Land of Darkness RPG

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka inhaled deeply. The dark and poisonous fumes of Mordor made her cough, but they were yet clearer than and provided a relief from the putrid air of the Spider’s tunnel. Trembling, she slumped to the ground, sliding along the grey wall of the mountain. Exhaustion overcame her body. She was limp, yet she still trembled from the horror of what her eyes beheld in that dark place. Rubbing her eyes gingerly, she tried to erase the horrifying scene from her mind.

Darash stepped over her and motioned to one of sacks the prisoners brought. “Fo-od.” Nodding and feeling the whole in her belly, Lyshka rose and helped the woman untie the sack. A day had surely passed since their entrance into that place, and this was the first the Easterling had thought of food. A long loaf of bread sat at the top of the sack, and Lyshka snatched it. Looking quickly from side to side, she was unsure if any of the others would fight for or try to steal her bread.

Keeping the loaf protected, close to her belly, Lyshka broke it in half and held out one half to Darash, who still looked through the sack. The Easterling glanced again quickly at the others, and then nudged Darash for her attention so she would accept the bread.

As Darash reached out, Lyshka caught sight of the woman’s injuries. Along the length of her arm, Darash was covered in blood. “Ak banash ka.” Lyshka spoke in her own tongue and could see confusion in the other woman’s face.

Taking hold of the Darash’s wrist, Lyshka gently pulled on her arm to convey she wished for Darash to follow. As they neared the shear wall, Lyshka shed her Orcish vest and placed her half of the loaf beneath it. The woman then pulled the bottom of her thin, torn dress up and placed it between her teeth. Tearing into the cloth, Lyshka ripped a long strip from around the bottom of the skirt and held it out, motioning to Darash’s wounds…”Ak banash ka.”

[Durelin]

A sticky, moist cloud glittered in front of his face, and he was half aware of it clinging to his skin. What lay beyond the cloud was misty, and this haze enveloped him in calmness. Jordo blinked, but the cloud did not go away. He was aware of pain, but mainly he felt a numbness that ached in knowledge of injury. But it was the pain of a separate body from his mind, which acknowledged pain, and put it into a simple feeling that the man recognized, and knew well. The cloud that physically surrounded him seemed to penetrate him mentally. His brain felt wrapped in a fogginess. But it its distorted way of thinking found a rather abstract thought somewhere. His mind had been so controlled by outer and inner forces, but in its current confusion, it found a kind of freedom. For the first time in his life, he made the connection between his mind and the pain he felt. He was musing in his mind, a broken one, one that did not have the same amount of defense against seemingly illogical thoughts. He heard and saw nothing but what was in his head.

Jordo stood still, afraid to move for the moment, in the Tunnel and all its unnaturalness. He shivered as a small droplet of some liquid fell in between his neck and shoulder blade. This seemingly shook his head into a more thorough consciousness. Noticing everyone around him gone, he ventured moving, and made his way toward a light that made the mist before his eyes glitter and shimmer. He felt strange to be finding beauty in that Tunnel, but he was not afraid. For a moment, thought a fleeting one, all his former fear was even forgotten. And the ability to fear did not seem such a simple one. Without fear weighing them down, he brought his arms up, and his hands went to his face. He felt tiny points adhere to his skin. Knowing this feeling, Jordo should have been afraid. The Tunnel was something to be feared, and this ‘mist’ before his face was the very essence of that tunnel. He tore it with a passionate disgust. Rather than a frightened squeak as the webbing was pulled off his face, he growled. A strange feeling, this was, but Jordo quickly decided that he liked it.

Upon emerging from that smoky world behind the web, the man was surprised to find the calmness he had felt was not secluded to that world. He realized that he was on a ledge, where everyone was gathered, and he was out of Her pit. The light that shown, a shock after his time spent in the supernatural darkness of the Tunnel, was welcomed with a smile. What he felt inside was such a relief, was so warming when compared to the fear he normally was a prisoner to, that smiling became a logical expression. He refused to close his eyes, no matter the pain the brightness – brightness when compared to the deep darkness of Shelob’s hole – of the light caused. He stared into the sky surrounding them, and his eyes wanted not to see the ash and flame as anything but a relief. But it seemed he was back, back to where they had began, back to where and when he was so afraid. He stared at the looming tower of Barad-Dûr until he heard speaking that distracted him. Only two voices could tear him away from such brilliance, and those were the elves’. Raeis was speaking. Was she speaking to Jordo? In a blur, he turned to look toward where the voice was coming from. At first the man thought he saw dark green eyes looking at him. Morgoroth sat with his cloak around him, and Jordo felt the immortal’s eyes upon him. He blinked, and still it seemed they looked at him, and he was forced to look away. He felt that old feeling, that cold emptiness, threaten to take over the new one that filled him with a certain warmth and comfort.

Turning away brought him to stare into another pair of eyes, these dark blue and kind, yet still the eyes of an immortal. He was able to hold this gaze for a moment. His mind having finally found something to focus on, he was able to hear what was being said.

“Jordo? How do you feel?” He lost the will to hold Raeis’s gaze. Looking down at his feet, the uneasiness built up again inside of him, scaring him to silence. But then that caring voice spoke again, seeming so very familiar. “Are you feeling well, Jordo?” He looked up once more into those eyes, he searched in them for the strength to speak. Why he searched in them, he did not know. But he knew he did not wish to search himself.

“Yes.” He found something in them. And in the smile that now played on Raeis’s face he saw just what the familiarity in the elf was. Her face of kindness and concern was his mother’s face. No more fear… What had his mother taught him to say? “Thank you,” he said smiling, expectant of some kind of reward. A smile was enough. The little boy was being good, and he felt good inside.

[CaptainofDespair]

The howling winds that blew this way and that upon the cliff face, chilled to the very bone. It was not that is a cold, harsh wind, but that it was the air of Gorgoroth, a choking caustic atmosphere. The Dark Tower loomed near, and it was fiery, disgustingly evil place. The land that surrounded the tower was seething with fire, and unholy rancor. Orc armies marched to and fro, preparing for some hideous machination of war that was to be unleashed. And were ever they went, marred earth was churned up from their iron shod feet, and it rose in great, desiccating clouds of scorched earth, and volcanic ash. And in the north of the choked and withered land, was that of Barad-dur, and the power of the Dark Lord. A great evil light, one of ancient evil, and renewed destruction, enveloped this region. And to its right, the explosive, near apocalyptic burst of fire from Orodruin painted the sky a hideous shade of red. .

It was this strange light that attracted the Elf’s wandering eyes. They had become accustomed to the ever-present darkness of the Tunnel, with its maw looming behind the group. But now, the eerie light projected a sense of want, and need, into the Immortal. He had heard stories from Men and Elves alike, early in his youth, of the Tower, and its hideous, yet oddly majestic ramparts, and he longed for it. Now, he gazed upon it, a twisted, malevolent structure rebuilt from the ungodly foundation of a menace long thought to be fallen.

Morgoroth now sat himself upon a ledge, his back to the winds that swirled around him. As the tortured souls that filled the wind rose and fell, so did the thought of the Elf. His mind drifted, from Morgul, to his present situation, upon this barren, vastly high precipice that dwelt over the Plain of Gorgoroth. How would this rap-tag group manage to make its way down such a steep cliff face? But he could not burden his mind in this way. Should he begin to bear these thoughts, his would sink into despair, and desperation. Should this occur, he would be lost, and he would die in the barren, ash-filled lands that hovered below.

Laying behind the Elf, was placed the body of Dorim Stormweaver, he who had fallen beneath the painful jaws and engorged body of Shelob. The dwarf’s body had gone stiff, and the poisons he had been injected with still lingered on his cold, pale lips. What was to become of the body? Should it be left for the spawn of the Tunnel to consume? Or would it be buried somewhere, in Mordor, or nearer to Dorim’s former residence? The Elf contemplated these questions, as he scanned the land which was the Black Lands. These questions would need to be answered, but not by the group, for only the dwarves themselves could decide upon the fate of their companion’s ridged body. And so Morgoroth concluded these thoughts, in that he would offer to bear the physical burden of Dorim’s body, so that it could be laid to rest somewhere more placid than the harsh terrain of Mordor.

Yet, the Elf had become weary, for his plight in the Tunnel, and the escape of the Tower, were enough to strain his body, and he was approaching exhaustion. He took notice that Bror had not quite recovered from his own wounds, and so the Immortal made the decision to rest himself. He raised his dangling legs up from over the side of the ledge, and swung them around, back onto the platform. Once he completed this, he set a torn cloak behind his head, and laid himself down, to drift into a rejuvenating rest within a trance.

[Kransha]

The eyelids of Bror Stormhand were more than heavy enough to resist being pried open involuntarily. The dwarf had to consciously force them open after he was already awake, seeking some focus in his blurred gaze. He could not see at first, since his eyes had become accustomed to the ominous dampness and shade of Shelob’s chambers, but soon the red-tinged sky sharpened his sight, as did the sharpened peaks of the mountains and crags high above him, shrouded by thick clouds. His arms, weak and trembling, managed to unfold beneath him, pushing him wearily up until he was sitting on the cold stone ground. He looked around, his chest heaving and beating against the inner wall of his plated armor.

He first caught sight of the thing nearest him and most forward in his sight, two figures lying on the earth. One figure, curled up tiredly, breathing and rolling about discontentedly. The other lay still, upon its back, and looked to him as cold as ice. The stiffened form was Dorim, the other was the resting figure of Morgoroth, the shadowy Elf. Bror’s eyelids sagged, and his pauldron-covered shoulders followed, drooping mournfully as he moved, knees dragged beneath and never getting to his feet, towards the dwarf and looked upon him when he reached the lifeless husk. His face was as pale as the moon blazoned upon a nightly sky of empty sable. His eyes, closed now, were colorless beneath their shielding lids and the vivacious light in him was gone, replaced by withered pallor. Bror looked upon him, still and bereft of life, and took the slain dwarf’s unfeeling hands in his own. He took them and laid them, crossed, upon Dorim’s armored chest. Then he slowly stood, looking down on Dorim, and bowed his head to the darkness around him.

An emotionless voice severed his thoughts. It came from behind him where Morgoroth lay. “Your friend is gone.” He said, coldly but understanding in him despite that. Bror turned as the Elf propped himself up carefully upon strong arms and looked to the dwarf out of his eyes shady corners. Bror’s head snapped sideways to see him, but spoke slowly and serenely in reply. “Yes, he is gone. He fell bravely, though, and is thought better of for that.” They locked eyes, their gazes intertwined only for a second in the passing of time, the cold eyes of an Elf and the same eyes in the skull of a dwarf meeting, but they pulled apart before words were again spoken, by the Elf this time.

“He will find some manner of peace wherever he dwells now.” Morgoroth said back gently, turning away again. He sat up, though he seemed to be seeking the tranquility of sleep, and stared up momentarily before turning his eyes downward towards the rough stones below him. Bror turned and looked down again at Dorim. He had at least seen Dorim taken from the tunnels of Shelob and could not impose him upon the rest of the company. He would have to lie here, escaped from the darkness of the spider’s chambers but still shrouded in the crimson-black fire and ash of Mordor. The Morgul Vale would serve aptly enough as a mound of burial for him. He knew not words in Elven, Khuzdul, or the tongues of men to call this mound, this burial plot he’d allotted. It was unworthy of noble Dorim, but it would have to serve. Years would serve too, to keep Dorim where he lay now. Under his breath, he spoke to the wind, not caring whether it heard him or not. “Aulë give you rest, Dorim Stoneweaver, and may you find in death all that you have sought in life.”

Once his reverie concluded itself, the wistful dwarf turned to his accidental comrade again. He walked towards him reluctantly and sat beside the elf, seeking the place in the sky where he looked. Now stars could be seen, no beauty shining, no sparkling brightness painted onto the darkness, dappling the night. Instead there was flame embedded in the smoke of shadows. The spouting fire of Amon Amarth spilled into the sky, the peaks of the Vale silhouetted evilly against them. It made Bror’s heart restless to look upon such wicked things, but his soul’s darkness could not be seen when he spoke next.

“I wished to thank you…for what you have done for me and my kin this day.”

The elf looked to him, slightly curious about the words that came so weakly from his Dwarven counterpart, but waved him off dismissively. “Think not on that.” Bror peered at him, his eyes deepening and his head rising to meet the height of the Elf. “I have not had to show my thanks to any man or beast in years, elf,” he said sternly, “and it is not without pain that I do this. My kinsman is slain, slain by the spider, and we have not cleared the darkness of her chambers. One of our dark company is dead, and more must follow, so I’ll make my peace with you before the spider’s venom makes my blood run cold like his. Elf…Morgoroth, never have I shown gratitude to an elf, but now I do. Take that token, for what it’s worth, and let me have my pride.”

“You misplace your gratitude, Bror Stormhand.” Morgoroth said at last, “I need none of that.”

Bror responded insistently. “I have nothing else to give save my allegiance and my thanks, which come not easily. Take them.” For a long minute, perhaps more or less time than the two beings thought had passed, there was silence, broken constantly by the far off crackling of sickly yellow daggers that rent the heavens without a care. Both ignored that, thinking on what they’d said. Morgoroth looked as contemplative and as much the brooding Elf as he had been throughout the journey from the Tower of Cirith Ungol, but he finally looked to Bror as a friend might, with kindness in his eyes. “I do not want your allegiance,” he said, pausing shortly after, “…But I’ll take your thanks.”

And, as uncommon as it was for such things to happen, Bror Stormhand smiled warmly, his sour face lightening even in the presence of his deceased brother in arms, for he’d sought and gained a comrade in Morgoroth, one he’d never hoped or expected or even dreamed of having. A gentle trickle of light reached suddenly into his inner darkness as he spoke again. “You have my allegiance whether you want it or not, as it is mine to give. If I live when we reach the hold of the enemy, you shall not fall before me. While warm blood runs in my veins, my mace will serve your will, friend.”

[Himaran]

The air was hot, and the choking darkness of Shelob's tunnel had been replaced by the ash-ridden air of the Morgul-Vale. Ripples of fire rose and fell in the distance, drawing wary glances from many among the company. Orodruin's bulk was partially visible over the Plains of Gorgoroth, a constant reminder of the threat they now faced. But to Dwali, their current predicament meant little compared to the death of his comrade. Dorim had stood beside him in the tunnels during that great battle, selfless and brave; true to his companion. Now, watching Grash and the others finish his burial, words could not describe the anguish of his inner soul.

Adding to his discomfort was the presence of Morgoroth, conversing with Bror nearby. Dwali knew that the elf had acted in his defense, and was at least partially responsible for his survival of the recent ordeal. Reluctantly, the dwarf had mentally come to terms with the warrior, although he maintained a front of resentment and disdain. Now, he decided, it was time to end that. With Dorim gone, he knew that rifts needed to be breached -- for in the next battle, there might not be anyone who risked their life to save his. Swallowing his native pride, the dwarf turned and walked towards his past nemisis.

As if on cue, Bror walked away, leaving Dwali the nail-biting decision of continuing with his confession. Aye, and that's Bror's mace... seems as if he's beat me to it. But there was nothing else to do. He approached the elf and spoke with as much dignity as he could muster; hoping that his dwarven comrade had already broken through the ice. "I too owe you an apology, Morgoroth. You acted bravely in the tunnels to defend myself and my countrymen, even though there has been nought but harsh words between us."

The elf looked up, as if preoccupied. "My, is this the same dwarf that was so hostile in the tower? They're are all the same, pleasant only if you happen to save them."

Dwali grimaced momentarily, but managed to hold his tongue. "I did not march over here to argue about which of our races is most stubborn and ignorant of the other. We have a long road ahead of us, and cannot afford to have primitive clan rivalries splitting us apart!" He spoke forcefully and with conviction, as if giving a rallying speech to a broken nation.

Morgoroth's eyes softened. "I never liked dwarves, especially those that saw elves in the same light. But you are right. I wish for no alliegence, with you or Bror. But you and your companion have proven that you have honor -- and there will be no further war between us." And Dwali had never felt so elated in his life.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash fell against the cliff-face and tried not to look at the terrible fiery mountain that dominated this dark land. Even at this distance the light of its anger lit the sides of the mountains and he even fancied he could feel the heat of it upon his tired brow. Beyond the dark mass of Mount Doom, upon the very edge of sight, lay the thick bank of clouds that forever obscured the Dark Tower, but Grash knew it was there. Once, when he had first been brought to this place from the south, he had been through the gates of that Tower, and though his sojourn there had been brief, the memory of it left a cold thrill of terror upon him still. He closed his own eyes as he felt the beating presence of the One Eye upon the land. His entire life had been dominated by the gaze of the Dark Lord, and there were times when he thought almost that he could see it: lidless and burning, its pupil a black pit into nothingness. But there was something about the presence of that Eye that was different now. Grash could not quite understand or believe it, but the gaze of the Dark Lord felt almost…bekrash…thwarted. He shook his head, uncomprehending.

When he once more had the strength to look about him at his companions his heart fell. Dorim lay dead, and Brór, though recovering, was clearly still suffering the ill effects of his trials. Darash bled from her arm, and Aldor’s face was beginning to become ashen, as though he were suffering from a prolonged illness. Of the rest there were no major injuries, but they were all of them exhausted and shaky with fear and hunger.

Hunger – at the thought of it, Grash’s stomach rumbled and his head went light. The steady rock of the mountain beneath his feet swirled and he stumbled, and would have fallen had not the Dwarf Dwali been nearby to catch him. Grash tried to smile and thank him, but the stout Dwarf merely shook off his action with a rough nod. “’Tis nothing, lad. You need rest, after what you’ve been through. I’m glad to be out of that place, though it looks likely we won’t be getting much further.”

Grash nodded, but did not reply. He did not have the energy yet to explain that there was another way – another, more dangerous way. He was not sure how the others would react to his explanation of the other road after having been led into Shelob’s Lair. At the time of their escape, the monster’s tunnel had seemed the better option, for he had thought that while some would not escape, most would. On the other road, they would either all escape or none would – he would have to share in the fate of the entire company. Before Shelob’s tunnel, such a path had seemed the height of danger, but he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had been wrong…

His eyes fell upon Dorim and it occurred to him that had he not made the decision to try the tunnel first, the Dwarf might still be alive. He did not feel guilt or shame, but the realisation that he had played a part in the death of another left him chilled in a manner that he was unused to. Moved by some instinct for which he had no name, Grash knelt at the side of the Dwarf and touched him lightly upon the chest. A language, long forgotten, spoke through his lips. “Ataro ato nwatalú,” he said quietly. “Kwanze.” He had heard the woman who cared for him after the death of his mother say these words once, over the body of another slave, but he did not know what they meant. Scraping up what small handful of dust and dirt was available he scattered it over the body.

Brór and Dwali looked on at this wordlessly and when he stood they seemed to regard him in a new light. Suddenly embarrassed, Grash turned away from the Dwarves and found himself confronted with Darash. She loomed above him, standing as close as she was, and so powerfully aware of her presence was he, that Grash noted the strong smell of her: sweat and exertion radiated from her body, but it was not unpleasant. There was the smell of strength upon her, and a regal air that awoke something long dormant in his spirit. She held up her hand and in it was a piece of bread. She offered it to him. Grash took it and gobbled it down eagerly, then ducked his head to the woman, thanking her for it. She nodded back to him curtly, then said. “Now, man, what do?”

Grash looked about guiltily, as though the woman had been reading his innermost thoughts, and looking at her now, it did not seem impossible that she could. He shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Not sure, maybe. Perhaps there is another way out of Mordor. We shall see.” The woman looked at him as though she would pursue the matter, but she let it drop, for now. Grash pointed to one of the food sacks. “Meat?” He thought he had seen something that looked like dried flesh in it. Darash nodded and together then went to the sack and opened it. This drew the attention of several of the others, who pressed in about them, and Grash was kept busy passing out the flesh. They sat like that in silence for a time, tearing at the tough meat and trying to choke it down despite its clearly rancid flavour. It was Aldor who broke the silence.

“Where are you from, originally I mean, Grash?”

The question shocked the slave, for he had never thought of himself as coming from anywhere. He pointed away to the south. “From the slave fields. Grew grain for orcs and evil men. It was warm there, warm and wet not like this place.”

“Here, how?” Darash asked, and once more she looked at him as though she would pierce his secrets.

Grash shrugged. “Killed an orc. Orc was hurting woman slave. I killed orc with pratak.”

“Pratak?” Aldor asked.

Grash searched in his mind for the right word in the Common Tongue but could not find it. Standing he undertook an elaborate and, had he known it, faintly ridiculous mime of a man at work in the fields. Those gathered about watched on in amused fascination. “Ah!” Zuromor cried, “a hoe. You mean a hoe.”

Grash nodded. “Yes, yes. Hoe. I killed orc with hoe.” He had no idea if Darash understood his words but she smiled at the idea of the slain orc in a way that was most unsettling.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor stood, looking out towards Mount Doom. It's features shook him to the bone. It was terrifying, but exciting somehow. Shaking out of his reverie he saw the dwarves mourning over their comrade. "He fought bravely and I shall never forget him." He knelt down and prayed that if there were any Gods above that they would watch over him.

He did not know where they would go next but idle conversation seemed to raise everyone's morale. He had learned Grash's tale, but he was curious as to how everyone arrived. But one being entered his mind quickly and he could not remove her beautiful features from his mind.

"Raeis, how did you and your friend get here?" As he said the word friend he motioned to the other Elf.