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Old 06-19-2006, 10:59 AM   #57
Durelin
Estelo dagnir, Melo ring
 
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Join Date: Oct 2002
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Durelin is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.Durelin is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.
POSTED TO THE PROPOSAL ~*~ PIO

Here's the first post in Mordor:

The slaves snuck glances as the boy was brought back out to the fields. He had been gone for only minutes, but the rest of the slaves had been at the mercy of the whip if they even thought of pausing in their work while they were forced to listen to his screams. What they had done to the child the overseer would have liked to have done to all the slaves, but the survival rate was not good enough to risk losing so many of the laborers. The plantation owner would have his heartstrings for a necklace if he ever put his power and wealth at such risk. Neither was very abundant in Mordor since the defeat of Sauron, particularly wealth. Those who had any wealth or power were those who lived without the constant worry of what to fill their stomachs with. And who had control of the few sources of water.

The boy’s mother put herself at great risk, leaping forward to get to her son, dropping her work. The Orc who dragged the boy out to the fields kicked her down onto her hands and knees. There she groveled and begged just to hear that her son was alright, even though she knew he wasn’t and never would be. She had no hope for his future. She felt terrible guilt for even having given birth to him. He had not deserved it. Her son was completely silent. He had been since even before they brought him out.

“Tell the sow you’re alright and get her to shut up.” The overseer and the Orc holding the boy howled with grating laughter. The boy turned his head to look at his mother. There was a moment when the two’s eyes met and the boy opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His lips moved, but no words were formed. No words, no sound was heard. His mother collapsed to the ground, wailing, not rising even for the stomping and kicking of the other guards, so consumed by her grief. Her son’s tongue had been ripped out, and his vocal cords removed or made unusable through a procedure involving a hot iron. The mother cried and screamed as two guards, one a Man and one an Orc, forcibly pulled her up and dragged her toward the rough shed. She would be taken care of in much the same way, but she did not cry for herself.

The two had been among those who had tried to escape during the short-lived rebellion of the desperate slaves against their master. Mother and son had probably tasted some kind of freedom for a few hours, but they had been recaptured and were being punished and used as tyrannical symbols of fear because of the forbidden fruit that had bitten from. They had not been alone as escapees, though. There were of course others who had shared and would share similar fates, but there were also those who had made it to the mountains. The looming natural barricade of the mountain range seemed to mock them, and yet they saw the peaks as soaring freedom. Some actually planned to scale the mountains and escape to the world beyond; others simply wanted to get as far from the plantation as they could, and toward the southern range of the Ephel Dûath was as good a direction as any that were not back.

Four days after the rebellion, fifty-six of the escapees had collected themselves into a group, looking for others who had escaped and anyone who they could call an ally. Few, as they approached the mountains, actually considered climbing them, no matter how nice they knew or had heard the world beyond them was. For several days, the mountains acted as a hiding place for the fifty slaves that still lived, and become more of a cage than ever. But on the seventh night after their escape, they woke up to find themselves surrounded. Luckily, their stalkers were allies, and useful ones: a gang of ex-slaves, free for varying numbers of years, and staying alive mostly through theft from their former masters. Fierce fighters and superb survivalists, they brought more useful skills to the group. Some of them were truly thieves and killers, but they all had or remembered having family in various forms. They welcomed more hands, even if it meant more mouths to feed. And the two groups discovered quickly, if they had not known it from the start, that there was really very little separating them: both were more than ready for change.

Most had heard, though at least a year later than they should have, that Nurn actually belonged to them. Several years after Elessar’s declaration, word had spread to practically every being in Mordor that, according to the King of Gondor, the slaves were free. And yet they were still being whipped, chained, and treated as animals in the very land they were supposed to own. It was that knowledge that had given the slaves enough hope to risk rebellion, and it was what pushed them now to journey across Mordor to the southern reaches of the Plateau of Gorgoroth. A new wilderness meant a new beginning.

Khamir sat outside the caves in which the rest of the camp slept, the pitch black of night not intimidating in the least, and the crisp rushing of the river not loud to his ears. It was his watch. Every night, he had the last watch. It was just his way, and very few liked to stand in his way. He knew that the night around him could betray him at any moment, but he sat calmly, resting his mind in dreams without sleep. So many nights he had sat up in the same way amongst the sharp rocks at the base of the mountains. What made this night any different? For one thing, the company was different. There were now sixty-four men, women, and children sleeping nearby. It was no longer just the gang, and they no longer only had to worry about themselves. More was not necessarily better, but this group…they brought hope, something that Khamir had long given up on. It felt good to have it back.

He knew he was happier than he had been in years, though he did not smile. He knew the journey ahead would be the roughest he had ever taken, and he feared the numbers they might lose. He knew he had never had to figure out how to feed sixty-five mouths before, and hoped someone else had leadership in mind. He knew all of this, and yet he found peace lingering somewhere in the night air. Very soon he would be able to see the sun inching its way up the horizon. Perhaps it was hope of such a sight that kept him still. He knew hope was a powerful force.

But what he did not know was that, miles away, that same force drove a group shockingly similar to his own. The Orcs, the cruel masters, the savage monsters, the mindless followers of Sauron…they had families that they cared for. And they knew that it was time Nurn was abandoned, along with the old ways. They sought a new way, a new home, and a new beginning. Fifteen Orcs, male and female, young and old, would find a fresh wilderness just as attractive as sixty-five men, women, and children would. Neither knew they had dreamed the same dream, and neither would believe it if they were told so.

But if hope could be shared, why not a journey, a land? Why not a new beginning?

That morning, Khamir found what he could to write a letter that would show just how hopeful recent events had made him. He planned to write to the King of Gondor himself. It was he, Aragorn, Elessar, who had not forgotten the slaves. Perhaps this would be just another reminder? Was it a cry for help, a beseeching of aid, a simple report of the situation? Khamir found himself unable to write a single word for almost an hour, but when he finally started to write, the letter became all three of those things. He told of the slaves’ escape, of he and his fourteen men’s troubles, and of their plan to start anew together. He also told of the difficulties they faced daily, and how they would only double if they ventured to leave the safety of the caves and to a complete wilderness. The word ‘help’ was not there, but it was in every way implied. The letter was given to a trader heading back to Minas Tirith, and Khamir found himself praying for the first time.

Now all they had to do was wait in hope for some kind of answer: preferably one that did not come only in writing.

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And here's the bio for my ex-slave character:

Name: Khamir

Age: 37

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Weapons: Throwing daggers and a long hunting knife, fairly crudely manufactured.

Appearance: Very tall for a human, he stands at about six feet, four inches tall. He is very thin, mostly built of lean muscle, not having had much to eat in years. His skin, a beautiful creamy brown, is barely seen through all the grime. His eyes are hazel, with specks of yellow often clearly visible among the soft brown. His hair is thick and curly black, and is usually tied back, or sometimes let loose, with only a band around his head to keep it out of his eyes a bit. He wears a worn shirt and pants, and scraps of rough leather armour strapped over that: a pair of pauldrons, a vambrace on his left arm, a gauntlet on his left hand, and a pair of cuisses, as well as boots. He wears a vambrace and gauntlet only on his left arm and hand because he lost his right arm from just above the elbow down. So that it stays out of his way, he ties the arm of his shirt around the stub.

Personality: Khamir is a man who trusts no one but himself. He has endured so many things that have made him loathe so many, and it has only really been his hatred that has kept him alive for so long. Ideas of revenge are very attractive to him, and he believes strongly in concepts such as ‘an eye for an eye.’ Overall, he has also has a deep sense of justice, though it has been obscured slightly after spending so many years in the darkest place in the Middle-earth. He is looked upon as the leader of a gang of ex-slaves who scavenge the Ash-plains of Mordor. He is not much of a leader, nor is he very eloquent, but he is followed. He learned the Common Tongue as a boy, having been brought up in a fairly well to do household, and is not at all unintelligent. He simply chooses not to speak most of the time.

History: A Southron, born just a few miles north of Umbar, Khamir did not desire to join Mordor, refusing to ever fight alongside anyone but his fellow men. He had no love for Gondor or any of the other peoples of Middle-earth, but he was fiercely loyal to his own people, and believed that becoming Sauron’s minions was the end to the Haradrim’s power and independence. Because he would not willingly join the ranks under the Dark Lord’s command, he was made a slave when he was sixteen years old. His own father was the one who handed him over as a supposed traitor. He was made a slave and worked on the plantations for several years before the defeat of Sauron. After this defeat, he was able to escape from the plantations, along with many others; but, unlike many others, he was never recaptured. He joined up with a few other ex-slaves, and working as a team (though not always in the best of terms), they were able to scrounge up enough food and water for them to survive, if very hungrily. Mostly they are forced to and choose to steal. After he was praised for his bravery when he went even to the Mountain to look for water, the group of ex-slaves grew until he became the undeclared leader of a full out gang that set up base in the southern range of the Ephel Dûath. They make regular missions to different plantations that remain under the charge of both Orcs and Men. Their last mission met with disaster, leaving their numbers lower than they had been in almost a year: fifteen.

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I've started on the bio for my dwarf, and I'll hopefully have the done tomorrow, along with a post for him.

Last edited by piosenniel; 06-19-2006 at 02:23 PM.
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