Land of Darkness RPG

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Lurg trembled in his chains as he was led before the Screecher, and thrown to where its feet would be, if it actually had feet. He cowered upon the ground like a worm, not daring to look up at his master. A terrible black hand seized the back of his throat and its touch was like fire and ice as it pulled him aloft like a rat. Lurg tried to look away from the awful emptiness of the Screecher’s hood, but his eyes were dragged into the void of night which lay there, and from whence issued a thin voice that hurt him.

“You survived the slaughter at Cirith Ungol,” it hissed. “You allowed the prisoners to escape.”

“No no!” Lurg squealed like a stuck rodent. “I didn’t! It was the captains. . .they got to fighting over something and one thing led to another. I tried to recapture the prisoners, but there were too many of them, and the other orcs ran away. . .”

“Silence!” the Screecher warned, shaking him mercilessly so that he flopped about in the mighty hand like a dirty rag. “You ran from your post and let them escape. You deserve to be roasted over coals for that and served to my mount.” Lurg cringed in the knowledge that just such a fate had befallen several of his mates. Since the defeat in the West the Screechers had all been more than usually cruel and short-tempered: before it had happened, Lurg would not have believed that such a thing were even possible. “But I have a better use for you. The prisoners have made it to the High Path. They have caused chaos in my army and even dared to assault me” and there came from the darkness a hiss of such hatred and malice that the orcs who stood about watching fell back in terror. “I have not the time to deal with the scum as they deserve,” the Screecher continued when he recovered from his rage. “So you shall deal with them for me. Take two score of your companions and search the High Pass for the prisoners. When you find them, kill them and bring their skins to me personally. If you do this, I will allow you to be tortured by your fellow orc-maggots. Fail me, and I will have you taken before the dark throne where my Master will gaze upon you with the Eye.”

Lurg collapsed in the Screecher’s hand. Seeing his triumph, Khamûl, the new King of the Nazgûl let him drop to the hard stone of the Morgul Vale. “Choose the maggots you will need for this from the forward ranks – I will not waste my good troops on that filth in the High Pass.”

Lurg raised himself to his feet as the Screecher passed on. He shook himself roughly trying to regain his composure. He had been taken by the outriders of the army just at the Dark Lord’s Stones and when they had brought him before their Master he was sure he was doomed, so he grasped this one last chance eagerly. He looked to the sky and saw that the day was already passing into afternoon – he would have to run his maggots hard if they were to reach the path before nightfall…


Grash

Grash watched in horror as the Nazgûl discovered Raies and then Morgoroth in the army. From where he and Jordo had concealed themselves it was difficult to see clearly all that was happening, but he saw enough to know that Morgoroth had been slain, and that most of the company would soon join him in the melee that broke out amongst the orcs. Such fights were common with orc-kind and Grash knew that it would be a bloody, vicious affair in which anyone not careful and quick would be struck down. He ducked his head behind the rock that he and Jordo had selected as their hiding place, his mind racing. What were they to do? There was no hope that any of the company could possibly escape to the path now – the only reasonable thing to do would be to go on without them. Grash looked at Jordo, not sure how the boy would react to this. He had seen how the youth had taken to the Elves, and how he had been almost incapable of responding to any other member of the party. Leaning forward, he put his hand on Jordo’s shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting fashion. “No hope for others,” he said gently. “All dead now. We go on alone. Come.” He stood up, pulling on the youth’s hand. “Come, come!” he urged, pulling at him.

“No!” Jordo cried, pulling his hand away and leaping upright. “We cannot go on without Raies and Morgoroth! He spun and made to run back down the path. Grash grabbed him about the shoulders, trying to stay him in his madness and scuffle ensued. They fell upon the ground. Jordo was young and strong, but Grash’s natural caginess soon gave him the upper hand. He straddled the form of Jordo, pinning his shoulders with his knees.

“No!” he barked in a hoarse whisper. “We go on. Others are dead, others are gone. No hope, no…” His words caught in his throat as he say two shapes upon the path. He struggled to his feet, his hand reaching for the dagger at his waist, but as he drew the weapon the foremost of the two stepped forward and in the morning light Grash saw the noble features of Darash emerge. He nearly dropped the dagger with surprise as she and Lyshka came forward. They were battered and bloodied, but the blood was not all theirs, and they bore an air of triumph about them. “How?” Grash staggered, “What?” But his amazement was stopped by the more staggering sight of the others on the path immediately behind them. Coming up the path was the Dwarf Brór with Zuromor and Raies behind him. The man and the Elf kept close together, and something about the manner in which Zuromor helped Raies along caught Grash’s attention. But this was soon stricken from his mind by the most amazing sight of all. The last pair coming along the path was Morgoroth, not dead at all but terribly wounded, on the supportive arm of Jeren.

The company yet lacked Dwali and Aldor but there was no longer time to wait for them. The sun was climbing behind the clouds and the pitch of night in Mordor was giving way to a grey dawn. The company was upon the path to freedom, but it was still largely open to the view of any in the Vale. They were tired beyond the strength of mortal beings, but they forced themselves to climb. The path wound its way up the steep shoulder of the mountain, slowly circling around to the south until the oppressive sight of the Dead City disappeared behind it. There was a palpable sense of relief in the group as they moved beyond the view of that place.

They pressed ahead for a few hours until they reached the summit of the path at midday. Without any words being spoken, they halted and fell to the ground.

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the dead city faded out of sight behind them, Raeis turned to walk backwards, shading her eyes against the fierce, merciless sun as she watched the Dead City leaving their sight. The dark, fierce towers stabbed viciously into the sky, unnatural and cruel looking, tormenting all around by the way they twisted the landscape, but the elf forced herself to keep watching, walking backwards, until the very last tip of the very last spire of the very last dark, mutilated tower had dipped out of sight. Dropping her head backwards, Raeis closed her eyes and smiled blissfully: it was gone.

"Gone." She breathed the word reverently as she opened her eyes and turned around to the rest. The motley assortion of escapees didn't even comment or raise an eyebrow as to her strange behaviour: none of them could have been called normal exactly, and the erratic behaviour of other's was nothing to such a strange group. But several of them did turn back to squint against the sun to where the Dead City wasn't; and seeing that it was so, they smiled, very slightly, a sense of relief coming over them, a sense of release that they had not felt since they first got out of the dark, damp holes which had been their cells, their prisons and nightmares, for so long. Of course, they were not yet safe - but to get that unsightly, twisted silhouette out of view...it seemed like an achievement.

Zurumor looked across at Raeis and she smiled back at him thoughtlessly. The man looked surprised and smiled gently back, reaching out towards her and, very gently, touched her shoulder gingerly, tenderly, then withdrew. The elf cocked her head onto one side, looking across at him, then smiled again. She loved the feeling it gave her, the way her muscles moved so naturally into the position, her lips pulling out so that she could feel the creases even up to her eyes. It seemed to make Zurumor happy as well, for her did the same again; but his smile seemed slightly different, seeming to use his eyes more than his actual lips. Raeis was fairly sure she wasn't doing the same with her eyes: was that how she looked, soulful, deep, kind - welcoming? Surely not: if she had managed to inject all those things into her eyes while smiling, she probably would have noticed at some point along the way. Looking around, she surveyed the others in the group, battle stained and torn, limping and scarred - but proud and victorious with it. Such a motley assortment of ragged beings you would not find elsewhere in Middle Earth if you scoured every inch for one hundred years: but a strange group of precious stones have different strengths and different facets, and no matter how shattered one seems, it will always add to the impression, the many sided pile that protects itself at all levels, no matter how odd it seems. Every one counts.

Except one.

Raeis glanced over at Darash where she walked side by side with Lyshka, the two women as thick as thieves. But the noble slavewoman seemed to feel some gaze on her, and turned her smouldering gaze back to Raeis suspiciously, then relaxed. Raeis mouthed a word to her: Aldor?

The woman's eyes narrowed dangerously and she shrugged, somehow conveying great depth in that one gesture. Raeis frowned slightly: if there is a sickly animal, you should keep it in sight, lest there is something infectious that could kill them all. She blinked at the metaphor formed in her mind, vaguely unsure of where it had come from, before drifting away from Zurumor towards Morgoroth, not noticing the brief slide of shock and hurt that flitted across the man's good natured face momentarily, a cloud passing over the sun.

The dark elf was limping terribly, head down and breathing deeply, supported by Jeren, but his pace was steady and his shoulders shook with determination. He flailed suddenly as he stumbled on a stone and Raeis caught him: weaker than she had been she was, but Morgoroth had been prepared to pay the ultimate sacrifice of blood for her. Awkwardly slipping her head under his other arm, she supported him with Jeren as best as she could, allowing him to walk more easily and with less effort. Still breathing heavily, the dark elf turned to her, strands of wet, black hair streaking his forehead. Raeis nodded deeply to him from beath her burden and tried out her smile again, this time more moderately, as she placed her free hand on her kinsman's chest, a silent gesture of thanks saying more than words could for what he had been prepared to give simply for the life of a broken elfwoman.

[Novnarwen]

Rhând

He cursed loudly, using the foulest words he could pronounce. Seven Orcs against two women: how could the outcome - both the women had escaped from the incident alive and unharmed, - be possible, Rhând asked himself. He cursed again. "Stupid twits! Useless idiots!" He groaned, shaking with rage. In order to escape himself, he had jeopardised everything he longed for. Now, he couldn’t possibly return to the prisoners. If Darash and Lyshka found Grash, they would certainly tell him about the attack, and if they had seen Rhând, they would tell Grash about that too. It was too risky, way too risky.

He was alone now. There was no one, except the Orcs, swarming around. How long could he manage to stay in this costume and avoid revealing himself? Knowing that at some point, the lousy costume would cause suspicion and his true self would be revealed, he hurried out of the crowd, cursing again. For how long could he go on like this? If Rhând was to find an ally amongst the Orcs, how could he be able to convince them anyway? Shaking his head, cursing his misfortune, he realised the facts: he didn’t look like a Haradrim, and would certainly be taken as a Gondorian spy and they would kill him instantly, unless... Yes, of course. He knew where the others were heading. He knew their route. Grinning to himself, he remembered the conversation with Grash, where he had asked specifically about the route. The route will be the key to my freedom, the key to Him. It will grant me my wish, my desire. I will finally again be His faithful servant. He frowned. If he was to carry out this plan, he would havr wait for the right moment to strike, even though it would take some time.

*

The day grew older. Slowly, the minutes and hours passed by. Rhând had wandered around and about, choosing his own path. He knew where the others were heading, but he needed allies. He couldn't do this alone, not now if his cover was blown. The situation he found himself in, reminded him of the cell in the Tower, where he had been held for many months. He'd been alone there too, except when some of the Orcs had paid him a visit now and then. He didn't speak to anyone, and none spoke to him; a strange silence, just like it had been in the Tower. There were only sounds, such as the hissing from the breeze coming in from his window, the Orcs jabbering and the rats squeaking; sounds he didn't really listen to. All in all, he was completely alone.

Wandering slowly, his feet aching, he tried figuring where he was supposed to go. The prisoners were heading for Ithilien. He knew that much. But where was Ithilien? Which direction? Being a person with little sense of locality, he again reminded himself of that he needed allies. He couldn't wait long either; he needed someone now.

"Come on, you lazy and useless apes! Move!"

He turned. A voice, here? Shaking with fear, he threw himself behind a group of stones and made himself as small as possible.

"Move it, I said!"

The ground trembled. Heavy feet were about. Rhând didn't move. He didn't dare. Who was heading this way, his way, whichever way it was? The sound of the armours, made Rhând drop dead. Orcs probably, he thought. I have to get moving myself, he thought, knowing that Orcs in general had a very good sense of smell. Crawling, hearing that whoever it was approached quickly, he became aware of his own Orcish armour and how much sound it made. Scared stiff now, he listened to the Orcs stop.

"Did you hear that?!" The voice reflected a brutality that scared the poor Haradrim so much that he actually wished he was back in his cell. At least, he had been somewhat safe there. He always knew what would happen to him at all times. If there were footsteps approaching his cell, he knew someone would come in, he would be beaten. Now, on the other hand, there were footsteps too, but he didn't know exactly who it was, and what would happen to him if he was caught.

"That ain't no rate or mouse, Lurg! That's something far bigger. Fresh flesh. Human maybe?"

"I second that! Maybe, it's them; those petty prisoners. I'll give 'em in. I've my blade ready! Find 'em now!"

Hearing this, Rhând panicked. He began to crawl in the sandy ground as fast as he could, wanting to escape this horrible Lurg. He breathed heavily, crawling. He was shaking, breathing and sweating at the same time. The Haradrim just wanted to get away and crawled on, but something stopped him however.

"Where do ya think you're going." Rhând stared into a pair of eyes, reflecting pure evil. "Can't find yer way? Lost, maybe?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jeren gave his strength to helping the Elf, who remained silent within his own wounds and thoughts as they followed the path. Morgoroth was too tall for Jeren to aid with ease or comfort, but somehow and in some unspeakable way the Southron put aside his own comforts and his own pains for someone who felt deeper pain. Jeren's own scratches and cuts and wounds seemed to stop throbbing or seemed to become dull poundings against his skin when he thought of the Elf's spilled blood and weary body. He had never thought much for the majesty of the Elven kind, until he came to know two of them up close. They seemed somehow more human than Jeren had once thought...

No!

It is folly to think that this changes things... Jeren thought bitterly, shifting his weight as he struggled to hold up Morgoroth. The dark Elf did indeed try his best to hold as much of his own weight as he could, but Jeren also did his best to ensure that Morgoroth did not fall. The other Elf, Raeis, ducked under Morgoroth's other arm to help, and Jeren thanked her with a slight nod that she may or may not have noticed. This changes nothing...it does not change the things I have done.

The Southron remembered how he had gotten himself imprisoned to begin with. A failed mission to attack one of the Elven lands had cost him his freedom. He had once planned to fight and kill the beings he now helped and called companions. Fighting blindly the people that his superiors told him to fight, leading soldiers into battle and to their deaths for a cause he never really believed in. A cause he never really even knew much about. It would be far too sentimental for Jeren to say that now he realized the beauty of the Elves, or their history or their ways...because the only thing he realized during his journey was that Elves were not so different from himself in their will to survive and their desire for freedom.

"Raeis?" Jeren murmured, not wanting to be lost once more within his own thoughts. The Southron had rarely, if ever, spoken to the female Elf, but he yearned to hear the voice of another instead of the voice that reigned within his own head.

"Yes?"

"Where will you go? When this is all over, I mean..."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The prisoner was brought to Lurg, who stood over the man as the Nazgûl had stood over him. The orc tried to mimic the menace and terror of the Wraith, but it was useless, for he was not filled with the will of his lord – he was only a maggot-servant obeying the commands of his dread master. Still, in this situation life was his to give or deny…

“Well, well, well…” he drawled. “What have we here, then? A rat? It looks like we’ve caught a rat, boys! And from the looks of ‘im, he’s a rat that’s escaped from the cellars of Cirith Ungol. Why, I remember this rat – used to play with him myself, from time to time. Always carrying on he was, claiming to ‘love the Dark Lord’” he adopted a high falsetto voice and minced about in mockery of Rhând, “‘Don’t hurt me, please please. I want to serve the Lord. I was betrayed by nasty Gondorians. I am a good servant of the Master.’” A rough chorus of orc laughter spread over the prisoner like a carpet of whips.

Laughing himself, Lurg drew his ragged knife from his belt. Taking the prisoner by the hair, he pulled back his head and made to slice his throat.

“No, wait!” the man cried out. “I am a loyal servant of the Dark Lord! Do not slay me!” His words, so close in tone and manner to the mocking of Lurg, brought the ors to their knees with hilarity. Many of them took up the cry themselves, “I am a loyal servant! I am a loyal servant!” until the rocks rang with their screams.

“Enough of this!” Lurg bellowed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “We’ve not the time. If we’re going to capture the rest of these maggots, we need to be on that blasted Path by nightfall.” He advanced on Rhând once more.

When the man spoke this time, it was with greater caution and thought. Lurg, a quick witted and wicked creature, could see the plans evolving in the slave’s mind. “If you want to capture the other prisoners,” Rhând started, desperately, “I can help you.”

Lurg paused. Cocking his head to one side he growled, “How?”

“I know where they are going,” the man said, gaining confidence, “and I have won their trust, they think I am one of them. If you take me with you, I can lead you to them and help you take them all. All I ask is that you spare me now, and let our masters know of my loyalty later.”

Lurg turned this over in his mind for few moments. If the slave were telling the truth, then the orc knew that he and his companions should torture the information out of the slave, but that might take time and the sun as fast setting. Soon it would be full dark, and even for their eyes the way would be hard to find, and travelling slow… “All right,” he said to the man (to the general dismay of the orcs), “we’ll take you with us. But if you lead us wrong, or if you’re lying…”

“I’m not lying,” the man said, relief overspreading his hideous features. “You won’t regret this. Come on!” And like a spurned puppy, eager to receive its new master’s praise, Rhând sprang ahead, beckoning the orc party after him.

[Novnarwen]

Rhând

He was dragged forth by horror. The horror the orcs represented, and partly the horror from this unknown territory; this strange land. He marched in the front, having the orcs behind him.

Except from the sound of their feet treading the hard ground, it was dead silent. It was this odd sort of silence that made the Haradrim nervous. Was there no other living thing in this land? Was there no one except them, who were breathing this very air? He slowed down, feeling his legs aching. He was not used at walking for ages at a time. After being locked up for several months, this type of gymnastics was terribly heavy on him.

"Rat! Slow down once more, and you'll be meat tonigh'!" It was Lurg speaking. The gigantic figure trotted up to Rhând's side and gave him an evil look. The Orc drew his blade, holding it in his right hand, pointing threateningly at Rhând. He realised his mistake, but why should he be bossed around? He was a Haradrim! He was a faithful servant! If ever this came out when he turned home, that he had been under command of some stupid Orcs, he would never be respected again! Orcs were stupid! Rhând was not.

"I will be no one's meat!" he said sternly, his first vision of Lurg coming to mind; Lurg had been running out of the courtyard like a desperate ape, afraid that the scary prisoners would kill him. He grinned to himself, looking at Lurg who gave him yet another of his evil looks.

With a deep breathe, scared that all of this could lead to a wrong end, he spoke again: "You listen to me! I know where these prisoners are. You don't! Neither of you do! Tell me, what happens to you if you come back with no prisoners? Do you think your master will reward you with a grand prize?" He looked at them, noticing them paying attention. "You know what I think? If you don't find these prisoners, and come back with nothing . . . all of you will be fed to the dogs... or the other orcs.. All this will happen before either of you can even say the word meat!!. Now, imagine that!"

There was a loud gasp. This speech seemed to have put a fright into some of them. Rhând gazed about, not yet satisfied however. He would have to make it perfectly clear. He was their master; without him they would be lost.

Without a warning, Lurg grabbed a hold of Rhând. "He's fooling you! I say, let's kill him now! We don't need him!" A loud chorus of rough voices surprised the Haradrim, who had almost been certain that all of this was going his way. Rhând looked alarmingly around. If he didn't say something now to save himself, Lurg's blade would be the last thing he would ever see.

"Shut up, Lurg!” he said, without thinking. He cursed in his native tongue. “I have seen you before. Only, last time you weren't that tough. You ran out of the courtyard surrounding the Tower, like a frightened child. You couldn't catch any of us that time. What makes you think you can catch any of the prisoners now? You caught me, because I wanted to. I'm a Haradrim, I'm a servant. The others, who are most definitely not servants of Him, will be impossible to catch ... unless, you keep me alive. They are smart. But we are too. Let's catch these dirty beings. You'll get your reward," Rhând said, looking at each and every, "and I'll get mine."

The orc released his grip around Rhând's neck. Lurg frowned. He is probably angry about me telling the others he ran away, Rhând thought. Even though it hadn't gained popularity with Lurg, it had to some extent with the others. Finally, a pathetic side of their always so dangerous superior orc, Lurg, had been revealed to them. I guess they feel relieved, just as I do.

Looking around once more, he realised that there was no way out of this; he would have to lead the way. He was surrounded by these stupid creatures, which were aware of his existence. If he didn't keep his promise and tried tricking them, they would certainly kill him, and without hesitation. Yes, he would have to accept this; the orcs were the allies he had longed for. They would help him to success; to Him.