Land of Darkness RPG

[alaklondewen]

"Enough! Our personal problems aside, we need to move on. Let's pack up our things and prepared to leave this accursed land."

Yes. Lyshka agreed. The Dwarf men had their says; now it was time for them to follow Grash again. Whether Grash was trustworthy, the woman knew not, but he had seen the green land and knew the way. Lyshka closed her eyes momentarily and tried to remember the southern plains where her family lived. Faces filled her mind…large, laughing men. Evil laughter came from their wide mouths, and their slanted eyes glared at her. She tried to push them away, but she was too weak. Their faces were all she could see.

Opening her eyes, Lyshka glanced around the makeshift camp and quickly rose. Her limbs felt heavy and her back ached. Having refused to sleep during the night, her body worked against her. She raised her long arms above her head and stretched before she bent to gather the few supplies she and Darash kept to themselves. Her general movement inspired a few of the others to follow her suit.

Soon, the motley group, though grumbling, were packed and began their careful decent from the safety of the small cliff. A few loose stones along the rock wall’s surface caught Lyshka’s eye, and she knelt to gather three smooth stones that she placed in the pocket of her vest. Their weight pulled at her clothing, but she readjusted her belt and stepped back into pace with the others, moving quickly to match the stride of Darash.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Throughout the night the company worked its way along the narrow path that lead downward once more into Mordor. They headed more or less south, with the blank wall of the cliff face to their right and an appalling drop into blackness at their left. At times the path was no more than a thin ledge, and they would creep along it with their backs pressed against the stone of the mountains. It was an arduous journey and it took them many hours to cover the few miles to the Morgul Vale.

Grash could not keep the strange events of the previous evening from his mind. The mood of the company had gone through some kind of fundamental shift, the full nature of which eluded him. He was beginning to realise that life and freedom were more complicated than he had perhaps guessed. His life, brutal though it was, had been easy. There was never any doubt of what to do, or whom to hate. He had known with the certainty of despair that none could be trusted but himself, that faith in others was foolish and friendship a dangerous dream. And yet he had seen people forge unions this night – some stable, others not so much – and he had been offered an odd form of friendship himself. His hand went once more to the blade that Darash had given him, and he fingered the hilt thoughtfully. He wondered if she too, somewhere in the dark behind him, was toying with the dagger that he had exchanged for hers in token of acceptance and alliance.

Of all the strangest chances of this night, it seemed that he had been accepted as the company’s guide, perhaps – in their own motley fashion – as their leader. Grash’s callow mind was unable to follow fully the ominous subtleties of his position, but he knew instinctively that such leadership, based as it was on convenience and practicality, was dangerously temporary. Were he to fail them once more, he could all too easily be dismissed by the company.

As the sky in the east began to lighten they came finally to the bottom of the path and found themselves on the road from the Tower. To their left it rose up and up, back to their prison where it lay hidden behind the shoulders of the mountains. To their right, the road went slowly down for a few hundred feet and joined the Morgul Road. Even looking upon that path caused Grash’s skin to crawl, but there was no other way. The company creeped along the edge of the road, pressing themselves into the shadows on its western side as though willing themselves into invisibility. Grash could feel the distant pressure of the Eye upon the land about him, as though the Dark Lord were watching the Morgul Vale for something. He pushed that thought from his mind.


They achieved the crossroad and paused. The road to Mount Doom and , beyond it, Barad Dur, crossed the Morgai here and disappeared into the early morning darkness. They turned from that sight and looked instead upon an equally terrible one. The road rose slowly into the Vale, headed for the high pass that led down to the Dead City and, beyond it, to the West. There came from the Vale a chill wind carrying with it the smell of dead things, and the feel of it upon their cheeks sent trembles of terror along all their limbs. There was some murmuring and shuffling from some members of the company, and Grash feared that some might argue to turn back or aside to find another path, but no-one spoke. Grash turned to them.

“Follow road. Follow road to highest point, there, at peak of valley, between dark mountains. Then, take small path to the south. Up up up we go, high up to top of mountain on that side, then down again.” He paused, considering, then rushed ahead once more. “But first, must pass Dark Lord’s Stones.”

“What?” It was Aldor who spoke first. “What do you mean the ‘Dark Lord’s Stones’?”

Grash pointed into the inky darkness and their eyes followed his hand up the road. Not far along the road, standing upon either side of it, were two large, featureless stones, carved into smoothly rounded columns that rose no more than twice the height of a man. That stood upon each side of the road, like gateposts, and yet now that the company looked upon them, their blood ran chill. In ages past they had been set there by the Men of Gondor, as a ward and warning to the forces of Mordor not to stray upon the road and thence to Minas Ithil, as the Dead City had once been called. But when the city had been taken by the Nine and the road brought under the dominion of Sauron, the stones had been twisted and subjected to his will. Using the power of the One, Sauron had set upon the stones the memory of his own will, and all who passed between them felt that. For all the armies and spies and slaves whom the Dark Lord sent forth from his land, the stones were a last reminder of their servitude, and it set upon them the imprint of their Master.

The company looked upon the stones with loathing, but there was no other way. Pulling their courage about them, they moved onto the Morgul Road and advanced.

[CaptainofDespair]

The Elf watched from his secluded segment within the ragtag company, as Grash had pointed to the pillars which stood as a last testament to the Dark Lord’s Will. They were ancient, former guardians of Minas Ithil, and now they had become twisted by the arcane forces that Sauron commanded. They were monuments now, to his power over the orcs, who were but poorly crafted mimics of the Elves of Eldar Days. They had weak minds, the orcs, and were easily driven to the master’s orders, and whether or not their tortured husks craved to wage war under the command of the Eye or not, they were forced on, by the beating drums and driving whips of the Uruks. And now, the Elf himself had come before these columns of dread and despair, and he gazed into their surface, feeling the warning they once held, and the dire power they now contained. The darkness, and cruelty, of the Eye emanated from within them now, and the Elf readied his mind for a war of willpower, one that might prove fatal, in both physical realm, and the plane of thought in which his own grand schemes resided.

Watching the man Grash begin to move towards them, he could already sense the deepening reverberations from the tremors that stormed forth from the pillars, as a new, seemingly fresh soul made its way within their grasp. They began to hum steadily, but the tortuous noise was inaudible to all but the most acute of ears. Knowing the power of Sauron of old, the Immortal knew this would be a trial like any other he had faced. Even the stinging fangs and sharpened claws of Shelob would pale in comparison with the Dark Lord’s Will, for he was the ultimate power within this blackened, scorched land. Without hesitation, Morgoroth strode silently towards the ominous pillars, calm and relaxed, and ready for the onslaught he was to face, alone, within the deepest, most hidden recesses of his dark, calculating mind.

His light foot steps kicked up little of the ashen dust as he moved towards the pillars, and he breathed little, so as to delay the shock that would course through the very veins of his body, in that instant he would cross into the Dark Lord’s astral realm, where he would tempt those not under his control, and imprint his will on those he commanded. Time itself seemed to halt when he made his way into the fold, where the pillars stood, as mechanisms of maintaining the will over the subjects in Mordor. The very crags of the Elf’s mind, where the carefully prepared thoughts that would assail Sauron’s will, went silent. Not a single grain of thought spoke to the Elf, and he was truly alone for the first time. And then, a great echoing voice spoke into his mind. The Will of Sauron now spoke to him, tempting him. “You dare to flee the realm of your Lord and Master, child? It is futile, for none can,” came a hissing, wrath-filled voice. “Ah, you come at last Sauron. I had feared you would disappoint me,” replied the haughty, streamlined inner voice of the Elf. His mind went quiet, and for a moment it seemed as if the trial was over. But soon, a hideous cackling began to build up, one filled with an anger and hatred, that had collected over many an age. And the voice spoke again. “You have no power here paltry Elf. Your immortality and heritage cannot save you, and nor can those you might consider allies. There are none who can contest with the Will of Sauron,” boomed the mighty, and ageless voice. “Ha! I may not have power here, there you are right. But you are wrong in the assumption that your power will go uncontested. I seem to recall the Last Alliance, for it was they who overthrew you, even with the power of your Ring,” sneered the Immortal. No reply verbal reply came from the void that had now filled ever crag of the Elf’s tortured and dark mind. Instead, a great wrath could be felt, building up, for it sent tremors of immeasurable power and distress through the Elf. And now, the voice returned, but this time, the image of the Great Eye came as well, not the mere void of dark emptiness. Pain and despair prevailed now, the Elf felt his will diminish before the onslaught that came. And within the well of the Eye, came an image, a scene from the Last Alliance. Morgoroth peered into this, wondering what new devilry Sauron was concocting. As he examined closer, he spied the face of his own father, who was slain in that final battle with Sauron. “So, you must resort to the persistence of memory to destroy me eh? You are weaker than I thought Sauron,” the Elf bluntly stated. Now Sauron was filled with spite and anger, for he tolerated not the use of his name. “You miss my point Elf, as all your kind have. You see, your kind gave their lives to destroy me, but yet, here I am. I have survived, where many have not. There are none who can defeat me, for my power is inconquerable!” The voice of the Dark Lord cackled in a most menacing way. The Elf began to feel weaker than before, even more so than he had physically felt when imprisoned in Cirith Ungol and Cirith Gorgor. But he retreated not, for his doom would be sealed should he perform that final act. “You may smite my heart with the lost emotion I once felt, but you will not break my mind!” the Elf retaliated. On those words, the Dark Lord’s voice grew, invading not only the mind of the Elf, but his very soul, seeking to break his will, and corrupt his heart. But Morgoroth resisted, and he summoned forth all the remnants of his shattered mind, and he came in a great wave, crashing down upon Sauron’s manifested void. “You Sauron, are weak! From what I have seen of your so called glory, you wield terror and fear alone, and those are easily overcome. You may have power within Mordor, but I am the lord of my own heart and mind, and you no longer hold sway here. Begone, or suffer my divine retribution! From these hallowed, and wrath filled statements, the Dark Lord reeled back in great pain, as is he had been struck physically. In great haste, the void Sauron had woven around him, collapsed into a frail, delicate facade, and he fled from the Elf’s mind, defeated.

With his mind clear of the Dark Lord, the Elf returned to the realm of the physical. His mind now saw clearly, without the fog that had once clouded his perception. He finally left the limits of the stones, refreshed, with the Fire of Life now burning hot within him. He pivoted on his right heel, and spun round, to glance at his comrades, who were just preparing to enter the tortuous realm which he had now passed. “Good luck, my comrades in arms, for you will need it,” he murmured to himself. “Your trial will soon begin...” his voiced trailed off, into the bleak heavens of Mordor.

[Himaran]

As the somber party neared the looming forms of Sauron's stones, Dwali felt little change in the state of his mental being. Unlike the elf next to him, no voice forced its deceitful words upon him. The Dark Lord was far more cunning than that, and he had chosen a far more effective manner with which to turn him astray. The dwarf looked over at Morgoroth, who was sweating and struggling. [I]What's his problem? Scared? He continued staring for several moments, eventually reaching the conclusion that his previous guess was acurate.

The dwarf's thoughts, however, soon turned from interest to scorn. [i]Elves -- they are rather stern and commanding around those less esteemed than they, but seem to have trouble when it comes to walking by to old stones.[i] Then he caught himself, momentarily realizing his follow. Morgoroth had fought bravely in the tunnels, and had saved Bror's life. Then the darkness returned. [i]Bror! That turncoat, questioning Grash and forming pacts with the elves. The dwarves have to hang together... but he wants friendship with those that would care little if we toppled over and died in this forsaken land. Curse him![i]

"Curse them all!"

The words exploded from his parched mouth, ringing through the silent landscape. But the entire company seemed to be struggling with their own inner demons, and none seemed to even notice the outburst. Then Dwali moved away from the stones, and the spell was lifted; leaving behind a mark that would not easily disappear.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

The stones of the Dark Lord loomed ahead. Their gaze was like that of a serpents, cold as ice and as piercing as a dagger. It hit the heart fast and left a cold numb feeling in the soul. The hair on the back of Zuromor's neck stood on end and he felt as though he was being watched, by something.....odd. Zuromor stopped and looked at these large works of stone. Something stirred in him, and he felt his head grow light and his mind fogged over. He felt as though lost and could not feel anything around him.

In his haze he heard a dark, hissing voice speak to him. Do you know me? I know you. I know everything you hold in your mind. Tell me, where are you going? You can not escape. He will bring you to me. Can't you see? He hates you. He cannot be trusted. Didn't he call you a barbarian? Yes, he did. You must kill him and insure your safety. No you're lying.....Sauron. I know that evil lurks in these parts, and it shall not sway me. The dwarf may not like his present company but he likes you even less. He would never take us back to you. You would lock him away just as you would us. Stay out of my mind, foul beast.

Oh, come now. You are more intelligent than most, aren't you. But I did not lie entirely. I assure you, one of these....creatures will return you. Do you know who? Why not kill them all? Except of course the one you love. Surely the two of you could have a happy life....if only the elf-man would not stand in your way. He does not and none shall betray us. Leave Sauron. Go back to your keep and stay there. Or take shape once more a fight me. You're not a coward are you?

Fool! Feel what resistance brings upon you! Zuromor head felt as if it would burst, and he fell to his knees holding his head. My minions will destroy you and capture the rest. They will have pleasure in making your friends suffer! Perhaps they will torture her before your very eyes before they slay you! Zuromor's head was forced to face Raeis. His eyes were forced open, and he saw her in all her beauty. He would not let them hurt her. He would find this betrayer, if there was one. And he would slay him. He would save her. The pain went away and his head righted itself, but the sudden change was overwhelming to the man's simple mind and he fainted at her feet.

[Novnarwen]

"Rhând . ." A whispering sound made him wake up. He looked around. Ever since the dream of his, when the company had rested, he couldn't stop thinking about it. It had been like a vision, a vision showing the true path of the future. Nevertheless, he could not make himself believe that it was a vision at all. Now, hearing a voice speaking his real name, he shuddered. Looking around once more, he saw the others being completely in their own thoughts. Had it been one of them? How could they know that he wasn’t named Aldor? Had he talked in his sleep, just earlier? Surprised, and scared, he tried to hide the sudden fear that arose inside of him.

"Are you surprised I know your name; your true name?" Suddenly, the Haradrim realised that it was probably no one from the company. It was the gentlest voice he had ever heard, and it was coming from an unknown source. Standing quietly for a moment, listening attentively, he realised that it probably wasn't him only, who heard voices. The others, too, seemed to be in some kind of a trance, fighting an inner force, as they all looked rather pale and an uncertainty seemed to be bothering them.

"I know you. I know who you are, where you come from, what you have done, what you have been through and now what goal you struggle to achieve." Rhând could do nothing but walk quietly along the path, pretending that nothing was happening. What was this? Was it Him, communicating with him? Shaking his head, trying to gather his thoughts, thinking about his dream, he heard the gentle voice again: "I know what you dreamt. Give them to me, all of them, and you will be amongst the faithfuls . . ."

And you will be amongst the faithfuls . . Rhând thought to himself, still not realising what this meant.

"Faithful . . ." he repeated silently. A sudden feeling of bewilderment made him shake with joy!

This approval was a victory to him. It was clear now; he could return to Him, and he would again be His servant. It was the most facinating feeling that he had ever felt. It was like a mild summer breeze, touching his face, filling him with excitement. It was like the sun, shining only upon him. It was the feeling of being approved, the feeling of being accepted and the feeling of being Rhând and not Aldor; all at the same time. He breathed heavily, taking in the air of the Dark Land. It hit him that he was so close to achieving his goal now. It was only a matter of time, before he was free and back to Him again. Yes, tonight, when everyone is asleep . . he thought, walking slowly after one of the dwarves. He thought of the suverah, knowing that if he were to succeed, he would have to have some kind of a plan. First, he thought, smiling, I will have to ask Grash about the exact route, which he is planning to take. He swallowed as he reproached himself for falling asleep, when they had discussed this matter. Then, tonight, I will use the suverah. I will have to make sure no one is able to wake up before dawn. Yes, I think I can make it, run from this scum, find one who serves Him, tell him about the prisoners and run back.

Agreeing with himself, that this would have to be the plan, he grinned with satisfaction.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Stones did not scare Jeren. Or, they had never scared him before. Rocks never brought forth fear or terror. Inanimate objects, no matter how tall or looming, did not harbor horror or doubt. What could be so different about the two columns rising before him? Did they see things from invisible eyes? Perhaps they heard things through ears that no one else could fathom. Maybe the rock and stone could feel in a way no human could imagine. It did not frighten Jeren. Only the past haunted the aimless Southron. But then, he had not yet passed through the entryway the pillars created. Jeren’s steps were not taken tentatively, his eyes did not falter and hesitate downward to his own feet as he saw others do.

At least, not until he had taken that one step through the gateway.

Suddenly Jeren’s head ached, dull and distant, but present all the same. The ache did not feel painful, more of a gentle reminder of where he stood and where his feet had begun to tread. Jeren ran his calloused, deeply tanned hands through his tousled brown curls. He let short and dirt-caked nails dig into his scalp, longing to be rid of the thumping within his mind. The Southron hoped that the feeling would soon pass, but he found that the roaming ache was only a small matter before what was to come.

I can see what is in your heart. I can see what no one else can see.

Jeren whipped his head around, and he heard a crack as he turned his neck one degree too many. Wincing, the Southron let his feet fumble along the trail as he returned his focus on the way ahead. Jeren quickly gave up his search for the voice, consoling himself and thinking that it was only one of his reluctant companions.

No. You cannot see me. But if you wish, you can hear me. Hear my words…

The voice again! Jeren masked the look of sudden terror in his face, not wanting anyone to see the fear in his eyes.

You can hide those feelings from them, but not from me. I know what you want, I know what you fear, I know what your heart says and your mind rejects.

The voice sounded silky…smooth and oily. It felt like grease lying dormant, maliciously covering some desired drink of water. Jeren had heard and spoken with men whose voices held this spiteful cover-up. Somehow the depth of the words far surpassed any human’s tenor or bass vocals. The brevity and concise manner of the words struck deep within Jeren’s heart, though his mind indeed rejected every syllable. Jeren wondered if anyone else could hear…

Only you can hear my words, Jeren. These words were meant for you. I speak warning, against your leader and the others of your company. Turn back now! Leave them. They are not to be trusted. Not the Elves, nor the Dwarves…not even your fellow Humans. Leave them far behind. They don’t know you!

It was true and Jeren knew it. None of his companions knew Jeren. They did not know what he had done, the reason why he had been captive. They did not know…

They do not know about your past, Jeren. Those you supervised called you a deserter; those who were your supervisors called you a traitor. They do not know of your failure in battle, the loss of that battle, and the slaughter of those you led. If they did, what would they say? They would not understand. You are better off on your own, anyway. Stay with these fools, and one of them will betray you. One of your own will leave you to the minions of this land. Turn away, and perhaps you might make it out alive.

"I would rather perish at the sting of another Man's sword than at the bite of your heartless, mindless minions," Jeren murmured aloud, not quite caring if any could hear his words. At Jeren's mumbling, the dull ache in his head intensified for just a moment, bringing nearly unbearable pain to his forehead. When the sting left him, Jeren could hear a distant cackle.

You will perish, one way or another.

[Himaran]

Not even the horde of orcs swarming around (and occasionally overtop) the young dwarf could outnumber the thoughts rushing through Dwali's brain. Just moments earlier, the company had been headed straight towards the mountain path. Now they were scattered, lost in a raging sea of enemy. Would their disguises hold? The orc armor might not conceal the elves or men, who had completely different builds. And of what of the passage that was rapidly passing out of sight? Perhaps this was how it would all end.

Such thoughts were becoming increasingly unimportant, however, as the fugitives were forced to join the orc army's steady march. Dwali found himself next to a captain, if that was the brute's actual title. "Keep it moving, you maggots," he roared. "We march for the gate." Snarling an unintelligible phrase in a crude orcish tongue, he savagely turned on a straggler with his whip. The violent display ultimately kept the dwarf's stout legs moving, but exhaustion was slowly setting in.

The chain of orcs kept moving, darkening the already blackened earth. Dwali had lost any sense of time or distance. Collapse was imminent, as was presumed death (in his mind, at least). And topple he did, right off the edge of the wide path and into a tiny crater; one that neatly hid his prostrate form from the millions of unfriendly eyes passing by above him. The dwarf had slowly moved towards the edge of the column and, when his last reserves of energy were gone, had fallen into a relatively concealed positon.

But Dwali had little time to reflect on his good fortune, for after reviving from unconciousness several hours later, he was still hopelessly lost. And the orc army continued by, an endless yet unnatural cycle.

[Novnarwen]

He was thinking about his latest conversation with Grash, as it was quite obvious that Grash was suspicious towards Rhând and his behaviour, and he would be lying if he denied the fact that he had grown fairly annoyed about this. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him. What if everything would be ruined because of some twit named Grash? It was if he had already failed. He had been overly convinced that he would manage to get out and away from these prisoners alive, and to thereafter return to his master, but if he was taken for a liar by the other prisoners, his plan would be ruined.

It was an odd feeling that made the him wake up from the troubled thoughts that lingered in the Haradrim's head. Being disturbed by a one of the prisoners nudging him, he looked up. Who dared disturb him, when he was thinking of serious matters? He wanted to yell it out. It was too much. All of this, it was too much. Why couldn't he just return to his Lord? Why was it so difficult? Not at all aware of the transition; first being a part of a small company of prisoners, and now being surrounded by Orcs, he nudged back.

"What do you think you're doing, you filthy little piece of dirt!"

Suddenly, just before his very eyes, the escaped prisoner had turned into an Orc, who had drawn his gigantic blade. Wondering about what sick little trick this was, he looked desperately into every direction; searching for a familiar face. "I'm talking to you!" This rough voice seemed to attract some of the other orcs too, who all looked at him as if hungry. Rhând, who realised that he would be dead within seconds if he didn't say something, opened his mouth to speak. "I thought I saw something," he said quietly, thinking as he went on. "Do you not smell it?" He used the common tongue, as he knew that Orcs spoke it well and usually used it when talking to each other, as they had different accents depending on where they had their origins.

"Smell what?"

Being very careful about his manner of speaking, he tried formulating his speech in his head. Orcs cannot be trusted with this. I will have to wait for another opportunity to get away. All I can do now, is save myself, he thought, standing completely still. Seeing that the Orcs surrounding him were getting inpatient, he got a grip of himself, hoping that orcs were as stupid as the dwarves.

"There are strangers here. There are Enemies of the One. There are three small ones, I think... Ahhh," he said and sighed: "Yes, three. The smell of poison in this very air… Do you wish to breathe in such air?" he asked. The orcs broke into a rough laughter, all of them being bewildered by what Rhând told them. He didn't quite understand, however, and looked questioningly at them under his helmet.

"Are you saying there will be fresh flesh tonight?" It came from one of the biggest orcs, who was standing beside the one Rhând had nudged.

"Not only fresh flesh. Would you like to taste the flesh of a firstborn, maybe?" Rhând asked, giggling. He knew that he had them, all of them. It was only a matter of time before he would suggest that they were to split up and go looking for these strangers. It would all be perfect; he would escape from the Orcs, and the dwarves and the elves would be in great danger. Perhaps he would finally get even on Morogoth.

"What?!" The leader of the little band of orcs jumped forwards. "Firstborn flesh?!"

"Or elves, if you prefer" Rhând hissed.

Again all of them broke into a hysteric laughter. "You have an odd way with words, little Miss!" one of the orcs said, and the laughter returned.

The Haradrim, who was anxious to get away before being caught, started to doubt whether this was possible after all. They were too many. In fact, as he looked around, there were Orcs everywhere. Not knowing what to do, but being absolutely certain that he would have to do something, he tried once more.

"Shut up! I want some meat, you want some meat; we all want some meat! Let split up and find them, take them, torture them and eat them before it's too late; before they are gone!" Growing red with anger and helplessness, Rhând glanced at them.

"Let's find them. None are to take the tiniest bit of ‘em before everyone is gathered. I think it would be fun to play a game first, before they die."

Rhând sighed with relief.

"You!" The orc, who seemed to have a higher rank than the others, turned his gaze to Rhând, as the others were about to run into different directions looking for the enemies of the One. "You! Never tell me to shut up again! If you have lied about this, I will kill you myself. Never promise a hungry Orc fresh meat. Now, go!!"

He ran as fast as he could, not knowing what to do next.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash was swept up in the sway and grunt of the dark army, caught by the stench and heat of orc bodies pressed beyond the endurance of mortals to fulfill their captains’ commands. The torchlight glared in his eyes and swirled oily smoke at him. Grash coughed and reeled in the press, clutching for some familiar hand or support, but he was alone in a sea of enemies. That was the most dangerous time for him, for he was surprised and unthinking, wavering with shock and terror. A sudden blow from behind sent him flailing to one side, and a rough voice roared at him in the Black Speech to be more careful. A hairy hand with ragged yellowing claws seized his shoulder and spun him about. Grash just had the presence of mind to duck his head and pull his hood over his eyes. He could not see the face of the orc but he could feel the creature’s foul breath upon his face. “Watch where you’re going, maggot, or I’ll lick your heels with a whip!”

Grash had spent his life taking such abuse from these creatures and knew well how to deal with it. He shuffled as though cowed, and casting his voice into the rough register of an orc replied, “We’ve been marching for days, and I’m tired. Still, what the Eye demands we must give it, mustn’t we? Always the poor orcs are the ones as must pad it all out, while the captains and the higher ups get to wing it to the Gate. I’ll make it there, and be in time to skin a few rebels before you ever arrive!” He followed this with an ugly laugh. The orc slapped him on the back hard, in approval, and moved off.

The movement of the army was carrying Grash in the wrong direction, so he began trying to work his way back toward the path. He could not head there directly, for that would have been to march in the wrong direction, but by slowing his pace and slipping between the hulking forms of the orcs, he was able to make slow progress. The sky was lightening more and more as he went, and soon the protective cloak of night would be gone. He could pass for an orc in the dark, but in the dawn – even such as only came here – he was sure he could be found out.

He was nearing the beginning of the path, when a feeling of chilling terror came over him. His heart seized and he felt his breath come up short as he stumbled against the wall of the ravine. There was a pounding in his head like the beating of vast wings, and there came through it a cry of such malice and horror that for a time his mind and eyes went blind. Grash felt the army about him shudder as the flesh will at the touch of something dark and unknown, and without looking up he knew that one of the Dark Lord’s screechers had come upon his winged mount. There was a blast of foul air as the great beast passed over head, and the ravine echoed with the croak of the monster. Grash cowered against the wall, waiting for the Nazgûl to leave, but the blast of the beast’s wings grew and there was a murmur of dismay from the army. Grash looked about and watched as the vast form of the beast settled onto the ground in the midst of the army, which parted like insects fleeing a predator to allow it passage. A towering, nightmare form detached itself from the beast and moved forward toward a small group of orcs who moved forward to speak with their captain.

Grash was turning to go, when he caught sight of a pale and terrified face upon the fringes of the crowd. It was the Man, Jordo. He was locked in position, unable to look away from the Nazgûl lord, and in his abject fascination, he had allowed his cloak to slip away from his face somewhat, thus revealing him for who and what he was.

For a moment that lasted less than a heartbeat, Grash stood torn between two competing desires. The path to freedom lay an easy dash behind him. The coming of the Nazgûl had drawn the army’s attention and he could easily make it to the path unobserved. But before him was Jordo; it was only by the slimmest of luck that Grash had seen him before the orcs, who were more concerned with avoiding their dread lord, but the terrified youth had only seconds before he would be revealed. When he did act, it was without thought, and had he been asked to explain his decision, Grash could not have been able to put it into words. Forsaking the path, he rushed toward Jordo. He reached the youth easily, and putting his arm upon his shoulder sought to turn him about and bring him away, but at his touch the Man cried out and spun as though struck. Grash hushed him quickly, but at the same moment he felt a cold wave come over him and without looking he knew that the Nazgûl had noticed them both, and pierced their disguises.

Grash seized Jordo’s arm and whispered to him desperately. “No speaking. Be quiet. I talk with Screecher. You must pretend to be slave. Do not look at it!” They felt the presence of the Nazgûl come upon them like a bad dream, and Grash turned to face it. The cloaked figure loomed over them, filling them with dread and loathing of their very lives, but steeling himself Grash advanced to meet it. When he got to within an arm’s length of the form he fell to the ground and prostrated himself before it, crying out in the Black Speech, “Forgive me, forgive me, my Master! We have been slow in coming, do not take us to the Tower! Please, please, let us go on and serve the Lord as we might!” He kept up in this manner, crying as though he were in agony, pleading with the dread captain of the army.

A thin voice that cut like a blade came from within the folds of the cloak. “What are you doing here?” it demanded. “You are not part of my army. Speak now.”

Grash forced himself to look up into the void of darkness where a face should be. He could feel the creature’s formless eyes upon him as he responded. “We were sent to serve the garrison upon the high path. We were sent by the guard at Cirith Ungol. The orcs, they are needed at the Gate, and we are being sent to watch the paths. We will watch them well. We are loyal slaves to the Lord, loyal and good. We will help the orcs. Bring water, cook food." He kept talking, using his words as a mask to shield him from the will of the Nazgul, which he could feel pressing into him like a spear, slowly but surely penetrating his flesh and twitching about in his innards, looknig for the truth. Grash knew better than to pretend to be someone he was not; he could not lie to the Dark Lord's most powerful servants. But he did not have to lie. He had spent his life as a slave of Mordor, and it was as a slave of Mordor that he now spoke. He buried deep within him the new ideas and dreams of freedom, and companionship. He kept away from thy prying, torturing will of the dark one the image he had glimpsed of the tall Man with the star at his brow. Grash kept talking as he had been taught to speak, as the orcs had forced him to speak. He knew the part he was expected to play, knew it so well that it had almost become not a part in the Dark Lord's malicious play, but his own identity. He slipped into the persona of the pathetic slave as though it were a second skin, and he wore it about him, proudly displaying his servility to the Wraith.

The pressure being exerted on his will grew as his listener felt the presence of the areas in Grash's mind that he sought to keep hidden. Rather than fight the Nazgul, Grash gave way even more, filling his mind with the empty babble that now fell from his mouth like vomit. He cringed and squirmed upon the ground, pretending to be the animal-thing that his slavery had almost made him. But through it all he held on to two ideas: two images, really, so carefully concealed in the core of his will that to reach them the Black One would have to break his spirit. This was in its power, easily, but Grash hoped that he could forestall his opponent's interest long enough to survive. The first image he clung to was of the brief glimpse he had received of that far green land, beyond the walls of this country. He held on to the picture of leaves and sun, and felt upon his withered cheeks the gentle caress of a distant wind. The other image surprised him in its clarity and power, but he did not have the time or energy to wonder at it. In his mind's eye he beheld the face and mein of Darash. Her stern eyes and slightly crooked mouth lent him the strength he lacked.

“Enough,” the voice cut through his thoughts like a razor, and Grash felt his innards shrink away. There was a silence as the Nazgûl regarded the slaves before him. They were insignificant worms like all his Lords slaves, and yet there was something about them that had sent a warning into him. But he was distracted by other matters. There were reports about of spies having breached the mountains and descended into Mordor. The garrison of Cirith Ungol had been destroyed. An army marched toward the Black Gate beneath the banner of the West. And, the unthinkable, his own King had fallen before the walls of the Gondorians, brought down by the insulting hand of a woman, and Halfling. The gibbering of the slave upon the ground had grown wearisome to him, and without a word he turned his back upon the sniveling form and moved back to his captains.

Before the orcs could recover from their own terror, Grash sprang to his feet and taking Jordo by the arm, urgently pulled him toward the path. As they reached its beginning there was a clamor of horns and the army began to move onward once more. Grash pushed and pulled the youth up the first flights of the path, hoping that the others had made it through safely.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis felt herself pulled down, a hand wrenching fiercely at her arm, and numbly she fell to her knees in the churned, dusty road of the path, her head bowed. But her eyes remained open, staring at the path, and as the dark prescence moved closer, she froze completely, fists clenched so that her ragged nails dug into her palms, the pain a distraction from the fear that she felt welling up.

Fear.

No.

It was not the voice that Raeis heard in her head: she had not heard it since they had come away from the stones, and she felt the space where it should be like a gaping hole, a space where as dear companion - no, more than that, where a part of herself - had fallen away. Fallen into the shadow of the stones... She jolted as she heard this new prescence. It was not herself, Raeis, who spoke, it was something more. Greater. Some half memory floated up from her past life, a mention of beings greater than any man, greater even than the first born themselves. Fourteen great spirits, powerful and wonderful, and more beautiful in the awe they inspired than Arda itself. The Lords of the West, the Valar, filled Raeis's mind, and they were so beautiful that the very world itself seemed to stop; it was they who had sustained her through the stones, and her eyes filled with tears in gratitude and wonder.

Until a dark shadow fell over her mind.

As the black, cloaked shape of the Nazgul passed in front of Raeis, casting a shadow on both her mind and her crouching body, fear struck the elf once more, and with it there came a powerful, gripping sensation, as if her mind was held in some ice-cold set of talons, dangled by the tail on the claw of a lazy, cruel cat. And the cat wanted to play. She closed her eyes tightly, willing it away. Despite her Haradrim disguise, Raeis felt suddenly naked in the harsh, sere prescence of the Nazgul. Blindly, beyond reason or logic, she flailed inwardly, struggling for an escape, random words and sequences throwing themselves through her mind as if to try to confuse the Nazgul...until it settled on one word.

"Yavanna." Her whisper was barely audible, little more than mouthing the word.

A sudden, terrible hiss emitted from the space above Raeis, like a sharp indraw of breath into long-dry lungs, and the dark shape stopped dead in front of her. Raeis stiffened but did not move. In her mind she held the image which had come with the word, a fair, tall woman, the sun seeming to shine from behind her body, making her glow radiantly and lighting her cascading blonde hair. She smiled gently at the elf in her mind's eye, and her hands spread wide, as if ready to pour forth all many of wonders...

"Nienna; Mandos..."

The vision faded as Raeis whispered the next two words, and two more impossible beings presented themselves: one a male, cloaked and wise, hard, but not unkind, lines set into his face. Around his waist was a thick rope, as on a scribe's habit, and from this hung a keychain, with one giant key. Shadows seemed to move around his body as if there were others near him, just on the edge of sight. Beside him stood a woman, also cloaked, but her hood pulled up over her head, stark against her pale face, wavy lengths of hair falling to her waist from under the hood on either side of her face. Her dark garb and drawn features spoke of a widow in deep mourning, but as Raeis saw her, her lips were lifted into a melancholy smile, as reassuring in it's soft gentleness as Yavanna's bright radiance.

The Nazgul turned from it's path and stalked slowly towards her, but this time Raeis didn't even flinch: the cloaked pair in her mind now moved aside to be replace with a smith, rustic and bearded, a hammer clasped in one giant hand and a metal chain in the other, and a man garbed in fine, rich clothing but whose stern eyes moved like the sea itself. Why it seemed there were even creatures moving in the grey depths... Raeis smiled to herself in a sort of childish simplicity, unaware of all that was around her as she recognised the pair, and named them in a whisper that was now growing in strength. "Aule, and Ulmo..."

From in the depths of his cloak the Nazgul's clawlike fist shot out with lightning quick speed, the great metal gauntlet seizing her throat in it's inescapable grip. Raeis went limp as it wrenched her from her kneeling position until she was a few inches above the ground, held in the asphixiatingly tight deathgrip, the cold void of nothingness staring down at her. Raeis's eyes didn't open, and she stayed completely still - save her lips. Once more they moved as she struggled to speak again, the words springing to her lips as if she was possessed.

"Varda...Elentari..." It was a dry croak but it was enough for the Nazgul to hear, and the image, along with the others, strong and clear enough in her mind to incriminate her. The creaking hiss of the Nazgul and the sliding, silver sound of it unsheathing it's sword was suddenly louder than anything around it: orcs froze, cowering away from it as the hiss rose in a wordless curse. Raeis's companions froze in their tracks. But Raeis did nothing, her rack thin body limp as she opened her one tawny eye to look straight into the soulless void of the creature's eyes as she struggled against the harsh grip to complete the list of the Aratar with the name it would hate the most in an almost silent whisper: the Lord of the Breath of Arda, Master of the Winds and fiercest enemy of Melkor...

"Manwë."

The Nazgul screamed, throwing back it's helmetted head to give a fierce, outraged screech as Raeis felt herself slipping away into unciousness - and felt a pair of hands gripping her ankles.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Amanaduial's post

Raeis glanced up, slightly surprised by the question, but was not able to look far enough up to catch the man’s eyes, her neck bent as it was beneath Morgoroth’s weight. She shrugged without thinking.

“Where will I go…” she repeated the question, slowly, then trailed away. Where? She had always assumed that she would simply go home; indeed, she and Voice had discussed it often, the latter conjuring up from their mind images of a faraway land to keep the elf hopeful. Raeis remembered them, in part: slashes of light which ripped across the darkness of that cell ruthlessly, wielding weapons of peace, warmth…

...dappled sunlight across the forest floor through the canopy of leaves overhead; an elf, crouched in the trees, her golden blue and beautiful, unscarred, unburnt…unmarred face turned outwards across the boughs to the far-off lands to the South where she longed to roam…nearby another sat, leaning precariously across with the ease of one used to agility and balance through these heady perches….a flash of intense light grey eyes, golden hair… Smiling up at her, she turning to him… “Just think, Rae,” he whispered excitedly. “One day…one day we shall travel over those plains, we shall cross the great Anduin, see Ithilien, Gondor, Harad: and you and I shall dance beneath the golden, blessèd branches of Lorien…”

Raeis stumbled on a stone and her good eye flew open – and she was astonished to feel it moist despite the heat around them, a burning, dusty heat so different from the humid calm of that summer forest, conjured from her own memories… She had not revelled in them for a long time, so many timeless days in her cells having passed since she had long since given up hope and the Voice had ceased it’s comforting murmurs of hope and freedom. Jeren took the strain from her as she regained her balance dazedly, still awakening from the vivid dream, and she nodded to him gratefully as she resumed her position: without his help she would have fallen under Morgoroth’s weight.

A kind act…but he cannot keep us company as the Voice did…it could help, could keep us alive in the dark prison-hours… Raeis blinked sharply and looked away physically, as if she could look away from the thoughts. She had lost the voice, had found companions in return, but she worried about the strange truth about her friend and tormentor in the dark: she missed it.

Raeis spoke abruptly, wanting to hear another voice in place of the emptiness of her thoughts, unaware of how alike this reasoning was to Jeren’s. “I…I will return home, I suppose. Mirkwood was…”

Home? You ran from the place that you called home, remember? Ran from your parents, your life, your name… home was not a place to you in that blissful space before your imprisonment, after you left Mirkwood: it was a person. One person. Caromanieth. The one person you can never return to.

The Southrons killed him.

Raeis shot a fierce look across at Jeren and was surprised when he returned it calmly, his eyes utterly emotionless. From inside her mind, Aman saw and understood wordlessly more from that exchange of looks than she maybe could have seen in conversation with this man in his whole lifetime: underneath his cool dark exterior, some bad memory brewed fitfully – some anger to do with the elves, to do with her, as her anger was to do with him. Raeis held his gaze then looked away, at the same time that he did, but a second later couldn’t resist peeking back at him through her shattered eye. The hurt at loss of the Voice seemed to dull a little: it had been wrong about these Men, both Grash, the one who had let her free, Zurumor, who had saved her life…and Jeren, whose thoughts seemed to mirror hers. The tips of Raeis’s ears twitched slightly as she thought she heard something with her keen senses from the way they had come but, lost as she was in thought as she was, and because the others hadn’t shown any sign of hearing it, she ignored it. Shifting Morgoroth’s weight heavily across her shoulders and pulling them both into a more upright position, she plucked up her courage and glanced openly across at the brooding Southron to return his question. “Jeren, home was never exactly a place to me, not once I left: home was encompassed in…in one elf. I left Mirkwood with him, and when I did...I changed, my home changed, my world changed - and then it was brought crashing down around me.” She paused, not looking at Jeren, then continued. “What about you, Jeren: where will you go, now you are free?”

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Bethberry's post for Darash

Darash sat confused and frustrated. After the near-deadly encounter with the bestial orcs--no better than charging, stupid rinombos-rhinoceros--iit had been with a relief amounting to joy that she had first seen Lyshka safe and then spied Grash. The two women had sprung on rejuvenated feet towards him, eagerness lightening their tired faces, ready to tell what they had seen.

Now Darash sat trying to make sense of it. She had run to him and taken his arm, pulling it almost, pointing back to the melee. She had gesticulated wildly almost, running on in her native tongue, describing the struggle and their near-escape, only to be put back under greater assault by Aldor's treachery with the orcs.

"Ahdor. Ahdor. Machumba nuwalla, esumba relege isbatu. Ngeme ebulu," she had told him excitedly. "Dtcekma." It meant carrion bird of prey, vulture, feasting off the dead, without honour of the kill. But Grash had looked at her with strangely glowing eyes. She had taken his arm again, drawing him towards the small bend in the path, so he could look back and perhaps see the traitor in the orcs' midst.

Grash had smiled at her as if humouring her. It was maddening! Darash had never before experienced such failure to be taken seriously. She had turned to Lyshka, pleadingly, her frustration clearly visible in the tight knot of her muscles around her shoulders. Lyshka had nodded yes, but shrugged, as if to say she wasn't sure. Darash had turned back to Grash, the fire of being thwarted and misunderstood shining in her eyes. The man had almost chuckled. He had not looked at her eyes; his own gaze had not met hers and staid there, but wandered off elsewhere. With a snort at this hare who did not recognise the vulture, she had stormed off, exasperated with him who seemed not to listen.

And so she had sat in semi-isolation, her eyes wandering from time to time around the group of her companions who were licking their wounds like animals who had escaped the trap. Lyshka had come over to her, hunched over as if to say "Maybe. I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. It was a blur like the whipping rain." Then Raeis had mouthed the name. The elf understood! The women knew. Why were the men so obtuse? Darash sat there, trying to rest, her eyes closed in the soft afternoon light, aware that Grash was watching her from time to time, but utterly without comprehension.

[CaptainofDespair]

CaptainofDespair's post

The climb through the mountain pass had taken its toll on the Elf. His near execution at the pale blade of the Nazgul, had sapped him of most of the strength he needed. Yet, there was hope, and he clung to it as a child grasps for its mother. The freedom he craved, after seventeen years of desolate captivity, was drawing nigh. As his tense, ridged muscle were forced into near spasmodic contractions just to crawl and hobble their way over the rocks of the High Pass, he thought only one simple phrase, “Just beyond this mountain...” He had muttered this almost incessantly as he climbed. Being only able to use one arm, for the other was still paralyzed by the evil stroke the Nazgul had delivered, which now hindered his mobility, he struggled in his motions, often stumbling, or nearly falling from the Pass. Yet, he continued on...

The ever watchful eyes of the Elf could see more than any of the others around him, and he often gazed into the sky, looking for a sun that had long since been buried by the bleak darkness of the Mordorian sky above. But his wound still harried him, pursuing him as he climbed higher and higher, draining his will to trudge forward, beyond the craggy, jagged facade of the Ephel Duath. When he was not busying himself with keeping his legs on the path, he would drift into a near trance, thinking of the past. His mind was still uneasy from the wound he was suffering the burden of. He had been led out of that dreadful fray, helped along by the Southron, Jeren. He winced at this thought. He had shown weakness, though it was well earned, and it was his right to be weak, but it did not sit well with him. Yet, he hid these thoughts, burying them in the deep abyss of his mind. A new sensation had interrupted this reminiscing, a slight pain. But this was no ordinary pain, not like that of the wound he bore. It was new, and it echoed from within him. At first he tried to cast the thought aside, as a child does to an old and forgotten toy. But it kept returning, and it swarmed about in his veins, giving him a very sickly feeling. Ancient lore was his answer. He was poisoned, by the very foe that had nearly killed him. He had come so very far, hoping to find freedom. But now, he would die of a black poison. As his mind gurgled at this dread thought, he tripped upon a stone, and fell forward. Something deep within his mind stirred then, muttering to him, forcing its voice out from his lips. "The wound is too great. Death will come soon.” The Elf managed to catch himself before anyone heard his foreboding words. Sympathy was not something he desired, and he would not allow others to feel anything for his plight, for that would make him feel all the more weak.

Instead of dwelling upon his new, dreadful thoughts, he decided it best to occupy his time with more pleasant memories. Yet time was his enemy, and the cobwebs that held back many of his earliest, more playful memories, were not easily shaken loose. So, he turned his attention to his most recent, and began to twist the words that came to him to his own devices. Something that the man Jeren had said intrigued him, “Where will you go?”. He drifted, yet was able to maintain control over his body’s jerking motions, just enough to keep him on the path. He began to wonder what he might do, now that his freedom was drawing so close. "To Mirkwood perhaps, to see my mother. Or maybe I shall travel into the West, and explore the lands beyond the haven of Imladris.” He slowed his thought to a trickle, and allowed his inborn pessimism to set in. "The West...Yes, I shall go West, to the Halls of Mandos, for I will not survive this journey into Ithilien.”

The Sun had now risen to its unseen pinnacle, and the company had stumbled upon a clearing in the midst of the vacant, ghostly mountains. Here they would rest until the time was nigh to leave, and head out for the final leg of the journey. Many of the old habits were still alive within the motley group. Initially they settled into mingling amongst their own kind, resting, and chatting a bit, even sharing stories of their pasts, for those who had one to tell of. Even the Elf, who had inadvertently shattered the racial barriers between himself and the dwarves, was not eager to sit alongside his comrades. Instead, he sought out a more secluded region of the clearing, and there he laid down in the grass, to refresh his weary mind, and broken body as much as he could.

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Aylwen's Post

“What about you, Jeren: where will you go, now you are free?”

Jeren thought on this, and at first nothing came to him. It was a question that he did not know the answer to. How many times had this happened to him? Too many for his liking, especially since he had been made prisoner by the power that he had once served. Too many questions had been left unanswered.

Where will I go?

The Southron had never actually thought about where he would go, for he never knew any home other than the one as captain of an army. He was always the leader, and he never needed a home as long as there were loyal soldiers behind him… following and listening to him. He hardly recalled the land his family once roamed, or if family would be there and remember him at all. It had been far too long for him to return to that home. There was nowhere for him to go.

“It hardly matters if I am free, for I have no where to return to. There is no where for me to bask in new-earned freedom,” Jeren finally replied to the question posed by Raeis. His voice remained steady and level, as Jeren refused to show his uncertainty and sorrow at his own words. “The things I have done make me undeserving of such freedom. I have no place to return to and that is how it must be,” The Southron added as an afterthought, the volume of his voice lowered so it came out just above a whisper.

Surely that is how it will be in the end…

“Yes. We rest. But only for two, three hours.” Jeren looked up as Grash began to speak in his usual choppy manner. “Then we must go – the path goes down soon, down to green land. Green land with trees and cool breezes, and waters. Freedom. Freedom at the end of the path.”

Turning back to Raeis, Jeren sighed, letting out all his self-pity in the exhale. What about everyone else? Raeis had hardly answered his question in a manner that satisfied his curiosity. Something about the group, though, and the way they came together in a most unusual way made Jeren hopeful for all of them. “I have certainly learned the value of comfort, on this journey. Not just being comfortable, or not being comfortable…but being able to live and go on and appreciate it anyway. I do not know you very well at all, Raeis, but somehow I know that you will be able to make home encompass one more elf…you will learn to make home within your own heart and strength, and not let it depend on someone else…”

Jeren paused, looking around at the rest of the group for a moment.

“Hopefully we will all be able to do the same. Maybe we will all find home.”

[Himaran]

Dwali awoke like he would have on any other day. The dwarf rolled over on the hard ground, stretched, yawned and rubbed his eyes idly. Perhaps it was a burst from Mount Doom that brought him back to reality, or maybe rows of torches shining before him in the darkness. The army. The company! The mountain passage! Pulling himself out of the ditch, he scrambled on as best he could. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark, and Dwali realized that he must have slept for only a few hours. It was probably close to midnight, and the company might have already made off without him. But wait - they were all dead, so what did it matter? He could stay and rest... and then pangs of hunger pushed him forward, hoping dearly that a friendly face would be waiting at the passage.

The dwarf reckoned that he had travelled over a mile earlier in the day, which left about the same distance before him. He mentally beraided for being so slow to get off the path, but he knew it was foolishness. At least he was alive, more than could be said for some of the company. Memories of Dorim brought a wave of anger over him again. Why does everyone die? My family! My friends! Why not others...

Suddenly, a heavy boot landed on Dwali's back, slamming his face into the dusty ground. An orc had slipped off the edge. Trying to stay calm, the dwarf waiting, hoping that he would pull himself back up. Then deciding that in the darkness no one would notice, he heaved himself backwards. The orc toppled down on top of him. The dwarf's hand siezed his mouth, and the other dispatched the brute with a swift thrust of his dagger.

He waited a few moments, and left the body and crawled on. He knew that by dawn, the corpse would be discovered; but it would probably be attributed to an argument amongst the ranks of the enemy. Hoping that this would be the case, Dwali continued pulling himself along, heading for the mountain passage.

[Novnarwen]

The day grew old as they walked along an unknown path, which hopefully would lead them to the prisoners. When the company at last took a break, after hours with walking, Rhând feel exhausted to the ground. He breathed heavily, ignoring the orcs' wild laughter. He was hungry and thirsty, but did not dare ask for anything. Looking up at the sky, which had already been coloured black by the sun's lack of appearance. A dim moon could be spotted now, but only just, as grey-looking clouds covered it. Rhând wondered if one could ever see the sun in all its splendour in this land, or if it was always hidden behind the heavy grey clouds.

Two of the orcs were sent ahead to see if they were getting close, meanwhile the others rested. The Haradrim sat up, heaving after his breath. He was dead tired, but tried to push it aside, thinking of the reward awaiting him when he would return to his Master.

Rhând's gaze fell on Lurg. The orc looked at him with hungry eyes, and the Haradrim turned away in fear. He'd always heard that these orcs were simple-minded, and ate whatever they could get hold of. The Haradrim knew that his chances of escaping all of this alive were slim. Even though the orcs left him alone now, he had not the faintest idea what they would do after they had found the prisoners. The thought of being eaten by these monsters, made him shiver with fright. They were his allies now, but he doubted they would be in the end. Shrugging, the Haradrim rose slowly. He felt weak and petty where he stood, feeling the stiffness in his body growing.

Not long had passed before he two orcs came trudging towards the company, waving their hands. Grinning wildly, Rhând heard them say to Lurg:

"They are here . .