What is your name, lad?” He queried, the new tone in his throat somewhat refreshing and the words of greeting like water in place of dirt.

“Dwali.” He replied, extending his hand slowly (the one that contained no knife). Speedily Brór shook it, but no excitement could be told by that gesture, since he did the task as tiredly as a man bereft of life. Both hands retracted as Dorim watched behind, still looking over the field of battle. That dwarf, Dorim Stoneweaver, still drew up more supplies as he could, but seemed as much a pessimist as the other two.

“I am Brór, Brór Stormhand.”

[Durelin]

He could hear his breathing rushing in his ears, the inhale louder than the exhale, and his heart pounded its rhythm. Jordo’s eyes raced, checking every corner, then settling to rest on the door to the storeroom for a moment, only to search the room once more. There were so many shadows, as there always were in this place, shadows that could hide a ghastly hand that might drag him back to his cell. He awaited it, so that everything could return to normal. His body shivered in a clammy fear, and yet his body still sweat in the heat of this place. Feeling his legs wobbling beneath him, Jordo sat down on the floor, his hand resting in something wet that he ignored.

Looking around him, he did not raise his head, for he felt it might be a great effort. So he looked at feet of those who stood conversing around him. Many of the voices he heard he could not understand, but he could still hear the excitement in all the different tongues. He heard and sensed no fear in them, and he knew fear. They ignored the fact that they were surrounded by darkness and fire, and that a door could be opened to the great darkness that draped the land of Mordor. He watched feet shift restlessly, most were grimy and leathery of skin as his own. They were all brought together in a likeness that would not be present in any other position. All were covered in years of toil, with memories leaving permanent scars. There was something familiar in the eyes of each, man, elf, or dwarf.

Jordo then saw a pair of feet move toward the door, quickly followed by another. He decided to look up, and found with great relief that his head was functioning normally. He saw a tall being with long black hair that shown slightly, though Jordo could not think how it avoided being marred by the ashes that filled the air of Mordor. The head covered in the flowing black hair turned slightly, revealing his ears, pointed on the end. He gasped, and all his fear rushed out of his body against that intake of air. The elf’s hand grasped the arm of another of his kind, and Jordo let the breath that he now hold escape. She was a beautiful being, even in her condition. He had never seen any of these people at work about him, and he was glad he had not. Seeing them beneath a whip might have made their sorrowful beauty less beautiful. Jordo then glanced between the male and female elf, and decided that perhaps it would have only made it more sorrowful.

He still passed his stare from elf to elf until their backs suddenly disappeared behind a dark wooden door. They had exited the sanctuary, and Jordo shivered at the thought of this. But then he pictured the elves in his mind, and he found himself on his feet. His legs no longer felt weak beneath him, and he felt they were strong enough to walk. He made his way across the creaking floorboards, his legs quickly gaining strength, and thus his stride gained speed. He finally found himself in front of the door, after bumping his way through a the crowded room. He shut his eyes as he reached out to the handle. He felt the cold metal as a shock, and he shivered once more in a shadowy cold. Jordo now wondered what awaited him on the other side, shadows would be there, but what would they hide? And would flames await him to end his cold, only to burn him?

He found himself looking upon a courtyard, still shivering. The cold did not engulf him, but it lingered in the air of this place. He was able to sigh in relief, as he was heartened by the sound of voices nearby. They spoke in a strange tongue, that played a melody in Jordo’s ears, soothing him. He glanced around him, knowing what he would find. The two elves spoke, and he watched them, lost in their song. He was silent and still, standing before the open doorway, between two sanctuaries, and he breathed what felt like open air.

[Bêthberry]

She who would now answer to Darash followed the man out, looking left and right warily for signs of entrapment or attack. None seemed forthcoming. Slowly Grash released other prisoners and Darash found herself face to face with peoples she had never imagined in her life.

Nmubelima derlig she murmered to herself as she saw the three short creatures, coming perhaps midway to her forearm. She had never seen dwarves, although she had heard the stories of dark short tribes south of her village. They stared at her and she knew not what to say, except the formal words of her people for strangers meeting. And they were not enough. The three grey pithniba quickly formed their own group and were away, accomplishing the search that this Grash had demanded.

She spied a lone woman who stood hesitantly and walked over to her, but just then she stopped and stared with hatred and open disgust at one other person Grash had released.

A jackel of Umbar in their midst who she heard called Jeren! She turned towards Grash with a gutteral cry of reprimand and prepared herself to attack the jackel who bartered humans if he took one step nearer her or this other woman. Her face she forced into a cold mask of contempt as she fought the urge to spit on him.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka wrapped her long arms tightly around her body as she watched a listened to those around her. Naturally the dwarves and elves drifted together, each to their own kind, but those that were left were men, save one. The Easterling drew her limbs closer to cover her body as her eyes darted from man to man, waiting, expecting one or all of them to attack her. They, she and the other woman, were outnumbered and it would be difficult to defend themselves against all. Lyshka stepped back. Her body was tense.

The dark-haired man expected them to gather food and water, but she would not go alone with any man to search above or below. Turning her eyes, she suspiciously studied the other woman. The woman was darker than she, and her clothing was marked with an exotic design. Lyshka wondered at her.

Feeling Lyshka’s gaze, the woman glanced at the Easterling and their eyes met. The woman nodded and Lyshka returned the gesture. To her surprise, the woman began to move toward Lyshka, but she stopped short when another prisoner caught her eye. Fury rose and flashed in the woman’s eyes, and Lyshka lifted her own body to her fullest height and flexed her fingers, ready to protect herself and the other woman if this disgusting man, the woman felt was a threat, made any move.

[Himaran]

“I am Brór, Brór Stormhand.”

Dwali thought hard for a moment; the name seemed faintly familierly, but still out of the reach of his waning memory. Ah, what did it matter; Brór would die too, burning in the fires of Mordor like them all. This was just a respite, and intermission; then they would all be recaptured, tortured, and finally sent away from this dark hell. But if he was to face that fate, Dwali knew that he would go down fighting; and now was the time to prepare. Death and orcs are certainly not the same... but one results in the other, and I intend to be ready for both.

"Then you must be... Dorim. Come, let's find some blades." They began to traverse the courtyard, staying fairly close together. Dwali found a stout, single-headed axe to supplement the knife he had stolen, and the other dwarves had similar luck. Clothing was slightly more difficult to come by; there were many bodies, but most of the orc dead wore tattered rags and torn armor. Than Dorim gave a shout, motioning them over. Two large Uruks, obviously captains, lay sprawled on the stone floor; arrows protruding from their necks and torsos.

"These will do," he said, but there was immediately an uncomfortable pause. Three dwarves were staring at two sets of armor and leather garmets. Dwali, however, signaled for Brór and Dorim to take them; he was already better clothed than they. Grateful for the quick resolution to what could have become a prolonged argument, the pair stripped the orcs quickly. They were pleased when minutes later, Dwali found a similarly dressed corpse. Thus, the trio returned to the meeting place wearing and carrying full orc gear, and although quite uncomfortable, it would provide enought protection in the probable event of a fight.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash watched the Elves leave with a sense of relief, for their beauty, marred as it might be by ill treatment and neglect, was almost oppressive in this dark and horrible place. Grash had never seen real beauty, except maybe for his mother. He could not remember her face but he sometimes tried to imagine it. The Dwarves were also quick to band together against the others and hurry from the room, casting suspicious glances at the Elves and Men. Grash barely noticed, for he had spent his entire existence trapped in the mean life of the slave, in which petty jealousies soon arose, and people were quick to anger and violence over the smallest matters: insults, food, women. He had seen Men kill one another for such things, and for much less. What had it mattered when their lives were not even theirs to throw away? There were times when Grash felt that to die would be an act of rebellion.

The only people in the room were the Men, including the two women. One of the other slaves – Grash searched his memory for a name and found only Jordo – had followed the Elves as though he meant to go with them. Grash noted that and decided to keep a close eye on Jordo in the future: any Man who would willingly put himself in the hands of a pair of demons had to be watched closely. The remaining Men shuffled about slightly, as though unsure of what to do next. A slave with a shifty look stepped forward, indicating that Grash should come with him. There was something about his urgency that made Grash wary, but he nodded and moved with him toward the arch.

Cries, both terrible and great, called his attention to the far corner where the two women had come together. The tall one he called Darash was pointing at a Southron and speaking in her own tongue. Although he could not understand the words she spoke, nor fathom why she spoke them as she did, Grash knew the sound and tenor of a person near violence. Darash held her body as though ready for immediate combat, and Grash noted with surprise that this was a natural posture that came as easily to her as did the lowly stoop of the slave to Grash. The other woman rose to her feet, reaching out with her hands as though they were claws.

Grash’s first impulse was to stay quiet, keep his head down and slink for the door. This was how he had survived so many years – if one got involved in someone else’s conflict, it could only lead to trouble. But then it occurred to him that there were no guards to wade into the fight and club apart the assailants. If it came to blows, someone could end up killed, and that might prove difficult to manage. Grash moved toward the women crying out “Garak-thûl, garak-thûl!” as he had heard the orcs do when they were forcing apart combatants. He seized upon the arm of the Southron and began pulling him toward the arch. “Come, come” he said quickly. “Must go look for weapons, must look like orcs. Leave women to hide here.” A sudden idea occurred to him, and he turned to the females. “Food and water,” he told them, pointing at the provisions about them, “you bring food and water. Women bring food and water.”

The Perky Ent's Post

Dorim strided across the cells slowly. The stench and light slowed him down. As Dorim walked, he noticed people in front of him and behind. Of the tired, dirty prisoners, Dorim noticed two that standed out. They were dwarves. As Dorim began to climb up the stairs, he glanced at them, but then turned his face back. A weapon would be much more important than friendship. “This forsaken place is rank with orc stench, even after they are gone” Dorim said in a disgusted voice, looking down at the bodies of dead orcs. “It is the stench of death, not of orcs.” A dwarf next to Dorim said. Dorim hated being contradicted, and therefore wasn’t so keen on the dwarf, whos name happened to be Brór. “Death and orcs share the same jagged blade.” Dorim retorted, in the same flat tone as Brór. Feeling no reason to continue the conversation further, Dorim looked over the dead body of an orc. It was still twitching. Without a moment to consider what he was doing, Dorim heaved the orc onto it’s back, and shoved the knife inbedding in his back even deeper. Although the orc was still twitching, Dorim took no notice and began searching the orc for weapons. Finding none, Dorim took the only one he could find, and ripped the blade from the orcs back out and clutched it in his hand.

“It would seem not,” the third dwarf said. “if one blade hascrushed the other here.” Dorim gave a small nod, and took what rages he had to clean off the blood from the knife, delighted that he had a weapon. As Dorim looked down at the festering orcs on the ground, Brór and the young dwarf began talking. “Dwali” Dorim heard the young dwarf say. “So Dorim, Brór, and Dwali are the dwarves of Mordor” Dorim said, looking at the two. “Then you must be… Dorim. Come, let’s find some blades.” Dwali said, as the three began to traverse the courtyard close together. Then, they began to go their separate ways, looking for weapons. Dorim could see many armed orcs, but none with the equiptment he needed. Then, seeing two dead Uruk captains, Dorim gave a shout. “These will do” Dorim said, stripping the orcs of everything they had. Greatful for the goods he was now wearing, Dorim looked around again to see how the others were doing.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor was free. The mere thought of it sent his mind into a constant whirl of emotions and dreams. He was ripped away from his reverie as he heard Grash speaking to the others about searching for the much needed supplies. He completely agreed but he was too nervous and too unsure of this freedom to make any movements or to speak at all. As he stood and watched he saw the Elves and Dwarves take off with their own and another clambering after the Elves, he noticed that a strange and peculiar man had gestured to Grash. As Grash replied with his own gesture it soon became quite apparent that they were going to travel together. Zuromor stood there shaking. He was not sure if he should follow or merely wander about by himself. After all he had been alone for so long... how could he travel with others? While he was thinking this all over time was moving along and he soon realized that he would have to stand up from here on and be as strong as he portrayed himself to be. He quickly moved up next to Grash and walked proudly as his beaten body would allow.

"I search with you as well!"

He did this to stand up for the first time and also because he did not trust himself. What would he do on his own? Surely dispair would seize him, and he would forever be alone. He also did not trust Grash's other partner. But he simply shrugged it off as his being weary of company, for he had never known it.