Land of Darkness RPG

[Kransha]

Brór was walking unusually slowly. Even though the orcs around him moved in a maelstrom, at an unsteady and uneven pace, drifting back and forth, Brór was not carried by their movement or borne one the host, he simply drifted like a log in water, aimless and going nowhere. He only wished to join the throng, rabid and dark as it might be. He was a part of it, in his opinion, and deserved no more than the company of Mordor scum. As he waded into the orc host, he could not help but be severed from the rest of the escapee party, all separated on the plain and wide road. And, to Brór’s unwholesome dismay, the orcs were not leaderless, but commanded by a Ringwraith, one of the Nine, a seemingly immortal being of darkness and doom. Looking upon the black figure with shadows whirling as tornadoes about him, Bror’s heart fell to the earth and he wished to sink to his knees and tear his mind from his skull, though he did not. His pessimism was so overwhelming that the madness did not take him. He was just one, a brick in the walls of Mordor, not one to be trifled with by Nazgûl mighty. There was a very minor vein of light, a worm of golden sun in his shaded, frozen heart that yearned for freedom and release, but Bror had no reason to grant this wish. Turning his head from the Wraith as it swept over its armies and alighted on the earth, Bror continued on, trying to move through the host…but soon enough, shrill sounds and commotion were the Wraith had landed swayed Brór’s eyes and heart.

Something was happening. The Nazgûl’s cry and dark aura could be heard and seen through the horde of orcs. Many cowered and moved back, forcing Brór away from the happenstance. He cursed his shortness, cursed it with all his power, and eagerly leapt to see the commotion. Some orcs were hurriedly scattering, allowing some bare glances of what lay before the Nazgûl. With horror and pain in him, Bror realized what figure it was with his sword raised towards the Ringwraith. It was Zurumor! A million thoughts, rivers of jolting thunder rippling through him, coursed into his mind in a second and faster. The dwarf knew that this was his companion, his comrade, though he had condemned the man. Brór owed him something, if at all, and that was life. A fatherly instinct took hold when Bror saw Zurumor doing something so foolhardy, but how could he, a dwarf separated from the lad and his attacker, save anyone from anything? He could not charge the wraith. Zurumor would be dead before he came close and he himself would be cut down by orcs…

Then it hit him! It was the orcs who would be his salvation. A distraction! Separate Zurumor from the Nazgûl; cause commotion, distraction, diversion, and plant seeds of chaos in the host. If this did not serve to fully distract the Nazgûl, it would at least serve to inconvenience him for a long enough period. Not thinking, no thought in his emptied head, Brór’s leg unconsciously shot out, right in front of an orc beside him. The orc, walking overly fast through the crowd, tripped and fell face first into the mud below. Growling in anger and dark annoyance, he shot up, drawing some strange looks from his kindred, and spun on the short ‘orc’ who had sent him on his journey to the ground. Bror got a good look at the unnamed orc’s face, taking in the disheartening sight of his glistening, sharpened teeth.

“You! You bloody tripped me!” He said, not even trying to conceal a throaty grunt of hatred.

Brór called upon every ounce of extraneous knowledge crammed into his skull. He had spent nineteen long years in the damnable Tower of Cirith Ungol, a slave to the wretched spawn of orc-kind. He must’ve picked something up of their tongue, of their nature, of anything. Where was Grash? Why was that infernal man not where he was needed? It didn’t matter, though, where Grash and the others were. What mattered was now. Now words of kindness or gentility would simply allow Brór to slip away unnoticed now that he’d made his move. Sauron’s lack of command to him proved that he already had the seed of darkness in him, so could he not use it for a better purpose. Mustering a theatrical flourish, Brór screwed up his hidden face, clenched his fists so tightly that his iron-clad digits dug into the flesh of his palm and bled, and took on the vile persona of the creatures he’d learned to hate even more on each day of his life. In a cold, raspy, dank voice he said, “What’s it to you, pushdug?”

The orc’s yellow-tinged eyes seemed to undulate with rage suddenly, his two pointed ears quivering involuntarily, and he raised his one hand unclad in a gauntlet or metal armament, extending the forefinger and pressing it menacingly against Brór’s puffed out chest. “What’d you call me, runt?” He growled, a low and murderous snarl trying to escape his thin throat. Brór growled, delicately though, as he was not suited to orcish nature, but managed to continue his ill-tempered mood, fueled by anger and the lack of time, which abraded him even now as his left eye continually flitted to the unseen place where Zurumor and Raeis were. He had to hurry, or both their lives were forfeit, whether he cared or not about them.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He spat sarcastically, causing the orc to flinch, “I thought that was your name. It goes well with your face.”

That did it, just as Brór assumed it would. The orc’s eyes bulged from his misshapen skull, his nostrils flared furiously, and his curled fist shot out. Brór, expecting the rage-induced maneuver, nimbly ducked. He was short enough to simply squat down and waddle madly past the orc as his fist found the wrong target: another orc. As soon as the second beast had recovered from the blow, his syrupy black blood oozing from one corner of his mouth, he pounced on the offender and assailant, sending them both to the ground just behind Bror. Another orc was pulled into the accidentally and Bror barely managed to dodge his groping fingers as he fell. The dwarf scurried onward, pushing other orcs forcefully aside but moving quickly enough for them not to notice who was committing the act. Most of the enraged beasts turned, falling on each other with the current brawl as incentive enough to go mad. Soon, a small, central portion of the grand host had been enveloped in anarchic chaos. Brór dodged with all the agility he bore past the orcs and their primitive fisticuffs, working his way towards the Nazgul and his prey as the small commotion became a large and eye-drawing distraction.

At last he saw them. The Elf female, Raeis, lay sprawled on her chest in the dirt, half-pulled up (presumably by Zurumor, who stood before her with his sword extended. The Nazgûl was before them both, but Zurumor’s intervention had separated. All heads turned to see the wild fray of orcs, including the hooded blackness of the Ringwraith. That was all that was needed. The orcish hordes in combat soon began to fight back and forth across the plain, diving, lunging, and falling. Several tackled beast collapsed before Zurumor, cutting off the Nazgûl. Soon, more were in the way. Seeing his opportunity, Bror launched himself up and forward, wrapping his bulky arms around Zurumor. He made a feeble grab for Raeis on the ground, but could not latch on. Orc were in the way, everywhere around them, the masses pushing Brór and Zurumor away from Raeis. The dwarf, grasping the only alternative, tugged Zurumor in the opposite direction, away from Raeis and the confused Nazgûl. Soon, there was considerable distance between them, though they were still in the thick of the fray.

“C’mon.” he bellowed into the lads ear as he pulled him along, “We need to find a safer spot.”

Suddenly, Zurumor began to bat madly at his savior, yanking his arm from Brór’s fumbling grip, he stumbled back and spun on his heel. Brore had no idea what the mortal had in mind, but knew that it was an ill plan when Zurumor suddenly set off in a dead sprint towards in the direction of Raeis and the Nazgûl. Brore, not thinking but only resolving not to let the boy he’d extricated from the jaws of death dive back into them, leapt forward, into the fray of brawling orcs, and tackled Zurumor to the ground, holding him there with his weight (augmented by much armor). Zurumor twisted and turned to free himself beneath the dwarf, trying to free himself with all his might. “No! Get off.” He cried, anger and sadness in his voice.

“Do you have a death wish, lad?” Bror roared; his voice still almost overwhelmed by the shrieking, grunting madness of the raging Mordor uruks. Zurumor tore one arm free of Brór and thrust the elbow at the dwarf. It struck the nose of Brór’s helmet, causing the rusty contraption to reverberate like a bell. The man freed his second arm a moment later, his legs and balled fists flailing madly as he grasped his sword again, which lay unattended in the mud. Soon, he was on his knees, struggling to his feet, with Brór stumbling about behind.

“Raeis will die!” He cried, his eyes widened and wet with either rage or some dominion of misery, “We must help her!” An orc with a knife through his bloody throat fell in front of the man just then, separating him from Bror. Seconds later, two orcs, locked in a death-grip, staggered past them, their flying weapons and arms slashing the air close to Brór’s face. Doggedly, the dwarf snaked his way past them, his hand stretching to its utmost length and closing on Zurumor’s wrist. “She will die with or without your help.” He cried, pulling the man’s sweat-soaked face to his own. The man’s breath, usually heated, was as cold as ice, though the air around them both was as warm as Orodruin’s fires, if one were to play with metaphor on the matter. Brór’s other hand, now clutching the second ax in his belt, latched onto Zurumor’s other arm. “If the orcs do not trample her into the ground,” he said sternly, holding the man firmly, “the Nazgûl will slay her in his wroth. His breath has probably slain her already. Look to your legs now, boy, it is too late for her.”

“I can’t let her die!” He nearly shrieked at Bror, pushing him back again. Bror’s ax went to his throat, if only to draw him back, though the blade cut a very narrow gash in his cheek by accident. The man did not even notice the bead of blood drawn on his face. “Then you will die with her! The light you seek is nowhere to be found, use darkness as your cover and flee!” Brór roared, unconsciously shaking Zurumor, hoping to free the poor fool from his delusion, his stupor, and his hope. If he wanted to live, he had to lose hope, just as Brór had lost hope. He had to abandon light and love and goodly things if he wanted to survive the day, nay, the next moments. The orc army fell into further chaos around them, but Zurumor’s eyes, fierce and empowered, never moved from Brór’s. His arm, sword in hand, fell away from Brór’s and he threw himself backward, away from the hindering dwarf. Strangely stupefied, Brór did not try to stop again as he turned away.

“I don’t care.” He whispered, only loud enough for Brór to hear, “If I must die, it will be in the light…with her.” And he disappeared into the crowd.

That was it…He didn’t care…He didn’t care if he died for an Elf, an Elf who he couldn’t save and couldn’t save him…What was this then, righteousness? Honor? It was folly as Brór saw it, but not as the mortal man saw it. They looked through different eyes, but, for a moment in time the noise of battle and death was overruled the steady thump of Brór’s cold heart in his ears. Could he, a wretched dwarf and pawn of Sauron die for an Elf? Should he? Would he? Could he? What was he to do, here and now, in this time of pain, strife, and war? Challenge Sauron…or join him without question. He had been given the chance to save one of his companions, and that foolhardy youth had squandered his chance at life. But, perhaps this was not the end, for Zurumor, for Raeis, or for Brór. Raeis was doomed without help, and perhaps even with it…but there was always a chance…and Brór, the dwarf mastered by darkness, would not die in darkness. His feet moved, his ax flew up, and his eyes caught sight of Zurumor, hurrying onward.

“Wait up, lad.” He cried, alerting Zurumor to his presence. “You won’t far without the strength of a good Dwarf to aid you.”

Neither had time to do more than interchange looks, for Zurumor was occupied now by the visage of Raeis, crumpled on the ground, her limbs foully contorted. Her chest heaved up and down reassuringly, but her face was pale white, her eyes shut, and a horrible black mark on her throat that looked to be a handprint. Zurumor knelt in mid-stride, scooping her up, but the orcs had clumped together in this area, still battling each other, and crowded over Raeis. Many came near to stepping on the fragile, injured form. Brór, seeing naught else to do, swung his ax in mad arcs; cutting down an uruk that ventured to near Zurumor and his charge. In the chaos, no one noticed. Zurumor, once he had the limp Elf in his arms, struggled back again, thanking all that he held dear that the Nazgul was not near. The Wraith had gone from view…or so it seemed…

A horrendous screech alerted Brór and Zurumor to the true whereabouts of the Nazgûl. Brór’s eyes, overshadowed by a spiky orcish helm, looked up into the red-rimmed sky, ripe with lightning blades. Silhouetted, like Morgoth incarnate, against the heavens was the Nazgûl, again on his steed. The night-black wings of the murderous fellbeast were spread and the Ringwraith’s armored arm was extended, a sable sword in hand. The claws of the wraith’s mount grabbed at the air as its wings flapped, bearing it down. The nonexistent eyes of the Nazgûl must have been directed at the two primary offenders, the man and the dwarf, since Brór could feel the unadulterated pain of its look piercing his mind. The other orcs still fought around them, but silence seemed to be surrounding them as well, a terrible silence that chilled Brór to the bone.

The Nazgûl was descending…only the grace of the Valar could stand in its way.

[CaptainofDespair]

The vast army of the Orc plodded forth, sweeping the heavy, ashen dust of the wasteland earth into Mordor’s hot, dense air. This rancid, near poisonous fume that rose in great clouds, was enough to weaken even the strongest creature. Even the orcs, who had become accustomed to the harsh realm of Mordor, had to beware the dust, and those who were not regarded as somewhat well off within the circles of orc leadership, were subjected to choking and hacking on the lung-searing ash that swirled through the atmosphere.

The Elf himself, though he had spent seventeen years in the captivity of Cirith Ungol, was still weighed down by the horrid, smokey fog that surrounded him, and burned at his lips, seizing entry to his lungs, and slowly killing him from within. The Morgul Vale was a relief for him however, as the ashen clouds from Orodruin were not as concentrated in this region. But the high mountains, that encircled the locale, forbid the release of those particles that were heaved towards the burning, red sky that hung over Mordor like a heavy, omnipresent shadow, by the ironshod feet of the Snaga, and Uruks. His Haradrim scarf had provided some benefit through this whole ordeal, filtering some of the abhorred fumes from the air, but now it was wearing thin, and the dirt and grime began to seep its way into the fabric of the cloth, choking it, and sending its filthy messengers into the lungs of the Elf.

As he slowly progressed past the ranks of the oncoming orc army, the dust that was churned up, began to grasp for his lungs, clenching them with putrid hands, tightening like a vice, and forcing the Elf to emit a horrid cough from his lips. At first it was almost uncontrollable, as he hacked and wheezed at an incessant pace. But ever so gradually, he began to retake the reins from the air that obstructed his breathing. Yet, he was vulnerable in this time, for he was expending a great deal of his energies to ‘put out the fire’ that was burning within his chest. To even attempt to recover from the spasmodic contortions of his muscles, as they vainly tried to withstand the assault the air was pressing upon him, he was forced to halt his movement. This made him all the more noticeable. As he clenched his chest, still gasping for a fresh breath, out of the thousands of minuscule particles that hung in the air around him, a wisp of cloth fell from his face, revealing the elf behind the mask. It was only that singular, solitary moment in which he was uncovered, that spoiled his disguise, as a hapless orc wandered into his path.

This orc was not the smartest of orcs, and he was not particularly good at following orders. Having been set upon the outremer of the throng that carried him in the army, he managed to disorient himself, and stumbled upon the weakened elf, who was caught staring into the dirt. The Orc, seeing that this Haradrim was in fact, not a Haradrim, drew his sword, hoping for a quick kill, and a meal, of whatever this creature was. But as he bumbled his way towards the Elf, a great commotion erupted to his rear, as several orcs began to stir about, finally boiling over the cauldron of emotion, and letting loose into a fierce skirmish. This distraction allowed the Immortal to compose himself, and regain his unraveling disguise.

As Morgoroth rose from the dirt, caked in its dark earthen matter, he saw the most terrible of beings. Hooded, and masked in endless fear, sat a Nazgul upon his vile Fell Beast. Standing defiant below the evil steed, stood a man, who Morgoroth could not recognize in his dimmed vision. Emotion stirred in his heart, as he felt compassion, and pity for the man. He swiftly rose, empowered with new vigor, and sought to drive himself between the man and the Nazgul. The orcs continued to battle, distracting the Wraith for the time. The Dark Elf hoped this would provide him time to save the man from death. But as he made his way to the line, he saw him go down into the dirt. He thought death had struck, but it was not so. His sensitive ears managed to gather a few words, the names Raeis and Zurumor, and the tone of a certain dwarf. But his comrades’ plight was not yet through, for Zurumor cast himself back into the fray, seeking to protect Raeis, whom he had come to have a deepening affection for. The Elf began to mutter to himself, debating his course of action.“Death this child seeks, to save one from feeling a wrath unending...” He let his head sink, and a familiar voice entered his mind. The memories of his father, long since buried in the chasm of his mind. The last time he saw his father, he left behind a single message, a reason to as why he was to go off to fight in land so far off, and eventually fall victim to the horrors of war. “We elves are long-lived, and we do not suffer that which men do, and I go to fight, to ensure their lives are lived well.” The Elf lifted his head at this memory, and glared at the Nazgul, who was now coming down from the burning heavens, preparing to deliver its hellish wrath unto the man Zurumor, and the elf woman he was protecting.

Hissing and snarling came the Fell Beast, as it descended, lashing its disgusting tongue about, and exhaling a carrion reek onto those who were in its path. Mounted upon this most horrifying steed, was a being of hate and death, one of the most terrifying servants of the Dark Lord. They slowly came to renewed hover, as the wings of the beast flapped calmly in the sea of chaos that stirred about it, blowing up the ash that was caked in layers upon the earth. Hope was lost for those who stood before the Winged Death, as they awaited his judgement, which would come swiftly and terribly. For a few moments, it sat silent, scanning its victims. This was all the time the Elf needed to prepare himself. As the Wraith raised the weapon of its choice, a pale sword, which gleamed with a hate gathered over many centuries, Morgoroth made his own choice, and loosed a single feathered shaft into the neck of the Nazgul’s mount. The hideous creatures reeled from this unexpected pain, and it thrashed about in the air. But its master was soon to recover, and it took notice of he who had defied the command of death.

Standing alone, the Elf waited for his enemy to come forth. The Nazgul was in the midst of killing a defiant man, who had deserved his death, but this Haradrim had done worse, and he ordered his mount higher into the sky, preparing to descend upon this new rebellious foe. Little time passed between the striking of the shot, and the Wraith’s coming. Fury was in its mind, and it wished to do quick justice upon this fiend, for he other, more important business to attend to. As he lowered himself from the sky, and came to a hover above the Elf, a strange sensation overcame it, one it had only recently felt. Yet, the Nazgul did not dwell on this, for it had not the time for such trivial matters. Now, it spoke to the Haradrim who stood before. “You dare defy the will of your master?!” The Wraith hissed at this, hoping to strike a nerve of fear, so as it could at least enjoy the kill. “You are a mere mortal, and your trifling in these matters that do not concern you, will cost you your life.” The Elf gazed up at his foe, defying the creature yet again. “I am no mortal, scum of Sauron...” Vehement hissing erupted from within the hooded mask of the being, as it was confounded at this second showing of defiance. With a flash of his hand, the Elf pulled away a bit of the scarf that covered his face, and he spoke a second time. “I am an Elf, and on my honor, you shall not take my comrades lives, without first slaying me.” A final volley of hissing rolled forth from within the cloaked demon, as it drew its glimmering blade.

Morgoroth had forfeited his life, exchanging the fates of Zurumor and Raeis for his own. As he prepared to suffer the wrath of his enemy, he caught a glimpse of his allies, as the man pulled his elf friend to her feet, and pulled her to the side, where Bror was now hidden, as best he could. The Elf now sang a silent prayer, hoping that his doom would come quickly. With sword poised to strike, the Wraith let forth one more hiss, nearly inaudible, and then it drove its blade home, searing the Elf’s flesh, as it slashed through the skin just above his heart. Chance had saved his life, as the blade narrowly missed piercing his heart, as it glanced of the bone in his shoulder. The pain was great, but the Elf knew not to cry out, and instead silently slumped against a small rock, bleeding profusely, and near death. The Nazgul knew it had not finished him, but a sudden burst of flame, and the silent call of its master, who was now in great peril, summoned the Wraith elsewhere, and it rose quickly, soaring into the heaves, only to come swooping back down over the army, letting out a vicious cry, one to summon the host to greater haste. And it left Morgoroth there, clinging to his now bloodied rock, as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness...

[Bêthberry]

Darash swore at the never-ending onslaught of struggles and battles. There was no respite, no safe house, where they could recover their strength after each successive event of castasclismic turmoil. They lurched on; she lurched on, inexpressably tired and weary. She had been swept up by the oppressive, marching rhythm of the orc army and could not keep step with either Grash, who had been beside her, or Lyshka, who had followed them through the Stones. Nor had she been able to keep track of any of the prisoners. Her head hung low, she assumed the lumbering tread of the orcs, the vile creatures she had come to know and despise in her captivity. She was as tall as they, although more slender and lithe, but at least the layers of pilfered orcish coverings lent her some bulk. The stink of offending flesh was almost overwhelming; whatever meats these creatures ate, it sullied their being, mingling acrid odour with the foul stench of rancid decay. Darash shook her head violently, shoving an orc away from her and incurring a curse which rained on her with spittle. She was nearly tempted to reply in the degraded speech of the orcs, but she overcame the desire and merely gave the creature a shrug and frowning stare. Her skin was not as dark as his, but enough, given her clothing and demeanour, to benefit her disguise.

She had been a hunter, never the hunted, and now she was learning the tricks and feints of the pursued to save herself. Slowly, as she stumbled forward in that surly mob, she began to apprise the situation. She looked around desperately for the others, feeling the unsettledness and fear of the unknown. Things were happening, the meaning of which she did not understand. She felt as if she were the sedges at the side of lakes, thrown violently here and yon by both wind and wave and not knowing what to expect. The Dark Lord's Stones had shaken her, had taught her that this new world was unlike her old, had meaning and values and dangers she could not expect or anticipate. She could only sway and hope to find a direction. And look to the knowledge and ways of others.

A wild melee caught her attention, as orcs began battling orcs. She edged her way around the chaos, eyes darting to survey the perimeter, if indeed it could be said to have a perimeter. She could make out the pygmy Brór flailing about, trying, trying to pull a reluctant Zurumor away from a creature, the like of which she had never seen or imagined. A crinkling itch of torment picked at her, as if needles penetrated her entire body, as she watched a winged creature with a hollow cloak cruise over them. It sucked the air out of the sky and Darash nearly fainted.

As she regained her sense, the creature was climbing up and away, higher in the sky and she saw Raeis--Raeis!--collapsed. There was another, she was not sure who--the other one, Morgoroth! Something had happened. She saw two who needed her aid, but no one was around her. Holding her hood over her face, she lumbered through the crowd towards the others, wishing somehow she could give a sign, any sign, to Lyshka or Grash to find her, to help the others.

[alaklondewen]

The terrible winged beast soared up and to the north, leaving the Easterling woman to exhale the putrid air she had held in her lungs by the trembling fear the Nazgul forced upon all those in his presence. Raising her head to the sky, Lyshka quickly pulled her hood tighter around her face to cover her features. The Orcs ahead of her were still brawling, although the captains were working to bring what order could be accomplished by the filthy creatures.

She would have to think and move quickly to escape this mess she had found herself amidst. Keeping her hood tight, she darted between the soldiers moving toward and around the chaos. The path Grash had pointed toward earlier lay to their left…all she needed to do was make her way over and out of the ranks as they passed the brawlers. Ducking between bodies, Lyshka could see the road split and she glanced toward the head of the army. Her eyes landed on a surprising scene. Her companions had been revealed. Brór struggled with Zurumor. It appeared the man was reaching toward the ground, but Lyshka was unable from her position to see at what he lunged.

The woman’s dark eyes darted from the scene to the path and back. As she considered continuing her departure and making her way up the path, she caught sight of another figure moving between the she and the Dwarf. This being crouched like the Orc but did not move with such crudeness. Maybe sensing Lyshka’s attention, the hooded head rose and turned from side to side as though searching. Craning her neck, the Easterling caught a glimpse of the dark skin beneath the layers. This was not the rough and beaten flesh of the Orc men. Then an eye flashed from under the disguise, and Lyshka was filled with the only kind of joy or happiness she had felt since being released. It was Darash! Immediately, the woman plowed back into the mix and move as quickly as she could between the soldiers.

As she tried to bypass the fighting, she was jostled and shoved several times, but the woman kept moving with hardened resolve. Keeping her body hunched, only her eyes could be seen under her hood, but she looked at no one and growled deeply in her throat whenever she was manhandled. Within moments she found herself within arm’s reach of the exotic woman. Lyshka’s hand shot out and took hold of Darash’s right elbow. The woman pulled her arm roughly away without turning to meet the gaze of the one who touched her. Lyshka tried again and this time she gently squeezed Darash’s long limb and slowly pulled her own hood to one side so that the taller woman might see her identity.

[Bêthberry]

"Ah, Ly--" Darash nealy called out in her joy and relief at finding one of her companions. She was knocked to the side by an orc trying to get away from the brawling, but luckily she was knocked right into Lyshka's path. It would look natural and normal for them to have words together.

Feinting irritation, the two engaged in a pantomime of threats and taunts and raised fists at each other, which enabled them to try, as best they could given their lack of knowledge of the Common Tongue, to explain their position. Lyshka still had her sense of direction; she knew where Grash's path was and unobstrusively pointed it out to Darash. For her part, the Amazon whispered Raeis's name and nodded towards the spot where Morgoroth had made his sacrifice. Luckily, the arrival of the hissing, terrifying, flying creature had confused all the orcs and some hidden command had drawn their attention elsewhere, so the threat of discovery was overcome for the most part.

The two women, hunched over with hoods covering their heads, encumbered by the thick, heavy, crudely-worked leather of their orcish jerkins, moved in a zigzag fashion over towards the now still body of the elf. They could not risk a call to either Raeis or Morgoroth but they saw out of the corner of their eyes Brór's success with Zuromor. Jeren, where Jeren?, thought Darash to herself as they neared Morgoroth. She suddenly caught sight of Aldor and froze for a moment as the sensation of needles pricking her body was revived, the same sensation she felt when this thing called a Wraith came overhead. She risked a glance at Lyshka, who had seen Aldor also, but she could not tell if the Easterling woman felt the same sensation. Slowly they were making their way towards the striken elf.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka met the dark woman’s concerned gaze. Narrowing her eyes, the Easterling looked back to the man, Aldor. He did not see Lyshka or Darash. As she studied his face momentarily, Lyshka thought she caught a look of…could it be?...satisfaction? cross his face. She shook the idea from her mind as the women had more pressing matters to attend.

The elves could easily be seen now. Raeis lay pale on the ground…her body limp. Morgoroth was close, unconscious and still. Could he be dead? Lyshka felt her heart pull at the thought of the only beauty in this horrible land being destroyed like a candle’s flame snuffed by the Dark Lord’s fingers. The Easterling was unable to determine whether life still reigned in their bodies from her distance, but she knew the women must move them either way. If they still lived, they would be trampled soon, yet if death had found them, they would need to be honored in what ways the company could in this dark land.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor and Bror moved in unison with the orcs. Zuromor feared for Raeis and wanted to go back to her but the sea of orcs permitted no such acts. Over head the Nazgul moved forward at great pace, rushing to the will of his Master. Zuromor waited patiently and marched forward.

When he saw an opening he positioned himself behind Bror and marched faster, forcing himself to trip over him. The orc army walked past and over them, and Zuromor used his body as a shield for Bror. When they all had passed Zuromor had been stepped on several times. After a long pause he forced himself up and ran back to Raeis.

He held her in his arms and prayed she would still be alive, that he had not failed.

"Zuromor?"

As she weakly spoke his name his eyes filled with tears and they held each other in the burning heat that resembled the heat of their hearts.