Land of Darkness RPG

[Durelin]

He could hear his breathing rushing in his ears, the inhale louder than the exhale, and his heart pounded its rhythm. Jordo’s eyes raced, checking every corner, then settling to rest on the door to the storeroom for a moment, only to search the room once more. There were so many shadows, as there always were in this place, shadows that could hide a ghastly hand that might drag him back to his cell. He awaited it, so that everything could return to normal. His body shivered in a clammy fear, and yet his body still sweat in the heat of this place. Feeling his legs wobbling beneath him, Jordo sat down on the floor, his hand resting in something wet that he ignored.

Looking around him, he did not raise his head, for he felt it might be a great effort. So he looked at feet of those who stood conversing around him. Many of the voices he heard he could not understand, but he could still hear the excitement in all the different tongues. He heard and sensed no fear in them, and he knew fear. They ignored the fact that they were surrounded by darkness and fire, and that a door could be opened to the great darkness that draped the land of Mordor. He watched feet shift restlessly, most were grimy and leathery of skin as his own. They were all brought together in a likeness that would not be present in any other position. All were covered in years of toil, with memories leaving permanent scars. There was something familiar in the eyes of each, man, elf, or dwarf.

Jordo then saw a pair of feet move toward the door, quickly followed by another. He decided to look up, and found with great relief that his head was functioning normally. He saw a tall being with long black hair that shown slightly, though Jordo could not think how it avoided being marred by the ashes that filled the air of Mordor. The head covered in the flowing black hair turned slightly, revealing his ears, pointed on the end. He gasped, and all his fear rushed out of his body against that intake of air. The elf’s hand grasped the arm of another of his kind, and Jordo let the breath that he now hold escape. She was a beautiful being, even in her condition. He had never seen any of these people at work about him, and he was glad he had not. Seeing them beneath a whip might have made their sorrowful beauty less beautiful. Jordo then glanced between the male and female elf, and decided that perhaps it would have only made it more sorrowful.

He still passed his stare from elf to elf until their backs suddenly disappeared behind a dark wooden door. They had exited the sanctuary, and Jordo shivered at the thought of this. But then he pictured the elves in his mind, and he found himself on his feet. His legs no longer felt weak beneath him, and he felt they were strong enough to walk. He made his way across the creaking floorboards, his legs quickly gaining strength, and thus his stride gained speed. He finally found himself in front of the door, after bumping his way through a the crowded room. He shut his eyes as he reached out to the handle. He felt the cold metal as a shock, and he shivered once more in a shadowy cold. Jordo now wondered what awaited him on the other side, shadows would be there, but what would they hide? And would flames await him to end his cold, only to burn him?

He found himself looking upon a courtyard, still shivering. The cold did not engulf him, but it lingered in the air of this place. He was able to sigh in relief, as he was heartened by the sound of voices nearby. They spoke in a strange tongue, that played a melody in Jordo’s ears, soothing him. He glanced around him, knowing what he would find. The two elves spoke, and he watched them, lost in their song. He was silent and still, standing before the open doorway, between two sanctuaries, and he breathed what felt like open air.

[Bêthberry]

She who would now answer to Darash followed the man out, looking left and right warily for signs of entrapment or attack. None seemed forthcoming. Slowly Grash released other prisoners and Darash found herself face to face with peoples she had never imagined in her life.

Nmubelima derlig she murmered to herself as she saw the three short creatures, coming perhaps midway to her forearm. She had never seen dwarves, although she had heard the stories of dark short tribes south of her village. They stared at her and she knew not what to say, except the formal words of her people for strangers meeting. And they were not enough. The three grey pithniba quickly formed their own group and were away, accomplishing the search that this Grash had demanded.

She spied a lone woman who stood hesitantly and walked over to her, but just then she stopped and stared with hatred and open disgust at one other person Grash had released.

A jackel of Umbar in their midst who she heard called Jeren! She turned towards Grash with a gutteral cry of reprimand and prepared herself to attack the jackel who bartered humans if he took one step nearer her or this other woman. Her face she forced into a cold mask of contempt as she fought the urge to spit on him.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka wrapped her long arms tightly around her body as she watched a listened to those around her. Naturally the dwarves and elves drifted together, each to their own kind, but those that were left were men, save one. The Easterling drew her limbs closer to cover her body as her eyes darted from man to man, waiting, expecting one or all of them to attack her. They, she and the other woman, were outnumbered and it would be difficult to defend themselves against all. Lyshka stepped back. Her body was tense.

The dark-haired man expected them to gather food and water, but she would not go alone with any man to search above or below. Turning her eyes, she suspiciously studied the other woman. The woman was darker than she, and her clothing was marked with an exotic design. Lyshka wondered at her.

Feeling Lyshka’s gaze, the woman glanced at the Easterling and their eyes met. The woman nodded and Lyshka returned the gesture. To her surprise, the woman began to move toward Lyshka, but she stopped short when another prisoner caught her eye. Fury rose and flashed in the woman’s eyes, and Lyshka lifted her own body to her fullest height and flexed her fingers, ready to protect herself and the other woman if this disgusting man, the woman felt was a threat, made any move.

[Himaran]

“I am Brór, Brór Stormhand.”

Dwali thought hard for a moment; the name seemed faintly familierly, but still out of the reach of his waning memory. Ah, what did it matter; Brór would die too, burning in the fires of Mordor like them all. This was just a respite, and intermission; then they would all be recaptured, tortured, and finally sent away from this dark hell. But if he was to face that fate, Dwali knew that he would go down fighting; and now was the time to prepare. Death and orcs are certainly not the same... but one results in the other, and I intend to be ready for both.

"Then you must be... Dorim. Come, let's find some blades." They began to traverse the courtyard, staying fairly close together. Dwali found a stout, single-headed axe to supplement the knife he had stolen, and the other dwarves had similar luck. Clothing was slightly more difficult to come by; there were many bodies, but most of the orc dead wore tattered rags and torn armor. Than Dorim gave a shout, motioning them over. Two large Uruks, obviously captains, lay sprawled on the stone floor; arrows protruding from their necks and torsos.

"These will do," he said, but there was immediately an uncomfortable pause. Three dwarves were staring at two sets of armor and leather garmets. Dwali, however, signaled for Brór and Dorim to take them; he was already better clothed than they. Grateful for the quick resolution to what could have become a prolonged argument, the pair stripped the orcs quickly. They were pleased when minutes later, Dwali found a similarly dressed corpse. Thus, the trio returned to the meeting place wearing and carrying full orc gear, and although quite uncomfortable, it would provide enought protection in the probable event of a fight.

[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.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor was free. The mere thought of it sent his mind into a constant whirl of emotions and dreams. He was ripped away from his reverie as he heard Grash speaking to the others about searching for the much needed supplies. He completely agreed but he was too nervous and too unsure of this freedom to make any movements or to speak at all. As he stood and watched he saw the Elves and Dwarves take off with their own and another clambering after the Elves, he noticed that a strange and peculiar man had gestured to Grash. As Grash replied with his own gesture it soon became quite apparent that they were going to travel together. Zuromor stood there shaking. He was not sure if he should follow or merely wander about by himself. After all he had been alone for so long... how could he travel with others? While he was thinking this all over time was moving along and he soon realized that he would have to stand up from here on and be as strong as he portrayed himself to be. He quickly moved up next to Grash and walked proudly as his beaten body would allow.

"I search with you as well!"

He did this to stand up for the first time and also because he did not trust himself. What would he do on his own? Surely dispair would seize him, and he would forever be alone. He also did not trust Grash's other partner. But he simply shrugged it off as his being weary of company, for he had never known it.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Lurg knew few things. He knew, for instance, how to skin a rat so that the choicest morsels would be preserved. He knew how to toy with a prisoner for days without killing him. And he knew that when the Big Chiefs began to brawl with one another, to lay low and wait for it all to be over. He did not know why the orcs of the Tower had begun to fight with those from Morgul. He did not know who had invaded the Tower, nor what they had brought with them that had driven the Chiefs into an even greater frenzy of greed and bloodlust than usual. He didn’t care. His only care this long nasty night had been to play dead and wait for it all to be over.

In the worst part of it he had slipped down the stairs to the first level where a nice pile of bodies lay out upon the parapets, having been thrown there from the levels above. He wormed his way beneath the bodies and kept still, comforting himself from time to time by licking the blood that pooled upon the stone below him. The sounds of battle died, but he remained where he was just in case. The first time he thought it was safe to come out, the Watchers had started bleating. The second time, a cry of agony from somewhere far above had stilled his movements. But now, finally, it was time. Gingerly removing himself from his grisly cover, he slunk to the stairs once more. He stuck his head into the stairwell with great care, half expecting one of those filthy Morgul maggots to slice it off. What he was not expecting was to come face to face with three ragged looking Dwarves, all of them laden with orc arms and weapons and coming down the stairs from the upper levels.

For a split second, none of them moved or spoke. The Dwarves merely stared at him stupidly, as shocked as he by their encounter. Lurg recognised them immediately, for he had often sought entertainment in the dungeon. He had, at one time or another, played with all the prisoners down there, but the Dwarves had been a special practice of his. Their fabled endurance and hardiness presented just the kind of challenge that fired his wicked imagination, and he had spent many hours thinking of ways to entertain himself with them, and hours more putting those wicked imaginings into cruel practice. Lurg recovered from his shock quickly, and with the cunning of his race instantly put a plan into action. As quickly as a stinging adder he drew his dagger and lunged at the smallest of the Dwarves, seizing him about the neck with one hairy forearm and pressing his jagged blade into the terrified flesh just beneath the Dwarf’s ear. He knew this one well, having long enjoyed the pitiful display of the Dwarf’s hatred for his race, even through the torture. Dwali was his name.

The Dwarf struggled to free himself but it was useless; despite his native strength, his years of imprisonment had so weakened his body and will that he was no match to the evil ferocity of the orc. Dwali tried to pull out a knife but the orc pressed his own into the skin so that he drew blood. “Drop it, my pretty,” he hissed in his ear. “You know how well I can use a blade, so drop your own or I’ll split you from neck to ear!” Dwali had no choice but to do as he was told. He dropped his knife and his axe upon the flagstones.