[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô rode his Karibor solemnly down the edge of market square, inching closer towards the temple that loomed ominously before them. He tried not to look, or even think, about that foul place, for it sent shivers of fear down his spine. The sacrifices of Sauron’s enemies that occurred there daily were notorious for their bloodshed and cruelty. Despite his courage, he felt horrified by the gruesome events on the altar. He vowed that the party would not allow such horrors to happen to Abârpânarú.

Slowly the group moved along the edge square, silent and plagued by anxiety. They were approaching the bowels of evil, the temple of the destroyer, home of Sauron himself. Try as he might to move through the city with stealth, Azarmanô noticed that an increasing number of people appeared to be staring at them. This is not good, he thought. The last thing the group needed was more attention. But the more he wished that people would simply forget he was there, the more people seemed to crowd the party, partially choking off their path forward.

“Out of the way,” he shouted in his best gruff soldier voice. “We must take this prisoner to the temple.”

The people, however, moved only slightly out of the way, leaving a narrow passage for the group to pass through. The party moved forward carefully on their horses, trying not to trample any of the people that obstructed the way. Most of the people stared menacingly at the female “prisoner” that the “soldiers” were leading forward in chains. The process of navigating through the throng of transfixed onlookers was painstakingly slow, much to the chagrin of Azarmanô, who longed for it to be over soon.

To make matters worse, many of the people who gathered did not feel content merely to gawk at the prisoner, but expressed their sentiments out loud as well. A chorus of raucous boos descended from the crowd directed at the prisoner. Exclamations of hatred vibrated through the air; two of the most prominent were “Death to the Faithful,” and “Kill the traitor.” One old woman with white hair and a brown dress that was dirty and tattered from wear threw a handful of mud at Inzillomí, soiling her blouse and shouting profanities. So much hatred, thought Azarmanô. Where does it come from?

To her credit, Inzillomí took the torrent of scorn with a remarkable degree of restraint. Not once during the downpour did she respond to the mob with the anger that had been showered upon her. She did not even flinch, always affixing her eyes firmly upon the ground, an expression of stoicism spread across her face. Azarmanô felt enormous pride in Inzillomí. He could imagine what inner strength she must have to endure such insults, but he did not expect any different from a person of such character as she.

One man, however, seemed to catch Azarmanô’s eye. He stood at the entrance of a pottery and hermetics store and wore a white apron across the font of his shirt, indicating he was the owner. The man had bright red hair and a full beard, each marked with several streaks of white that betrayed the fact his youth had passed. He did not join the crowd in their taunting, but preferred to remain apart, watching the events unfold from his doorway. When he saw the Lady being escorted to the castle in chains, his aloof demeanor changed to that of alarm and his eyes widened in surprise. For a moment, Azarmanô wondered what caused this reaction, but he turned his attention back to getting into the dungeon safely. Finally, after a prolonged struggle against the tide of the crowd, the group reached the entrance to the temple itself. They were going into the dungeon, and they would not be coming out again until they had rescued Abârpânarú, leader of the Faithful and, more importantly, a true friend.