Land of Darkness RPG

[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.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor walked along with Grash and Aldor (as he soon found out was the name of the other man.) and looked around for the needed supplies. Jeren quickly caught up to them and began to tag along. As they walked Zuromor noticed something shining out of a door way. He split away from the group and walked to the door.Once he walked out the door he noticed that he stood in a large courtyard. He cautiously walked towards the object that barely shined on the floor of the courtyard, and saw that it was one of the swords he had seen the orcs wielding. He quickly snatched it up and began to swing at invisible opponets while he tried to become familiar with the weapon.

With each swing he felt the power of his body for the first time...and that power felt good. Amidst his swinging he noticed a shield still attached to the arm of a downed orc. He picked it up and put it on. As he did so Grash, Jeren, and Aldor had backtracked and found him equipping his new found equipment. They soon found their own as Zuromor found a poor example of a mail shirt , a collection of rags and a rusty cracked helmet. They all walked aimlessly around the courtyard.

Zuromor could not help but be weary of them both. Their company was great but after all this abuse he could not help but think that everyone, whether orc or no, was cruel. He had come to expect the worst in others..but they had done nothing to deserve that. As the walked Zuromor decided that these men were his friends and he welcomed them.

[Himaran]

The orc blade was sharp, but Dwali felt not the blood running down the side of his neck. He saw before him the most hideous creature on earth; a slavemaster, the slavemaster, the Uruk that had tortured the dwarves as a daily routine in the past. Part of the dwarf told him to relax and die -- it was inevitable, anyway -- but another voice in his young head was screaming for him to fight back. Somehow, the second thought was far more appealing to one enslaved by such a burning rage.

The brute's grin quickly disappeared when Dwali headbutted him, and Lurg stumbled backwards. Still holding onto his knife, he charged the dwarf, but Dwali had already scooped up his smaller weapon and caught the blow. Lurg was, however, in perfectly good shape, having lived on the best of plundered rations ever since he was rotated to the tower. The smaller of the two had been released nought thirty minutes earlier, after teetering on the edge of starvation through three years of the most inhumane treatment imaginable. Naturely, the Uruk began to force him back, and death had never seemed closer. But then something deep inside Dwali's mind simply snapped.

Years of hatred compressed inside his withering frame were suddenly released in a virtual explosion of rage; one which Lurg would not survive. The dwarf, bloodshot eyes flaring, roared and grabbed his opponent's blade with his free hand. The Uruk, obviously surprised that his target completely ignored the sharp steel cutting into the flesh of his left hand, lost sight of Dwali's right. The pair toppled to the ground, with the dwarf's fingers digging into the rough skin around Lurg's neck. Brór and Dorim simply watched in awe as their young companion began throttling the beast that had been the primary cause of their past misery. But then, for an unexplainable reason, the spell was broken. Lurg forced the dwarf off of him, then planted a knee in his forhead. The Uruk left the unconcious dwarf on the ground and turned on the others, though in a much slower manner.

[Novnarwen]

"I search with you as well!"

Rhând heard one of the freed prisoner say this over and over again in his head. After that, another Southron had followed Grash and himself, which was indeed bad news for Rhând. When being asked for his name, Rhând couldn't quite figure what to answer. If he told them his real name, he was afraid that the Southron would react. After all, he would probably recognize the name as being a name of Harad. Instead, he bit his lip and muttered therefore slowly. "Aldor. I am Aldor." Zuromor, a man with dark filthy hair and green eyes, nodded approvingly. The Southron's name was apparently Jeren, but Rhând didn't care about him too much. Just being a Southron, looking like one and having a name from Harad, would not make him popular amongst the free prisoners no matter how kind, gentle or affectionate he was. (Not that he was either of these things . . .)

After a few minutes walking, the four of them found themselves in the middle of the courtyard surrounding the Tower. From here they spread slightly, in order to get what they needed; weapons and armours. Rhând turned, going straight towards a couple of Orcs lying lifeless at the ground. He would have to find a little orc, whose armour could fit Rhând's skinny body. After the months in the tower he had definitely lost weight. And having been a bit slender before he was locked up, he certainly looked as if he was starving now. Actually, when he thought about it, he was quite hungry. He looked over his shoulder, seeing that the others were busy finding equipment. He bent down, feeling the pain of the bite that the rat had given him on his neck, searching the orcs nearby for something to eat. Nothing! he thought, cursing in his own tongue.

"Weapons?" A voice from behind made him jump. He looked into the eyes of Zuromor, who seemed to have found most of the equipment he needed. Rhând made a nod, smiling as warmly as he could. "I'll just take these," he stuttered, meanwhile pointing down at the dead orcs' selections of knives and swords. By this, Zuromor was apparently satisfied and stalked off to see if the others had found anything.

Again, Rhând cursed, but not as loudly as before. What if Zuromor had heard him talking in another tongue than the Common Speech? Would it not seem suspicious? He had already told them that his name was Aldor, and they hadn't questioned him, so they obviously believed he was from Gondor. However, if they knew that he spoke the language of the Harad, they would certainly know that he was indeed someone else than whom he claimed to be and then it would all be over. He prayed that he hadn't heard, and promised himself to only speak the Common Speech.

Bending down again, he grabbed a hold of a dead orc and began to undress him. A few minutes later, Rhând was fully dressed; having a pair of dirty boots on his feet, bearing rusty armour and a sword which was hanging from a belt. He also grabbed a few knives of which he would not show to the others. They could be very useful one day, and he covered them secretly from everyone's view. He spotted one of the others and went towards him.