Land of Darkness RPG

[Novnarwen]

His forehead was covered in sweat and so was the rest of his body. Still running after the orc, he realised that the armour, which was heavier than first expected, slowed him down. Long ahead, he watched one of the women trying desperately to stop the orc, but naturally she failed. As he ran along, more slowly for each step, he felt the bit from the rat giving him repeatedly the feeling of being on fire. Clenching his teeth, not wanting to seem weak, he ran on trying to catch up with one of the others.

If you cannot run faster than this, how do you expect to win the first prize? If you cannot even show them that you are strong, how can you later convince them? If you cannot even make useful friendships now, how can you ever? If you cannot even throw your blade at the orc ahead of you, and thereby gain trust amongst these pathetic prisoners, how will you gain it? If you cannot even manage this, how do you expect to get away from them? If you cannot even make yourself useful now, how can you when you return to Him?

Not being able to runmore, he dropped dead and fell to his knees. Not wanting to admit that his health situation had altered while being imprisoned, he put all his effort into rising again. One . . . two . . . three . . . he counted, frowning. Knowing for certain that his future, (if he had any), depended on this; his will, he got up. He would pretend as nothing had happened. It was true, what the voice in his head had said; how could he later convince them that he was strong, if he was nearly dying now? If anyone of them had seen him, he would say that he had tripped or that the air of the Land of Darkness made him sick.

Rising his head, his nostrils being filled with new air, he saw to his despair the orc running through the gate. It wouldn't matter if he couldn't walk much further. Their journey would be very short. With this in mind, Rhând knew that he could either pretend as they were getting out anyway, trying to convince them by doing something which indicated that he was still up for it, or he could suit himself and go back to his cell where he would probably stay for thirteen more months if he didn't die before that time had passed. Considering that latter for a while, he questioned himself: would he survive long enough to get another chance of escaping, or would this be his first and only chance?

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash’s heart fell as he saw the orc disappear through the arch and down the Road that none of them could follow. He cursed their luck and swore in the BlackTongue. “Thrack! Granka-rûk slog búraz nratal!” He whirled about to where Aldor stood and began indicating that he should go back into the cellars. “Go, go,” he said, “must be gone. Must be gone soon. Gather food, gather water – no more time, no more time.” He turned to where Zuromor was standing, crestfallen by his failure to stop the monster. He rushed to his side and seized him by the arm, pulling him frantically toward the inner doors. “Come, come” he urged. “Orcs will know now. Know we are gone.”

Zuromor delicately removed himself from the grasping hands of the smaller man and looked at him sternly. “I understand our situation,” he said. Grash turned then to the women. He had been surprised and impressed by Darash’s display of courage and skill, and as he beheld her now it was with new eyes. He moved to where she stood and addressed her with greater reverence than he had with either Aldor or Zuromor. “Come. Must gather food, must gather water. Must leave now. Orc will bring more orcs.” He knew that she could not understand him, so he pointed to the cellar doors and indicated with hand gestures that they needed food. He turned also to the Easterner woman. He did not know what tongue she spoke so he tried both the Black Speech, and his fragmented version of the Common Tongue, bidding her in both to return to the cellars. The two women regarded him coldly, with hostility even, and he resisted the urge to take hold of them, as he had done with both Zuromor and Aldor. It struck him for the first time that there was something oddly familiar about each of them, and although he was in a near panic to get them moving, he allowed himself the brief luxury of examining their faces. The Easterner had the look of a hunted being – it was one that he knew well, having grown up with it on all sides. But there remained yet a streak of iron in her gaze, particularly when she looked upon himself or the other Men, although he fancied that perhaps she was somewhat less wary toward him. The other, Darash, was an altogether different matter. Her height and beauty suited her, as did her bearing which was – if Grash had known the words to put to his feelings – regal. She regarded him with pride, but it was the hauteur of one who was in total control of herself, and who was used to exercising command over others. Recognition of this was a shock to Grash, who to this point had associated the idea of authority only with the whip and the iron hand of the orc. It had never occurred to him that there might be another way to command. This was a mystery to him, but apparently not to Darash. It both awed and, at the same time, scared him a little. He almost bowed to her as he spoke once more, this time attempting to project deference. “Come, come. To the cellars. Food and water, then we go.”

He saw that the women understood and was delighted when then appeared to comply, joining the Men as they moved back into the cellars of the Tower. But not all the Men were going back underground, for Aldor was once more at Grash’s side. “I have sent the three Dwarves with the others,” he said, “they seemed happy to be together again. But what of the others? Where are the Elves and the other slave?”

Grash looked about the courtyard but of course they were not there. He then looked up at the Tower looming above them, as did Aldor. “Thrack!” Grash cursed once more. He turned to Aldor, “Go. Get others to gather food and water. I find Elves, bring them down.”

Without waiting for a response he headed for the Tower, but as he began to climb the stairs he heard a foot upon the steps behind him. Looking back he saw that Aldor had followed him. Aldor smiled. “We must not split up too much in here,” he explained. “There might be more enemies about.” Grash nodded and accepted Aldor’s company, for what he said made good sense. Perhaps Aldor would be a good person to have at his side, after all.

[Himaran]

The two dwarves, upon meeting with Grash in the tower, began to make their way down into the depths of Cirith Ungol. Victuals were the company's next concerns, and would prove to be more difficult to locate than weapons and armor had been. Neither dwarf had any idea where the "kitchen" could be found, if one existed at all. Orcs were sustained by the same foods as other beings, but were fed on far less appealing fare; and who knew where it was kept. "There must be storerooms somewhere," said Dwali as they tramped along the dimly-lit hallway. "Probably down in a pit somewhere, like everything else."

The dwarf's first statement, (the more optomistic of the two, surprisingly), turned out to be the correct one. They soon arrived at a door, which was apparently locked. "Not a problem," stated a confident Brór, who raised his mace and brought it down on the lock. It virtually shattered, and Dwali moved to enter the room. But the door would not budge.

"Must be locked from the inside," muttered Brór. Then suddenly, they both arrived at the same inevitable conclusion; for if the door was barred from the inside, an enemy waited within. Or more than one, perhaps, but the warriors cared not; they wished more for revenge than feasting and wine. The entrance was blocked by thick wood, but steel would prove the victor; as Dwali's axe quickly made several cuts through the door. Brór backed up, and hurled himself forward, but the gate only shook. Then the younger dwarf took a few steps away, turned, and with a look of rage so deep and agonizing that it penetrated every figment of his being, charged it. The door virtually flew off of its hinges, and collapsed onto the floor inside the chamber.

The dwarves stepped inside the room slowly, crouched and expecting a wave of resistence to leap out at any given moment. But nothing came, and they soon began to look for other things besides orcs. "This must be the storeroom," stated Dwali triumphantly. Sure enough, sacks of food and skins of water were lined up along the wall; sadly, there would not be quite enough for the entire company's journey out of Morder. At least, not a journey without hunger.

"We will have to make several trips," said Brór. "And find out how much Grash wants to take with us. It may weigh down the group out in the mountains, if we ever do manage to leave this tower." They were turning to go, laden with several heavy packs, when Dwali was heaved forward; landing on his face with a heavy sack on top of his already weakened frame. Brór dropped his burdens and swung out his mace, watching a small orc circle him with blades at ready. The dwarf charged, and achieved surprise as he knocked away the orc's longer scimitar. But the creature, knowing that he stood no chance against the larger and more ferocious opponent, turned a ran.

Suddenly, an axe flashed up from the ground like an old-fashioned trap; burying itself deep in the orc's chest. A mace also connected with the fleeing beast, and its head landed on the floor several paces away. Dwali tugged his weapon out and stood, patting Brór on the shoulder. "I guess we both got our revenge, friend." As if in agreement, a loud rumbled shook the chamber. Exchanging strange looks, the dwarves hefted their packs and exited the room without another word; making for the meeting place.

[Bêthberry]

She stood watching the man Grash race upstairs to collect the others. Not again had he derided her about the food and water. She nodded to herself: he could learn. He has native cunning, she decided, for he was sharp like the leopard. And he had understood the disaster of the orch getting away and was trying to move them all quickly. Perhaps she could work with him after all. This other long pig, though, the one called "Ahldhor"--trying out his name in her mind--she did not like him. Shiftless like carrior-eaters.

Darash. Darash. This name she tried out in her mind as well. He had called her this before, she remembered. Kwenye drasa she said to herself, breathing deeply and feeling her shoulder sore where she had fallen on it. She stretched out her arms, feeling the sensation of the break in her bones even though now mended. She wondered if he knew these words, or why else had he taken them for her name? Darash she said again to herself. It will do; she would answer to it.

"Leshkiya," she called aloud to the other woman, trying out the name she had heard. The woman looked into her eyes and understood. They began to call to the others to return immediately to the cellar, to bring their weapons and clothes.

The orch had escaped, he would tell others they were free. They must hurry, she thought, as she and Lyshka and the others found the storeroom where Grash had directed them. She looked over the foods, sniffing jars and touching loaves which were not very different from the foods they had fed her in the cell. She packed some away but refused to taste the water she found in bottles and large kegs. It smelt of iron, like a spear after being fired in flame. This was the water she had seen the orc drink which deranged their minds even more. This she would not touch. She took an empty leather flask, for she would fill it with fresh water once they had found a river.

They had even less time now to escape. But the others, these strange people, the tall ones and the short ones, they were forgetting their purpose. She shook her head and called out to all the slaves who were assembled in the cellar and then she even risked calling out up the stairs. "Harrree, harrree," she commanded. "Leevah." It was the first time she had ever used words of their language on her tongue. It felt strange but refreshing, like the herb limbaya at home. She would learn more of this language, she decided.

If they were able to escape. She waited impatiently for Grash to return with the others.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash was only two or three turns up the stairs when he found the Elves. They were speaking to one another in their own language, and though he could not understand their words, the very sound of their conversation gave him an odd kind of comfort. For a moment he was almost able to forget the terror and panic that had come over him in the wake of the orc’s escape, and he stood frozen before them. The male turned ageless eyes upon him and did not speak, and in that moment Grash felt as though he were a child again. He shivered, and the calming thoughts few from his mind, for this feeling reminded him of the one thing that all people knew of Elves – that they were immortal, and that they kept this immortality by stealing the lifeblood of others…

Aldor came up behind him as Grash spoke to the Elves. He gestured down the stairs with as much urgency as he could, saying, “Come, come, hurry. No time, no time for talking and looking. Orc has escaped, will bring others. Must go now.” For a second it appeared as though the Elves were going to ignore him but then wordlessly they began to descend. The female regarded him with a wary, questioning gaze, but he might as well have been invisible to the male Elf for all the attention that he gave the Man. Relieved that he had found them, Grash was turning to go when he noticed that other slave, Jordo, standing quietly in the shadows. Grash turned upon the Man angrily, for he needed speed from everyone. “Hurry!” he said roughly. “No time to hide. Come now or leave you here to be peeled by orcs!” Jordo’s face took on a look of genuine terror and he seemed to shrink into the wall. Grash felt a wave of emotion that he could hardly understood, for it had been long since he felt sympathy for anyone. That last time he had felt it, he had lost his mind with rage, and that is what hand landed him in the cellars. His mind went back, unbidden, to that day when the orc had attacked the slave woman. He felt once more the heft of the scythe in his hands, and the jarring crunch that came through the wood when he had severed the orc’s head… He reached out to Jordo with as comforting a gesture as he could. “Come,” he said more gently. “Come with Grash, we must go.”

Jordo seemed to relax somewhat, but his eyes moved to the Elves. The female had turned and was looking back at the Men. She waved to Jordo, who broke for her as though he were a hunted thing running from a predator to its small hole. Grash sighed; at least they were all moving in the right direction at last.

As he and Aldor followed the others down the stairs, the other Man spoke to him about the Elves in a low whisper. “I can see that you do not trust the Ageless Ones,” he said. “I’m not sure that I do either, but they are reputed to be great fighters and to have magical healing powers. I think they will be good allies in our escape. Still,” he said, as though a new thought were occurring to him, “we might do well to keep an eye on them. I’m sure they would not betray us to the Enemy, but with Elves, well, who knows? It’s said that they only really look out for themselves. They are much like the Dwarves in that, I fear.” Grash knew nothing of Elves or Dwarves, and Aldor’s words went to his heart like cold iron. He had, to this point, only been concerned with escaping the Tower and then getting by the Monster that lurked in the tunnel. It had not occurred to him that there might be dangers from within the group of prisoners…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Novnarwen's post

Unexpectedly, a new chance for him to convince Grash was presented to Rhând. The skinny Haradrim had watched the elves (and one man) carefully as he and Grash had approached them. Two elves, both proud and some would say fair, had stood before them and looked hesitatingly at the two men for a moment. Not till after Grash had told them that they should go and meet the others, had they gone. But during those few seconds they had stood still, the look in their eyes could not be wrongly interpreted. It was clear that the elves were most hesitant towards both Rhând and Grash. Instantly, it struck the Haradrim that he could use this. It would be easy; Grash had looked the elves into their eyes himself and knew exactly how they felt.

The minute the opportunity became obvious to Rhând, he seized it. Glad that he had got another chance so soon, he restrained himself from storming to Grash’s side and tell him what he had on his mind. He made his move, putting up a serious face. He made Grash slow down for a moment, looked around being certain that not the elves were listening. Choosing his words with care, he expressed his uncertainty when it came to elves in general. "I can see that you do not trust the Ageless Ones," Rhând said, with a tone that implied that he completely understood Grash's feelings, but had clearly seen the doubt in his eyes just earlier. Discovering, to his satisfaction, that Grash seemed to listen, he hoped that he had managed to make the other freed prisoner doubt the elves even more. It would certainly pay off one day.

Just seconds later, they had gone through the courtyard. Rhând walked a few paces behind Grash now. If he was going to pull this through, he would have to be on the surface a silent man, who spoke little, but acted well. Underneath the facade, he would have to be the good friend of the leader, who Rhând guessed would be Grash, of whom he would trick and cheat. This way, he could control Grash, and through Grash he would be able to control the other ones who trusted Grash. The Elves, even though they were sceptical now, would soon be outnumbered when the dwarves turned against them. Deep in thought, still feeling quite ill after running after the orc and collapsing, he was greatly surprised when the sound of what seemed like an earthquake disturbed him. Looking around, alarmingly, he found himself trembling. The whole ground trembled.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Fordim Hedgethistle's post (cont'd)

They reached the courtyard and passed through to the stairs. When they were halfway down there came to Grash’s ears faint cries that sounded for the world like children’s voices. He paused and saw that the Elves too had heard the sounds. There then came a rending crash and splintering sound that shook the very foundations of the Tower, and the wailing of the Silent Watchers that had accompanied their every move was suddenly quieted. The silence was profound and eerie, and for a time they stood in wonder of what had happened. Grash was the first to recover himself. “Go, hurry,” he said gesturing them on. “I go and look, see if it’s more orcs.” Without waiting for a reply he rushed up the stairs and once more looked out the door. He was shocked to see that the gate lay in ruins, and that the Watchers had been thrown down. He looked hopefully at the ruin to see if there were some way through the rubble, but it was hopeless: the stonework had fallen almost straight down from above, creating a new barrier as impassable as the old. With a sigh he turned and went down the steps to the storeroom.

Grash was delighted to see that all of the prisoners were finally assembled. The Dwarves had found torches and were quickly setting them alight and passing them about. Grash seized one. He noted with equal satisfaction that the woman Darash had organised some of the slaves in gathering food and water. A quick survey of their stores, however, showed that they were going to be on short rations for the next few days. There was little food, and less water. Grash frowned at this, for he knew that there was little hope of finding water where they were going. He shrugged, for there was nothing to be done.

He turned to face the company. They were standing about in loose groups, clear and distinct in their division. The Dwarves were the most openly clannish, huddled together and heavily armed and armoured. The Elves were equally standoffish, but in their apparently sheltering shadow stood Jordo. The slaves appeared to be divided more naturally into male and female. Darash and Lyshka were standing as a pair, while Aldor, Jeren and Zuromor had gathered closest to Grash. All of them had done their best to look like orcs, and with the exception of the Elves – whose beauty could never be hidden – most had succeeded. Grash drew a deep breath before beginning. “We go now, into the tunnel, into where Monster waits and eats people. There is no turning or bend in tunnel – we go out through the Door, then straight straight straight to other side.”

“Aye,” replied one of the Dwarves, one that had armed himself with a huge mace, “but how are we to reach the other side with that Monster that eats people, just waiting for us?” There were murmurs of uncomfortable assent from the others.

Grash frowned. “Not all reach the other side,” he said with a complete lack of emotion. “Some get eaten, some do not. When orcs go through tunnels they take many orcs. Monster comes, eats three or four, sometimes more, but the rest go through. This is why Grash freed you all; could not go myself and get eaten. Now we all go, not all get eaten. For some there is escape, for others there is also escape, but not from Mordor.” He smiled at his own dark joke. “Come,” he said again. “We must go now, come!” He opened the Under Door. “Into Monster’s tunnel, go now, or stay here and wait for orcs.” Without waiting for a reply, he plunged headlong into the darkness.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor was the first to run in after Grash. With his torch in hand he walked closely behing Grash, expecting to see some horrible beast to come bursting out of some corner and attack them. He had no idea what this monster even looked like, let alone how to get past it. All he knew was the her name was Shelob. He had heard the orcs talking about her "having her way" with some of their own. He had respected Grash for freeing them but when he had told them that he only freed them to be monster fodder, he began to distrust him. None of them knew if he worked with the enemy. He decided that he would keep a very close eye on Grash.

THe tunnel was dark and their torches barely lit the walls around them. It had an eerie glow that pierced down to the very bones. "Grash, how do you expect to live through this? You said you freed us so you would be able to leave. What if you are one of those who are eaten?"

[CaptainofDespair]

The dark, immortal elf male stood, watching, and listening, to the clamor ringing about him. Tee dwarves, clad in their iron shod, orc armor, stood together, as if this unity might save them from the death that lurked in the Tunnel. He smirked at this sight, and continued to scan the motley group that had assembled itself in the dark, dank corridor that would take them to Her. The humans had sectioned themselves off once more, but this had been foreseen. "The Race of Men will never unite..." he murmured to himself. As he continued to sweep the area with his mysterious, brooding eyes, his mind was lured to gaze into the gateway of the foreboding, pit-like entrance of the Tunnel. Thoughts of a death soon to come swept over his mind like a flood of misery and suffering. But he caught himself, and ended his dark trance prematurely. He spun around, and met the stare of his counterpart.

"It is time," he spoke, in a cold, seemingly spiteful voice. "The Tunnel awaits us, and She will welcome our presence. We should not..." He paused, searching for a distinct word for their current situation. "...Disappoint Her," he continued after his brief lapse. "Come, we go."

Morgoroth turned round yet again, and began to walk into the Tunnel entrance. Raeis followed, with Jordo not far behind her. As they made their way into the passage, the dark, creeping air swept over the trio. All around them, cobwebs of ununsual size began to make themselves known. With only a small torch to guide the way, a sense of dread soon inched its way into the minds of those within, for none knew when the Lady of the Tunnel would strike, ensnaring those hapless enough to tread in Her Tunnel.

Thoughts of death, and a bleak future for Ea, enveloped his mind, as he wandered into the narrow, almost prison-like passages. Raeis and Jordo followed closely, watching their step, for many jagged rocks and pitfalls dotted the landscape of the Tunnel. His mind wandered, as he did, from thought to thought. The atmosphere of the tunnel was not conducive to happier thoughts, only a deepening gloom was present as they made their way between the stalagmites, and tattered and torn webs of the rocky corridors. "This will prove a most interesting situation," the dark Elf muttered to himself.