[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

The Perky Ent's Post

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

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