Land of Darkness RPG

[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.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim's post

As he moved between the stones, Grash was plunged into a howling blindness that left him alone and staggering in the void of the Dark Lord’s malice. It came upon him like a cold wave from the East, rushing through him as though his flesh were but fragile cloth and the terror of Sauron coursed about his naked and shivering bones. He reeled and might have fallen, but his hand in reaching out in desperation came upon the warm flesh of Darash who strode beside him. What she was feeling or thinking he did not know, but unlike every other time that she had been touched, she did not flinch away. Her arm remained impassive and unresponsive in Grash’s trembling hand, but it did not shirk his touch.

He clung to that lone point of human contact like a drowning man, but though his feet moved it was a nightmare in which he made no forward progress. In the distance he heard a low keening wind and time froze. The darkness about him lessened and he felt a tearing force at his back. He did not want to turn. The very thought of coming about to face what he knew was there filled his very spirit with loathing, but he could not prevent his body from slowly turning about until he faced back the way they had come. Through the black shapes of the Morgul Vale he could see clearly outlined in the far distance, as though it had been drawn with diamonds’ points, a single fiery, lidless eye, its pupil a black slit into nothingness. The malice of the Eye assailed Grash like the whips of the orcs that had marshalled him into the world and forced him through its weary ways. It leered at him across the leagues, and even from this distance it felt as though it were peeling away his physical form leaving only his spirit – naked, cold and gibbering upon the harsh stone of the Dark Lord’s throne chamber.

Grash gazed at the Eye, and slowly began to feel himself being drawn forward. It seemed to grow in size and intensity, and slowly, it began to move toward the Vale, as though it were sensing Grash. In an instant he realised that the Eye was becoming aware of Grash’s presence. The stones his sentinels contained within them the memory of their torture by Sauron and they resonated still with his implacable will. Any that tried to pass that way in resistance to the will of their tormentor would cause them to call out to their master across the desert wastes of his realm.

The Eye flickered toward him, but Grash – who had lived his life beneath its gaze – could feel the distraction within it. Something had happened that had disturbed the counsels of the Dark Lord, and his attention was flitting about his land. For a moment in time that was less than a heartbeat, the Eye flashed across Grash and his companions, and in that moment the lifelong slave of the Dark Lord felt the command on his master. All of his servants were being summoned north, to the very mouths of this land, to the Morannon. He caught a fleeting, fragmentary glimpse of the Dark Lord’s own view, and saw vast armies in motion all over the dark land, all of them gathering toward the Gate where the ragtag remnants of the upstart Gondorian King were to be destroyed.

Upon the edge of the vision, Grash caught sight of a lone figure upon a horse. He rode beneath a banner that was black, with seven stars woven upon it circling a crown, and there was a light about him that called to the shattered spirit of the slave. He felt his heart swell at the sight of this unknown man, and for a second he felt almost as though he could hear the call of distant trumpets. But then the Eye was nearly upon him, and there was only a veil of thinnest gossamer between him and It. Grash felt an unwholesome longing come upon him to call out to the Eye, to run forward into its light and reveal himself. But the image of the distant Man came before his gaze once more, and holding onto that vision he was able to wrench his gaze from the East.

With a cry he fell to the ground at Darash’s feet. He was past the Stones.

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Bethberry's post

Something had deranged the various members of the group. Darash could feel muscles hardening in the air, tendons snapping into tightness, rates of breathing either slow or quicken. The odour of fear exuded from bodies as they moved towards these carvings which Grash had called the Dark Lord's Stones. But who was this Dark Lord? She looked over at Grash and would have asked, but she saw that he was in no mood to converse, wrapped up in some strange dream of his own, his hand reaching out and touching her arm. She could not understand what this power was, but she did not repulse the touch of the former slave. Instead, she watched all the others as they went into dream raptures as they confronted these pillars. She did not understand who or what this Dark Lord was, but she sensed abject fear and horror in those around her. Their bodies were almost becoming grass before the wind. She could feel herself melting into passivity.

Then she faced the Stones herself, hearing her called by the name of "Darash" in a sonorous voice, low and melodious but she caught a vague sense of sneering in its patronising plea. She shook from her head the sound and spoke to herself a name none had ever heard her mention, Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re, Kashia Ma'at-Ka-Re. Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re. Grash looked at her for a moment, but she did not think he heard. Especially did He who knew every way to appeal to those whose servitude he wanted not hear, but she did, savouring the click of the consonants. Then she raised her eyes against this man-god who called to her in the name of her pain, Kwenye darasha. She felt a soft cooing go through her, as if an arm were placed around her shoulders relieving her of her responsibility so she could rest.

Come to me and I will show you the way home, I will bring you back to your tribe, I will give them the strength to resist their enemies. In me you will find the weapon to fulfil yourself as warrior.

Kashtia remained silent, listening to his words.

Your silence already shows you have decided for me, the voice continued. Join me and I will raise your people high. I will call upon them to join me here in my victory.

Words teetored on the tip of her tongue, and her cracked lips she held still. He knew not the words of her people but spoke in this tongue that the slaves did here, not the foul speech of the orcs but that of the northern men. She fought against the dream he was placing in her head, for she realised he was trying to grab her story, to write her into his story and bend her to his way, to twist her into a mere handmaiden to power. Kashtia would not relinquish her voice; she refused to speak to this man-god who perverted people's stories to his own narrative. For the first time she began to understand the depravity of these northern men who were slaves even in the open air, and she began to feel compassion for them rather than hauteur or disgust. She understood as she had not previously what were the chains which held Grash even as he was free of the prison. They were not and had never been agents of their own lives.

Aloud she spoke one word, Kontu!, that is to say, "Story". "Herstory", with its warning not to speak to the Trickster man-god. Then, to herself, in her head so none could hear, particularly this Dark Lord, she repeated the old stories of courage and cooperation. Unaenda wapi, nyumbo yetu. Kurro. "Run," she translated, "Run," she said to all near her and began to move her springing feet forward, beyond the stones.

To her side, she suddenly heard Grash call out. He grasped her arm tighter and then rushed with her through the stones. He stumbled, almost falling at her feet, but she grabbed his arm this time and steadied him so he would not fall upon the black earth and bruise himself upon the cruel edges of its rocks. She saw in his eyes he had seen a dream of his own, a frightening dream, but a hope he had never known before in his life. Then she looked away at the road which lay before them.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

As Zuromor walked onward he noticed that he was not the only one to have had such a strange encounter at the stones. Grash had fallen due to what seemed to be nothing at all. But Zuromor knew what had happened. Sauron, the "Dark Lord" himself. Zuromor scoffed at the mere thought of anyone who might call him their Lord. He is a force of evil that would be destroyed.

It was soon after his encounter that Zuromor noticed Grash had finally arisen, he seemed to be the worst off, and began to walk on. As he did Zuromor couldn't help but think, Who is the traitor, if there even is one? He stopped and looked behind him, and he saw everyone trying to recover. Except one. Aldor.

He walked as if nothing had happened. He had a strange smile and he seemed to have a new "air" of confidence. Was it him? Why did he seem to have been revitalized when everyone else was drained and staggering?

[Novnarwen]

He looked up, seeing Zuromor looking at him. Rhând gave a somewhat evil stare, grinned and hurried after Grash. He couldn't think of anything else; the voice that had spoken to him so clearly. It was Him! This task would be his great triumph! Finally, he would be reunited with his Master and return home and all of this would be over.

"Grash," he started, throwing himself at the man's side.

The other prisoner looked up, as if surprised that someone had mentioned his name. Rhând restrained himself for asking about the route at once, as it would be stupid and maybe even it woud make him suspicious. Waiting for a moment, hesitating, wondering whether he should ask someone else instead, he looked gravely into the man's eyes. This was a mistake. Grash would see through him. Looking desperately into another direction, avoiding Grash's piercing look, his eyes fell upon one of the dwarves. They were stupid. They were probably stupid enough to not even question him, or suspect him of anything when asking about the route. On the other hand, Rhând did not know any of the others too well. Approaching them and starting a conversation, just out of the blur, would surely seem odd. Deciding upon asking Grash, he turned his gaze at the newly escaped prisoner again and started over. "Grash . ." Getting his attention, Rhând bit his lip and said rather hurriedly.

"I was asleep when you were talking about the route, and I wondered where exactly we are going." Seeing Grash's face expression when talking, Rhând's voice turned milder and he added. "I'm tired . . and still weak from the poison from the rat bite. Yes, for even though you managed to turn my swollen neck normal again, I can feel that it is still there. Something is making me tired, and ill, I'm afraid. In fact, I do not know how much further I can walk."

Grash nodded, and gave what seemed like a comforting look. "We follow this road, the Morgul Road for a few miles. There is a path, a narrow one. It goes far up, high and into the mountains and far south, above the Morgul city. Then we head down, into a green land." Finishing, he gave a weak smile. Satisfied by this answer and the accomplishment, Rhând, or Aldor as the others knew him by, slowed down his pace. The other man noticed this, and slowed down too.

"You know we talked about route when you were asleep?" Grash asked curiously.

For the first time in a very long while, he found himself unable to answer a question. Remembering that he had fallen asleep, and dreamt that he was approaching the Black Gate, he had awakened after a while to find the others talking about what they were going to do. Not wanting to disturb them at that point, he had just closed his eyes again, but in secret staid awake. However, at the time, he had been too busy interpreting his dream and had therefore not been able to catch a word about what the others were saying. Rhând hesitated. He looked at Grash, frowned and pretended he hadn't heard Grash's question.