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CaptainofDespair · 09-03-2005, 01:10 PM

“The gears of war slowly turn…”

The shrouded visitor to the Dark Lord now stood before an assembled army. It was impressive, both in the sheer volume of troops, and in the vast multitude of its contingents. Easterling spearmen and swordsmen from Rhûn, Variag axemen from Khand, and numerous assortments of Orcs from Mordor, were the backbone of this army. It seemed unstoppable to those who prepared to march beyond the land of the Shadow, but the mysterious cloaked warlord thought otherwise, and he voiced this to his new underlings.

“Captain…”

“Yes, milord?”

“Is my army prepared? I grow weary of this choking atmosphere,” answered the seemingly mystical being wrapped in the heavy cloth. “Indeed, it is, milord. We are ready to depart as soon as you give the command.” A heavy sigh emanated from the hood. “Excellent. But first, there is a small matter to attend to,” responded the lord. Beckoning with a metal clad hand, the warlord summoned his captain closer. “Captain, it is your duty to keep this army organized. I will not have it running about plundering at will. That is not the purpose of this expedition.” The captain, an Easterling, was well regarded amongst his own soldiers for organization. But, he knew he might not be able to handle the orc rabble. This, if anything, would get him “relieved” of his duty, and he feared it. “I will do as you command, milord. But, the orcs are not easily commanded. They might prove difficult.” A hideous and wicked laugh rose out of the depths of the warlord’s hood. “You need not command them to keep them in line. Use fear. Make them fear you, and they will do as you order. Show them no mercy.” The captain bowed, and turned to depart, hoping to be given dismissal of his lord’s presence. But, as he turned away, the brooding voice of the warlord stopped him. “One last thing, commander...” A shiver of cold fear ran up through the spine of the Easterling. “Yes, milord?” Sensing the distraught fears of the captain, Angoroth smirked, and laughed inwardly. “Give the order to march.” The captain sighed, relieved of his burden of fear for the time being, and departed.

The army lurched forward, and began the arduous journey to Eregion. The muffled thudding of thousands of iron-shod feet shook the earth in its monotonous drone. It marched at a steady pace, so as not to tire the force en masse, which in turn produced a great roar of unending movement. At the borders of Mordor however, Angoroth departed the army, leaving the captain with a single message; “You will meet me at the borders of Eregion. I have…things…to do.”

-----------------

Having departed his legions, Angoroth rode hard into the north, leaving only dust in his wake. For many days he pressed on, his horse nearly dead from exhaustion. Riding through stone and wood, river and field, he at last came to his objective apparent. A small hill, covered in dying brown grass, with a lone, gnarled tree upon the crest.

There, he abandoned his mount, and went to the base of the seemingly dead tree, and began ripping at the bark and limbs, tearing much away. He then laid out the bark in a circle around him, tossing a strange powder upon it, and placed the branches in the center. Using another branch, which he had put to the flame, he ignited the circle of bark, and then finally set ablaze the centerpiece of his fiery portal.

As the flames rose higher, he began to chant indecipherable words in a tongue that only he knew, one of his own devising, praying to his master. Dropping the hood, he revealed his face to the fire. The crackling and flickering flames imposed an eerie glow on his unmarred visage. His eyes told a silent tale as they reflected the light of the blaze; his past, his failure. Ever silent, he drew forth a knife, blackened but unused. He fell to his knees, and plunged the blade into the flames. Watching the flames violently engulf the knife, he smiled a wicked smile, and withdrew it. Slowly, he pressed its glowing, dull edge to the contours of his face, and drew it along the bone, letting the blood run forth freely. Pulling the blade from his cheek, he plunged it again into the flames, and cleansed it of his tainted essence. With its edge heated further in the flame, he ran it along the lines he had slashed into his face, searing them with hot metal. Breaking his painful silence, he uttered a message into the glowing flame. “From the fire, life is born. In the fire, all is cleansed. In the fire, life is ended. And in the fire, lies redemption.”

With a circle of flame still burning about him, he cast his now blood-soaked cloak into the engulfing fires, watching it turn to ash with sickening delight. He finished his prayers and chants to his former lord, Morgoth, and rose up from his kneeling position. Stepping through the still burning ring of choking flames, he left behind his failure, and thrust forward to his atonement.

09-03-2005, 01:10 PM	#112
CaptainofDespair Shade of Carn Dûm Join Date: Jun 2004 Posts: 413	“The gears of war slowly turn…” The shrouded visitor to the Dark Lord now stood before an assembled army. It was impressive, both in the sheer volume of troops, and in the vast multitude of its contingents. Easterling spearmen and swordsmen from Rhûn, Variag axemen from Khand, and numerous assortments of Orcs from Mordor, were the backbone of this army. It seemed unstoppable to those who prepared to march beyond the land of the Shadow, but the mysterious cloaked warlord thought otherwise, and he voiced this to his new underlings. “Captain…” “Yes, milord?” “Is my army prepared? I grow weary of this choking atmosphere,” answered the seemingly mystical being wrapped in the heavy cloth. “Indeed, it is, milord. We are ready to depart as soon as you give the command.” A heavy sigh emanated from the hood. “Excellent. But first, there is a small matter to attend to,” responded the lord. Beckoning with a metal clad hand, the warlord summoned his captain closer. “Captain, it is your duty to keep this army organized. I will not have it running about plundering at will. That is not the purpose of this expedition.” The captain, an Easterling, was well regarded amongst his own soldiers for organization. But, he knew he might not be able to handle the orc rabble. This, if anything, would get him “relieved” of his duty, and he feared it. “I will do as you command, milord. But, the orcs are not easily commanded. They might prove difficult.” A hideous and wicked laugh rose out of the depths of the warlord’s hood. “You need not command them to keep them in line. Use fear. Make them fear you, and they will do as you order. Show them no mercy.” The captain bowed, and turned to depart, hoping to be given dismissal of his lord’s presence. But, as he turned away, the brooding voice of the warlord stopped him. “One last thing, commander...” A shiver of cold fear ran up through the spine of the Easterling. “Yes, milord?” Sensing the distraught fears of the captain, Angoroth smirked, and laughed inwardly. “Give the order to march.” The captain sighed, relieved of his burden of fear for the time being, and departed. The army lurched forward, and began the arduous journey to Eregion. The muffled thudding of thousands of iron-shod feet shook the earth in its monotonous drone. It marched at a steady pace, so as not to tire the force en masse, which in turn produced a great roar of unending movement. At the borders of Mordor however, Angoroth departed the army, leaving the captain with a single message; “You will meet me at the borders of Eregion. I have…things…to do.” ----------------- Having departed his legions, Angoroth rode hard into the north, leaving only dust in his wake. For many days he pressed on, his horse nearly dead from exhaustion. Riding through stone and wood, river and field, he at last came to his objective apparent. A small hill, covered in dying brown grass, with a lone, gnarled tree upon the crest. There, he abandoned his mount, and went to the base of the seemingly dead tree, and began ripping at the bark and limbs, tearing much away. He then laid out the bark in a circle around him, tossing a strange powder upon it, and placed the branches in the center. Using another branch, which he had put to the flame, he ignited the circle of bark, and then finally set ablaze the centerpiece of his fiery portal. As the flames rose higher, he began to chant indecipherable words in a tongue that only he knew, one of his own devising, praying to his master. Dropping the hood, he revealed his face to the fire. The crackling and flickering flames imposed an eerie glow on his unmarred visage. His eyes told a silent tale as they reflected the light of the blaze; his past, his failure. Ever silent, he drew forth a knife, blackened but unused. He fell to his knees, and plunged the blade into the flames. Watching the flames violently engulf the knife, he smiled a wicked smile, and withdrew it. Slowly, he pressed its glowing, dull edge to the contours of his face, and drew it along the bone, letting the blood run forth freely. Pulling the blade from his cheek, he plunged it again into the flames, and cleansed it of his tainted essence. With its edge heated further in the flame, he ran it along the lines he had slashed into his face, searing them with hot metal. Breaking his painful silence, he uttered a message into the glowing flame. “From the fire, life is born. In the fire, all is cleansed. In the fire, life is ended. And in the fire, lies redemption.” With a circle of flame still burning about him, he cast his now blood-soaked cloak into the engulfing fires, watching it turn to ash with sickening delight. He finished his prayers and chants to his former lord, Morgoth, and rose up from his kneeling position. Stepping through the still burning ring of choking flames, he left behind his failure, and thrust forward to his atonement.