Land of Darkness RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

Amanaduial's post

Raeis glanced up, slightly surprised by the question, but was not able to look far enough up to catch the man’s eyes, her neck bent as it was beneath Morgoroth’s weight. She shrugged without thinking.

“Where will I go…” she repeated the question, slowly, then trailed away. Where? She had always assumed that she would simply go home; indeed, she and Voice had discussed it often, the latter conjuring up from their mind images of a faraway land to keep the elf hopeful. Raeis remembered them, in part: slashes of light which ripped across the darkness of that cell ruthlessly, wielding weapons of peace, warmth…

...dappled sunlight across the forest floor through the canopy of leaves overhead; an elf, crouched in the trees, her golden blue and beautiful, unscarred, unburnt…unmarred face turned outwards across the boughs to the far-off lands to the South where she longed to roam…nearby another sat, leaning precariously across with the ease of one used to agility and balance through these heady perches….a flash of intense light grey eyes, golden hair… Smiling up at her, she turning to him… “Just think, Rae,” he whispered excitedly. “One day…one day we shall travel over those plains, we shall cross the great Anduin, see Ithilien, Gondor, Harad: and you and I shall dance beneath the golden, blessèd branches of Lorien…”

Raeis stumbled on a stone and her good eye flew open – and she was astonished to feel it moist despite the heat around them, a burning, dusty heat so different from the humid calm of that summer forest, conjured from her own memories… She had not revelled in them for a long time, so many timeless days in her cells having passed since she had long since given up hope and the Voice had ceased it’s comforting murmurs of hope and freedom. Jeren took the strain from her as she regained her balance dazedly, still awakening from the vivid dream, and she nodded to him gratefully as she resumed her position: without his help she would have fallen under Morgoroth’s weight.

A kind act…but he cannot keep us company as the Voice did…it could help, could keep us alive in the dark prison-hours… Raeis blinked sharply and looked away physically, as if she could look away from the thoughts. She had lost the voice, had found companions in return, but she worried about the strange truth about her friend and tormentor in the dark: she missed it.

Raeis spoke abruptly, wanting to hear another voice in place of the emptiness of her thoughts, unaware of how alike this reasoning was to Jeren’s. “I…I will return home, I suppose. Mirkwood was…”

Home? You ran from the place that you called home, remember? Ran from your parents, your life, your name… home was not a place to you in that blissful space before your imprisonment, after you left Mirkwood: it was a person. One person. Caromanieth. The one person you can never return to.

The Southrons killed him.

Raeis shot a fierce look across at Jeren and was surprised when he returned it calmly, his eyes utterly emotionless. From inside her mind, Aman saw and understood wordlessly more from that exchange of looks than she maybe could have seen in conversation with this man in his whole lifetime: underneath his cool dark exterior, some bad memory brewed fitfully – some anger to do with the elves, to do with her, as her anger was to do with him. Raeis held his gaze then looked away, at the same time that he did, but a second later couldn’t resist peeking back at him through her shattered eye. The hurt at loss of the Voice seemed to dull a little: it had been wrong about these Men, both Grash, the one who had let her free, Zurumor, who had saved her life…and Jeren, whose thoughts seemed to mirror hers. The tips of Raeis’s ears twitched slightly as she thought she heard something with her keen senses from the way they had come but, lost as she was in thought as she was, and because the others hadn’t shown any sign of hearing it, she ignored it. Shifting Morgoroth’s weight heavily across her shoulders and pulling them both into a more upright position, she plucked up her courage and glanced openly across at the brooding Southron to return his question. “Jeren, home was never exactly a place to me, not once I left: home was encompassed in…in one elf. I left Mirkwood with him, and when I did...I changed, my home changed, my world changed - and then it was brought crashing down around me.” She paused, not looking at Jeren, then continued. “What about you, Jeren: where will you go, now you are free?”

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Bethberry's post for Darash

Darash sat confused and frustrated. After the near-deadly encounter with the bestial orcs--no better than charging, stupid rinombos-rhinoceros--iit had been with a relief amounting to joy that she had first seen Lyshka safe and then spied Grash. The two women had sprung on rejuvenated feet towards him, eagerness lightening their tired faces, ready to tell what they had seen.

Now Darash sat trying to make sense of it. She had run to him and taken his arm, pulling it almost, pointing back to the melee. She had gesticulated wildly almost, running on in her native tongue, describing the struggle and their near-escape, only to be put back under greater assault by Aldor's treachery with the orcs.

"Ahdor. Ahdor. Machumba nuwalla, esumba relege isbatu. Ngeme ebulu," she had told him excitedly. "Dtcekma." It meant carrion bird of prey, vulture, feasting off the dead, without honour of the kill. But Grash had looked at her with strangely glowing eyes. She had taken his arm again, drawing him towards the small bend in the path, so he could look back and perhaps see the traitor in the orcs' midst.

Grash had smiled at her as if humouring her. It was maddening! Darash had never before experienced such failure to be taken seriously. She had turned to Lyshka, pleadingly, her frustration clearly visible in the tight knot of her muscles around her shoulders. Lyshka had nodded yes, but shrugged, as if to say she wasn't sure. Darash had turned back to Grash, the fire of being thwarted and misunderstood shining in her eyes. The man had almost chuckled. He had not looked at her eyes; his own gaze had not met hers and staid there, but wandered off elsewhere. With a snort at this hare who did not recognise the vulture, she had stormed off, exasperated with him who seemed not to listen.

And so she had sat in semi-isolation, her eyes wandering from time to time around the group of her companions who were licking their wounds like animals who had escaped the trap. Lyshka had come over to her, hunched over as if to say "Maybe. I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. It was a blur like the whipping rain." Then Raeis had mouthed the name. The elf understood! The women knew. Why were the men so obtuse? Darash sat there, trying to rest, her eyes closed in the soft afternoon light, aware that Grash was watching her from time to time, but utterly without comprehension.

[CaptainofDespair]

CaptainofDespair's post

The climb through the mountain pass had taken its toll on the Elf. His near execution at the pale blade of the Nazgul, had sapped him of most of the strength he needed. Yet, there was hope, and he clung to it as a child grasps for its mother. The freedom he craved, after seventeen years of desolate captivity, was drawing nigh. As his tense, ridged muscle were forced into near spasmodic contractions just to crawl and hobble their way over the rocks of the High Pass, he thought only one simple phrase, “Just beyond this mountain...” He had muttered this almost incessantly as he climbed. Being only able to use one arm, for the other was still paralyzed by the evil stroke the Nazgul had delivered, which now hindered his mobility, he struggled in his motions, often stumbling, or nearly falling from the Pass. Yet, he continued on...

The ever watchful eyes of the Elf could see more than any of the others around him, and he often gazed into the sky, looking for a sun that had long since been buried by the bleak darkness of the Mordorian sky above. But his wound still harried him, pursuing him as he climbed higher and higher, draining his will to trudge forward, beyond the craggy, jagged facade of the Ephel Duath. When he was not busying himself with keeping his legs on the path, he would drift into a near trance, thinking of the past. His mind was still uneasy from the wound he was suffering the burden of. He had been led out of that dreadful fray, helped along by the Southron, Jeren. He winced at this thought. He had shown weakness, though it was well earned, and it was his right to be weak, but it did not sit well with him. Yet, he hid these thoughts, burying them in the deep abyss of his mind. A new sensation had interrupted this reminiscing, a slight pain. But this was no ordinary pain, not like that of the wound he bore. It was new, and it echoed from within him. At first he tried to cast the thought aside, as a child does to an old and forgotten toy. But it kept returning, and it swarmed about in his veins, giving him a very sickly feeling. Ancient lore was his answer. He was poisoned, by the very foe that had nearly killed him. He had come so very far, hoping to find freedom. But now, he would die of a black poison. As his mind gurgled at this dread thought, he tripped upon a stone, and fell forward. Something deep within his mind stirred then, muttering to him, forcing its voice out from his lips. "The wound is too great. Death will come soon.” The Elf managed to catch himself before anyone heard his foreboding words. Sympathy was not something he desired, and he would not allow others to feel anything for his plight, for that would make him feel all the more weak.

Instead of dwelling upon his new, dreadful thoughts, he decided it best to occupy his time with more pleasant memories. Yet time was his enemy, and the cobwebs that held back many of his earliest, more playful memories, were not easily shaken loose. So, he turned his attention to his most recent, and began to twist the words that came to him to his own devices. Something that the man Jeren had said intrigued him, “Where will you go?”. He drifted, yet was able to maintain control over his body’s jerking motions, just enough to keep him on the path. He began to wonder what he might do, now that his freedom was drawing so close. "To Mirkwood perhaps, to see my mother. Or maybe I shall travel into the West, and explore the lands beyond the haven of Imladris.” He slowed his thought to a trickle, and allowed his inborn pessimism to set in. "The West...Yes, I shall go West, to the Halls of Mandos, for I will not survive this journey into Ithilien.”

The Sun had now risen to its unseen pinnacle, and the company had stumbled upon a clearing in the midst of the vacant, ghostly mountains. Here they would rest until the time was nigh to leave, and head out for the final leg of the journey. Many of the old habits were still alive within the motley group. Initially they settled into mingling amongst their own kind, resting, and chatting a bit, even sharing stories of their pasts, for those who had one to tell of. Even the Elf, who had inadvertently shattered the racial barriers between himself and the dwarves, was not eager to sit alongside his comrades. Instead, he sought out a more secluded region of the clearing, and there he laid down in the grass, to refresh his weary mind, and broken body as much as he could.

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Aylwen's Post

“What about you, Jeren: where will you go, now you are free?”

Jeren thought on this, and at first nothing came to him. It was a question that he did not know the answer to. How many times had this happened to him? Too many for his liking, especially since he had been made prisoner by the power that he had once served. Too many questions had been left unanswered.

Where will I go?

The Southron had never actually thought about where he would go, for he never knew any home other than the one as captain of an army. He was always the leader, and he never needed a home as long as there were loyal soldiers behind him… following and listening to him. He hardly recalled the land his family once roamed, or if family would be there and remember him at all. It had been far too long for him to return to that home. There was nowhere for him to go.

“It hardly matters if I am free, for I have no where to return to. There is no where for me to bask in new-earned freedom,” Jeren finally replied to the question posed by Raeis. His voice remained steady and level, as Jeren refused to show his uncertainty and sorrow at his own words. “The things I have done make me undeserving of such freedom. I have no place to return to and that is how it must be,” The Southron added as an afterthought, the volume of his voice lowered so it came out just above a whisper.

Surely that is how it will be in the end…

“Yes. We rest. But only for two, three hours.” Jeren looked up as Grash began to speak in his usual choppy manner. “Then we must go – the path goes down soon, down to green land. Green land with trees and cool breezes, and waters. Freedom. Freedom at the end of the path.”

Turning back to Raeis, Jeren sighed, letting out all his self-pity in the exhale. What about everyone else? Raeis had hardly answered his question in a manner that satisfied his curiosity. Something about the group, though, and the way they came together in a most unusual way made Jeren hopeful for all of them. “I have certainly learned the value of comfort, on this journey. Not just being comfortable, or not being comfortable…but being able to live and go on and appreciate it anyway. I do not know you very well at all, Raeis, but somehow I know that you will be able to make home encompass one more elf…you will learn to make home within your own heart and strength, and not let it depend on someone else…”

Jeren paused, looking around at the rest of the group for a moment.

“Hopefully we will all be able to do the same. Maybe we will all find home.”

[Himaran]

Dwali awoke like he would have on any other day. The dwarf rolled over on the hard ground, stretched, yawned and rubbed his eyes idly. Perhaps it was a burst from Mount Doom that brought him back to reality, or maybe rows of torches shining before him in the darkness. The army. The company! The mountain passage! Pulling himself out of the ditch, he scrambled on as best he could. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark, and Dwali realized that he must have slept for only a few hours. It was probably close to midnight, and the company might have already made off without him. But wait - they were all dead, so what did it matter? He could stay and rest... and then pangs of hunger pushed him forward, hoping dearly that a friendly face would be waiting at the passage.

The dwarf reckoned that he had travelled over a mile earlier in the day, which left about the same distance before him. He mentally beraided for being so slow to get off the path, but he knew it was foolishness. At least he was alive, more than could be said for some of the company. Memories of Dorim brought a wave of anger over him again. Why does everyone die? My family! My friends! Why not others...

Suddenly, a heavy boot landed on Dwali's back, slamming his face into the dusty ground. An orc had slipped off the edge. Trying to stay calm, the dwarf waiting, hoping that he would pull himself back up. Then deciding that in the darkness no one would notice, he heaved himself backwards. The orc toppled down on top of him. The dwarf's hand siezed his mouth, and the other dispatched the brute with a swift thrust of his dagger.

He waited a few moments, and left the body and crawled on. He knew that by dawn, the corpse would be discovered; but it would probably be attributed to an argument amongst the ranks of the enemy. Hoping that this would be the case, Dwali continued pulling himself along, heading for the mountain passage.

[Novnarwen]

The day grew old as they walked along an unknown path, which hopefully would lead them to the prisoners. When the company at last took a break, after hours with walking, Rhând feel exhausted to the ground. He breathed heavily, ignoring the orcs' wild laughter. He was hungry and thirsty, but did not dare ask for anything. Looking up at the sky, which had already been coloured black by the sun's lack of appearance. A dim moon could be spotted now, but only just, as grey-looking clouds covered it. Rhând wondered if one could ever see the sun in all its splendour in this land, or if it was always hidden behind the heavy grey clouds.

Two of the orcs were sent ahead to see if they were getting close, meanwhile the others rested. The Haradrim sat up, heaving after his breath. He was dead tired, but tried to push it aside, thinking of the reward awaiting him when he would return to his Master.

Rhând's gaze fell on Lurg. The orc looked at him with hungry eyes, and the Haradrim turned away in fear. He'd always heard that these orcs were simple-minded, and ate whatever they could get hold of. The Haradrim knew that his chances of escaping all of this alive were slim. Even though the orcs left him alone now, he had not the faintest idea what they would do after they had found the prisoners. The thought of being eaten by these monsters, made him shiver with fright. They were his allies now, but he doubted they would be in the end. Shrugging, the Haradrim rose slowly. He felt weak and petty where he stood, feeling the stiffness in his body growing.

Not long had passed before he two orcs came trudging towards the company, waving their hands. Grinning wildly, Rhând heard them say to Lurg:

"They are here . .

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Himaran's Post

When Dwali finally reached the mountain passage, words could not describe his attitude - it was less pessimistic than suicidal. The orc army was gone at last, but so were his companions. There was nothing for him now. It was over. The dwarf sat down on the dusty earth, trying to ponder how he had been the last to survive. He, who had seemed the weakest, the smallest, the lest likely to make it out of Mordor. It was that sense of accomplishment that pulled him to his feet and walked steadily up the path. I made it! And may yet escape from this land of darkness...

Upon cresting the hill, however, a different sight met his eyes. The company, sitting in a tight circle, resting and chatting. Not all of them, though, the dwarf was sure of it. Some must have died in the battle. And then, at the height of his addreniline, it all gave way to utter exhaustion. Dwali collapsed, his throat as parched as the rocky grouond beneath him. A cry so weak it was but a murmur barely left his flaking lips: "Help..."


Grash

When night was fully upon the company they roused themselves from their rest and made ready to go on. Morgoroth was still weak, but with the help of Raies and Jeren he was able to walk. The prisoners took a quick meal with what meagre provisions they had left. They ate the last scraps of the bread and dried meat that they had managed to bring with them through the horrors of Shelob’s Lair and the Morgul Vale. It was hideous orc food, but after the trials they had endured in the last five days it was welcome. More troubling was the lack of water, for only one skin had managed to come with them through their encounter with the orc army. They shared it around and if any there thought how strange it was that they were all drinking from the same vessel, none said it.

Grash sat upon the stones of the mountains and mulled over their position. They were still a long march from the green land, but if they pressed hard all night then by dawn their feet would be upon grass, and their tired limbs could take comfort in the cool shade of trees. After that… Grash’s imagination failed him. Where could he go and what could he do in the world outside the land of darkness that had been his home his whole life? He supposed that he could find a small piece of fertile land somewhere to call his own, where he could raise crops and perhaps a few animals and live free of the whip and the terror. But would not such an existence be lonely? Maybe there would be others who would be willing to come with him… His eyes drifted to where Darash sat, proud, noble and – for the first time he noticed it – beautiful. His hand wandered to the dagger that she had exchanged with him and he stroked it thoughtfully. Perhaps there would be some way for him to convince her to come with him.

A noise from the path behind them brought Grash to his feet, along with the rest of the company. They stood, not speaking, tense and nervous in the gathering night, as a form lurched along the path toward them. It was Brór who cried out, “Dwali!” and rushed forward to catch his kinsman as he fell. They all gathered around the exhausted Dwarf seeking to revive him. He was hungry and thirsty, so they gave him the last of their food and water and watched unstintingly as he swallowed it down. When he had finished he closed his eyes and fell back on the stone unconscious.

Grash’s face became a frown as he looked upon the Dwarf. He was, strangely, happy to see the fellow back with the group, but he was obviously in no condition to travel quite yet. Morgoroth, too, while standing, appeared too weak to go far without more rest. It was Darash who spoke what was in Grash’s mind. “No travel now. Must rest. Little man and spirit man hurt and tired.” Her tone was final and commanding, and if any there thought that she were wrong, none said so. Sighing at the inevitable, Grash settled upon the ground. As eager as he was to press ahead to freedom, he could not bring himself to leave his injured…comrades…the word was an odd one, but it was the only word that was right. “Yes. We rest. But only for two, three hours. Then we must go – the path goes down soon, down to green land. Green land with trees and cool breezes, and waters. Freedom,” his voice drifted into the night, as though it were speaking only to itself. “Freedom at the end of the path.”

Zuromor

Two hours later Zuromor awoke from a troubling dream and sat up. He managed to stifle the cry that sprang to his lips but he was shaken still. Pulling himself upright he walked about their makeshift camp, carefully moving amongst the sleeping forms of his companions. A slow movement in the dark stayed him in his wanderings and he melted into the shadows about the rocks. A stealthy form was working its way toward the prisoners, and in its hand there was a vessel of some kind with a burning smoke pouring from it. Zuruomor recognized that smell: suverah! The same substance that Darash had used to subdue the spider creatures.

The figure came close to the company and Zuromor saw Aldor’s features emerge from the night. The man gently stooped and placed the vessel on the ground near to the company and turned to go. With a cry that rang amongst the stones Zuromor sprang forward, drawing his blade. With one swift motion of his foot he sent the burning vessel skittering away amongst the stones, and he whirled upon Aldor.

Many things happened at once then. The prisoners sprang to their feet, drawing their weapons and fumbling about in the dark. Aldor cried out and there were answering screams from the path beyond him – screams that filled the night with bestial fury. Zuromor swung his blade at Aldor, but the man was quick to parry the blow. Zuromor prepared to strike again, but his hand faltered at the sight of the pathway filling with orcs, all of them ravening toward the prisoners with their eyes and tongues rolling viciously at the thought of some easy sport.

[Bêthberry]

"Whatimbo unsala. Kill the viper," spoke Darash in a voice firm with fury but calm with resolution. Zuromor was ahead of them all and swung his sword but the treacherous Aldor was as nimble in body as in morals. Yet her spirit sank as she saw what came up the path behind him. More of them! More, more, ever more. There was no end to evil in this northern land. And she was tired, tired beyond any knowing of this struggle. And this time there could be no resorting to disguise.

Quickly, Darash looked around at their weapons. She had given Lyshka the small knife the salivating orc had passed on to her as she feigned bloodlust during the last fight. Neither woman had a sword. Darash looked around for branch, sturdy bush or thorn with which to fashion some kind of defense. There were none. She shook her head in dismay, feeling discouragement rise in her throat like sour bile. At her side, she felt for her small dagger, the one Grash had exchanged when she had given him hers in ritual token of her allegiance. It gave her courage. If all else failed, it was sharp enough. She would use it upon herself and deny the orcs their filthy desire.

But Grash held back her hand, as if sensing her thoughts. He pointed around the narrow path, at the small stones and rocks and larger boulders they had kicked around to make a resting place. She understood at once. Calling to Lyshka, she ran with him to one of the larger boulders positioned to the side of the path. Pushing, shoving, grunting and rocking it, they succeeded in loosening it from its rooted spot in the earth. The path was narrow but well worn. The boulder, once pushed on its way, moved slowly at first but then tumbled with the speed of flooding water. Grash ran to another large boulder, Lyshka and Darash to two others. Three more followed the first to crash into the orc horde.

Yet her strength was limited; where her arms had been broken, she could feel the bones protest at being forced to push so hard against the rocks. She could not risk breaking them again. She moved back, signalling to her two comrades that she was moving to a second strategy. Let others with healthier arms keep at the boulders.

Instead, she sought out the smaller stones and rocks and quickly collected them into a pile, calling on the weaker ones to gather them, those still ill and wounded from the last assault. They could not fight but they could help gather their last, natural weapons. Then she moved off, filling her pouch, now emptied of food, with stones. She had a good eye and, calming herself, began to choose her targets. The orcs' skulls were thick, but the ground was covered with stones.

[Kransha]

Chaos filled the air around him. The Dwarf in the midst of it all was, as most others were, confused and half in a daze. From a mostly fitful sleep, the whole ‘camp’ had been forcefully aroused from slumber to see orcish faces and rusty blades bearing down on them. Zuromor, energetic and first awoken, alerted the company, and all sprang into action, to some degree. Some were grievously hurt, and required more defense when in combat, so the company was caught at a full disadvantage. And, to the chagrin of some, it became apparent that traitorous Aldor was somewhere within the clump of orcs that had spread and scattered over the rocky plane, assaulting the disillusioned troop of escaped prisoners. Brór, his head and wild beard twisting to and fro to look to every side, removed from each hip a looted weapon and brandished each at the shadows before him, looking for an opening to attack as battle sprung up all around. He looked to his companions, for steadying and reassurance. As he looked across the field at the bounding orcs, he saw Zuromor first.

As he looked at Zuromor, trying in vain to delve into orcish ranks, he was comforted by the fire in his eyes. The memory of the conversation he had had with him earlier filled his mind for but a moment, passing over his thoughts and focus just before he struck the unkempt uruk vanguard. It had been earlier, before all companions drifted off into their soon-to-be-interrupted sleep, when Brór had last spoken with the youthful man. The conversation, for one reason or another, sat upon a seeming podium inside Brór, flowing back to him in the form of a speechmaker's oratory recorded.

Everything felt cold…very cold.

Through the veins of Brór Stormhand ran icy fluid in place of warm blood. Despite the sweltering heat radiating in the air, chills reverberated up and down the dwarf’s spine. As his glassed-over eyes darted back and forth, circumspect, he noted that others seemed colder as well. Something about the whole experience had left an unsavory numbness in the company, like a dark cloud that had settled just overhead, focused on the escaped prisoners, which refused to budge from above their down turned heads. Thankfully, there seemed some consolation in that they had all survived a seemingly suicidal situation. Brór himself, though, had only managed to realize that Dwali was now lost, and his alertness and moderate charisma was further dimmed. Only when he looked up to the man beside him did he feel a sliver of light on his face.

At his right, standing and wringing his hands concernedly, was Zuromor. Although his anxious nature was for good cause, it diverted Brór’s mind from lingering on dark thoughts. The lad’s eyes were affixed, without movement, on Raeis as she spoke with Jeren, not far off. Brór, his mouth trying to manipulate itself into a smile, or at least a self-serving grin, lifted himself up from his melancholy seat and meandered towards Zuromor, drumming upon the youth’s lowered arm, the dwarf spoke coyly. Even if he could not escape his ever-present ill humor, he could still think on the diversions of others. As he had resolved after observing and speaking with Zuromor, his diversion was Raeis.

“How is she holding up, Elf-friend?” Brore murmured with wry smirk.

“She seems well. She’s still got fire in her, that’s certain.” He looked on smiling, and a narrow grin unmarred half of the miserable dwarf’s cold face. “What of the Nazgûl’s Black Breath?” He said then, an air of concern returned to him at a weak but moving pace, “Has the mark of the Wraith not affected her?” Zuromor turned back, seemingly snapped from a swaying trance, and looked to Bror, weighing the options of response. “It is hard to tell.” He said after some time, nodding to himself as he settled upon this reply, “Her countenance has lessened of late, but otherwise, she is no different. Now that we are on the road to greener lands, she will heal in time, as will Morgoroth. All of us will be healed when the scraggly mountains are behind us, as small as lumps of dirt and mounds of putrid earth. Think upon that, at least, and we’ll be healed in due time.

“The road to greener land, eh?” Brór queried, obvious, but politely reserved skepticism written all over his aged face, “What of the mountains, the orcs, and the Nazgûl? Are they going to spread apart like water and let us pass?”

“Why must we think of parting waters when we can pass over them? We may have suffered great losses, but we have come to the last stretch of night before the day!”

“Don’t you see, lad?” he said, his strong voice cracked miserably as he spoke with less than his usual bellicosity or irritation, “We’re more doomed now than ever we were before.” He looked down upon the blood-stained ax in his hand, blackish orc blood now dried onto the jagged fringe of its blade. Slowly, he slid a gloved finger along the flat of the ax, tracing the digit over crude orcish designs and pictographs etched into the rusted metal. “Dwali is lost to us,” he said then, “the fiend Aldor has betrayed us, Morgoroth has been gravely injured by the Wraith, many of us now bear injury and wound that will hinder us further, and the Nazgûl himself has seen us. One does not see a Nazgûl face to face and live to tell the tale. It shall send after us more armies, more orcs, and we have no might left to resist them.” He shook his head sadly and pushed the staff of his ax back through the leather belt drawn loosely around his waist. Quietly thinking, he laid his metal-plated elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in together. His eye looked to Zuromor, though, as the man beside him spoke.

“The Nazgûl does not know enough to seek us out before the sun has set.” He said, unsmiling, but apparently hopeful, “If our pace quickens, we can outrun those he sends after us.” Brór looked at him incredulously, an almost contemptuous look on his face, but that dank expression turned to a sudden gust of caustic laughter, which caused Zuromor to flinch, unsure of Bror’s motives for the sudden outburst. “Outrun them, you say?” cried Bror, through tearful guffaws, “Your optimism may be refreshing, Zuromor, but it is deluded. We cannot outrun orcs with the whip of the Nazgûl at their backs. They will not rest nor eat nor sleep until they have found us all and torn the flesh from our bones.” He said all of this with a smile on his face, a smile very disconcerting to those who looked upon it, because it was not a smile of happiness or of sadness. It was a ghastly false grin that only reflected the imminent doom and acceptance thereof. At last, the surfeit of laughter halted, and, shaking his head again as the grin withered and died on his face, Bror let his head fall again.

“You were wrong before, dwarf.” chided Zuromor, ever the optimist despite Brór’s adverse comments. The one thing he was not, though, was terse, as he continued preaching with some small scraping of zeal to the dwarf beside him, who could not help but revel in the ironic comedy of it all. “We have escaped Cirith Ungol,” said Zuromor next, waving a hand dramatically, “escaped the wrath of Shelob, escaped the armies of Gorgoroth, and even escaped the Dark Wraith himself. We can escape this accursed land, even with the beasts of Mordor and the Mountain of Fire’s flames at our backs. Have you given up even now, now that we are so close to freedom light? Are you so far gone?” Brór winced openly. He’d heard those same words a day ago when he passed the Dark Lord’s Stones and Sauron’s monstrous voice had overlooked him as a needless pawn. He had asked himself that question, heard it echoing in his mind over and over. Now, coming from young Zuromor, it sounded strange. The voice from the day prior had been his own, cold and subjugated to the glacial winter that Sauron’s breath had lulled him into. Today, the voice was young and warm, ablaze with a fire cool and refreshing, a much desired substitute for the dogged flames of Orodruin. At last, the youth concluded, leaving unhappy silence in the wake of verbosity.

Brór did not respond at first, stroking his grayed beard in deep thought and contemplation. Zuromor looked down warmly, but his glinting eyes dimmed as Brór spoke, melancholy and dank. “Both my kindred are lost now.” He said, sighing deeply, “I am the last of my kind in this terrible place. If my words hold true, I will never see another Dwarven face living. I…I am alone now.” Zuromor’s hand, hesitantly, went out to him, and was laid upon the spiked pauldron bound to his bruised shoulder.

“Not alone, Brór Stormhand, among friends.”

“No…alone. Even if I see my kin again in my life, I shall still be alone. Mordor leaves that mark upon you. For two decades, I was alone, and until the day I am dust in the earth…next to Dorim, and now Dwali, I shall. You, my friend, are not. You all are not doomed to my fate, so revel in your freedom. You have the light that I have lost in your heart, good Zuromor, and fire to. You are a brave and a fine fellow, and I hope to Aulë that you may leave this wretched place before your time…And your friend as well.” Zuromor shot him a curious, inquisitive glance. “You mean ‘friends,’ master dwarf, do you not?” he queried. Brór perked up ever so slightly, having expected the question from the inexperienced mouth of the lad. He shook his head again, but this time in a joking, admonishing fashion, which elicited another confused look from Zuromor.

“Nay…You know who I speak of…You’ve got that Elf on your mind, and she’s in your eyes as well. Lest you want the world to know you’d to best to purge her image now, or make your intentions known… “Zuromor, why, then, does the sight of yonder Elf gleam in your eyes? I have told you of the shadows that lay over me. It is only fair that you tell me of the light that has filled you…”

He never answered, as far as Brór remembered.

Now all had changed, though not in the mind of the dwarf. To Brór’s great relief and thankfulness, Dwali was found; or rather found the company, nearly in dire straits. Brór had rejoiced most, though he was still empty, his mind a weak void in the wake of the happenings. Even as his face brightened and smiled, he felt nothing. It did not matter whether or not his kinsman was alive, he would still perish before the light. Brór’s eyes could only flit to his companion in passing. Dwali lay, lurching about in unconsciousness. Thankfully, he had been laid in a safe crevice in the rocky outcroppings that dotted the areas as trees might (for want of real trees). The settling darkness that paled the fiery light of distant Amon Amarth was refreshing to Brór, who was accustomed to the dark, almost nocturnal from his years spent in it. Feeling secure in his own defense and eager to defend his fallen comrade and those who fought alongside him, Brór plowed into the anarchic ranks of Mordor beasts.

He tore forward, moving gracefully, uncharacteristic for any Dwarf. Something new fueled him, distinctly new. He realized, at this point, that even if he no longer believed he could escape Mordor, he was not fighting for himself. He was fighting for those, like Zuromor, who still saw the sunlight through the sky’s dark clouds. He was fighting so that they could survive this final skirmish and escape the icy grasp of this land and slip the bonds of Mordor, finding, at long last, some kind of freedom, however small.

[Novnarwen]

Rhând

He broke out of the orc's ranks, having called for them as he'd been surprised by Zuromor. The desperate Haradrim pressed himself forwards, trying to avoid both the fighting prisoners and the attacking orcs. Holding the little suverah he had left carefully in his hand, he decided to do what he came here to do, regardless of everything else. This came first. He did this for his Master, the Master who would embrace him as an equal when this was over. Giggling just slightly to himself, still running, he watched the prisoners defend themselves. Yes, he could still do this; actually, he ought to do it. He knew that by leaving the suverah in the prisoner's camp, problems would probably arise. Hopefully, they would have great difficulties seeing due to the smoke. Some of them might faint too, as they had not realised that the smoke was poisonous. With these thoughts it mind, he carried on.

For a second he stopped, being rather surprised by the orc's attack. It seemed like they were increasing in number; their attack was so violent. They were fighting like mad. All of them had this look in their eyes, the same look Lurg had given Rhând just earlier. The look reflected their hunger and their longing for fresh meat and blood. Even though he enjoyed watching this, he froze. Standing still as if paralysed with fear, he looked admirably at the. They were some fantastic creatures after all, he thought to himself. It was rather incredible how they could scare a living creature to death only by staring at it. The prisoners wouldn't stand a chance. Yes, he knew how this would end. Still standing quietly, watching the battle take place, he imagined the moment the victory was a fact. He imagined the prisoners lying on the ground; pale as the moon. How beautiful. The task of conquering this world, wiping away all life that was jeopardising His realm, would be a bit easier. Ten down, that was a start.

He wasn't paying attention to the events taking place that particular moment. Caught up in his dream, his fantasy, he didn't see some of the orcs heading straight towards him. Unfortunately, the young Haradrim was not able to react on the short notice and was run over by the massive creatures. Feeling the pain their heavy boots left him, he sank helplessly to the ground. He heaved for air, feeling as he was gong to vomit. "Ugh," he sighed, shaking with pain. "Brutes!" he screamed and cursed in the Haradrim tongue. "You blind idiots! Didn't you see I was standing here?" he screamed after the orcs, knowing that they didn't hear him. And if they did, they didn't care. "Outrageous!" he screamed again. He was their superior. At least, he was almost their superior. They should thank him. They should be grateful. It was after all he who had led them to the prisoners. It was he who had planned the attack. It was he who had secured their victory over the prisoners. It was therefore he who had saved all of them from the fate that awaited them, if they hadn't killed and brought back the bodies of the prisoners.

He coughed.

His throat went dry.

He coughed again.

He tried getting to his feet, but in vain. Being surprised by this intense coughing, he discovered that the air in front of him was turning yellow. Where does this come from? he asked himself, lifting his head up from the ground and turning into every direction. He felt his throat going drier, and his eyes were burning. What is this, and where is the suverah? Trying not to panic as he understood that this yellow smoke was making him cough and his eyes burn, he tried again to lift himself from the ground. "Where is it?" he said, letting out a cry. Not being able to see much, partly because of the dark and partly because of the smoke, which was making his eyes smart, he shook with fright. Desperately, he tried to crawl away, thinking that he had dropped the suverah on the ground when falling. The suverah was probably somewhere near.. "Probably somewhere near.." he muttered to himself, afraid that he was correct in this assumption.

Flashbacks from the cell room were presented to him. The smell of rot streaming into his nostrils, made him shiver with disgust. The rats were squeaking, the volume rising. The sound of them made him twitch where he lay. He tried to ignore it, but the sound was growing more intense. It was piercing through him, like an arrow made of solid material. He kicked in thin air, hearing a sound as he hit something. Yellow smoke arose before him. The Suverah, he thought, while feeling the pain. It was spreading. The pain was spreading, making its way from his head to his arms, chest and legs. His throat was too dry to let him swallow. He coughed again, his body trembling. Suddenly, his head exploded. The squeaking was gone. Everything was. There was nothing, except the sound of what seemed like a wind; a whispering wind close to his ear. He lay motionless on the ground, having his eyes open. He could still eye the yellow smoke surrounding him, swirling elegantly around.

He was there again. He was standing before the Gate. It was the Gate he had seen in dream when the others had been discussing the route. He dragged himself forth and knocked solemnly on the Door. No sound could be heard from within the Gate, but there was this magical atmosphere which attracted him and made him stand still. There was a certain tension in the air, as if something was about to happen. Taking everything into account, he started doubting whether this was the vision he had had in his dream, or whether it was something else; a new dream. How could he tell the difference? he wondered.

There was a loud crack and the door opened. Did he dare approach it? Did he dare go inside? What was in there, anyway? Was He waiting for him? But the task he had been set to do was not yet completed. It was still to be done. Was He satisfied yet? He took a few steps forwards, hearing the door slam shut behind him. He looked around. There was nothing there, or rather, it was just black.

Suddenly he found himself lying on the ground, yellow smoke surrounding him.

He heaved after his breath.

It was just black. It was all black.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis was alert in a moment and simply rolled sidewards behind one of the large boulders nearby as the sounds of the orcs filled the air. She sword viciously as she squeezed her eyes tight shut and her fists clenched furiously. They were so close, so close! Feeling sadness well up, the elf opened her eyes and blinked furiously. They would have no satisfaction from her, none of the satisfaction they had taken from her in the long dark years... Raeis touched the handle of the long, jagged knife that hung at her side: her sword had been lost but the twin of this knife was with Zurumor. She twisted around to peek out from behind the rock, unseen from where the battle raged...and saw no sign of Zurumor. Something inside her heart seemed to pluck at one of the strings like a harp, and Raeis was surprised at it's unexpectedly strong resonations of anxiety for the Man.

But she knew what they meant. Her lithe fingers wound around the handle and she stood slowly, coming out from behind the rock as if in slow motion and drawing the knife from her ragged belt as if it was the finest of swords pulled from the sheath of a Noldorian warrior, raising it slowly straight up in front of her. The orcs nearby noticed, and some sneered at the elf, laughing their vile corruption at the silent elf; but others were not so cocky, for there was something about the elf's silent confidence that was terrifying, and that resonated deep within some ancestral memory: a memory of the screams of orcs and the bright light surrounding almost celestial hosts of bright elves....

In this dark place, there was no light surrounding Raeis.
But within, the Light of the Valar burned like wildfire.

Ignited, the elf swung suddenly into action, her knife coming around in a blur towards the first of the orcs nearby and slicing cleanly through his throat. Head hanging off from a string of gristle, the orc's eyes bulged in the sudden shock rather than pain, and died, the sneer still half affixed to his gaping lips. Raeis paused, as if confused at the swift, expert motion: but it was coming back to her now.

She had been an expert...

...the blades glittered dangerously in the afternoon sun as the two figures circled one another, utterly focused on the other, their hands held at 45 degree angles to their bodies and feet silent as they padded on the soft fallen leaves of the forest floor. With a sudden movement, one spun around, the blade flashing forward towards the other as her long hair spun behind her...

Like one in a trance, Raeis spun suddenly, the long knife slicing like a shadow through the air towards the orc who rushed towards her...

...and met her partner's blade with a metallic ring that resounded throughout the still of the forest. The latter laughed as he withdrew, winking at her cheekily. "You'll-

Her blade slashed at the orc's stomach and her bent double, falling to the dust in front of Raeis. There was no laughter, no winks, just the still calm of the elf as she thrust her blade downwards into her fallen victim's back.

"-have to do better than that for me, Raeis."

"Better? Against you?" The beautiful elf laughed, tossing her many shaded hair outwards as she repositioned once again, her eyes levelling with her oponents. "Don't make me laugh: I may love you, but to let you win? Well, my-"

Love. Zurumor. Where was he? Raeis looked around, unblinking, her eyes unheeding of the dust that filled them. There. There he was, falling, bloodstained. Nearby, another, Morgoroth, self sacrificing, finally self sacrificed, dust stained lamb broken on the floor of the path. Eyes jerking open, limbs jerking towards him, knife jerking lazily down from it's position...

Pain.
Pain in her side.

Who?

Raeis jerked awake from her reverie, and saw Zurumor fall, mirroring her own knees buckling as she clutched her side. The orc's blade had sliced through an old whip wound and the whole wound seemed alight now. Raeis gave a small cry and in the still of her mind, it was all she heard...almost. There was another noise now, like laughter, quiet and easy, a sound to make the rippling of the most refreshing and beautiful waterfall seem less than a single drop of water. Raeis smiled softly as she recognised the voice that laughed and murmured in her mind, her face almost childlike where she knelt on the floor, unaware of anything outside of her mind: the Gods had returned to her.

Strength surged back into Raeis's limbs and the her hands tightened on the knife. In a flash second, she whipped to the left onto one knee, sword scything around at thigh level - it was her blind side, but no accuracy was required for this vicious motion. The orc gave a hideous cry of agony as his legs were cut from beneath him and he fell beside her, only to be dispatched in a moment. The elf rose once more and spun around viciously, arcing around blindly to remove any limbs in the near vicinity. Her limbs were on fire with action as the old skills and motions returned to her, but her mind was aflame with thoughts of her companions. Aldor, Dorim, Morgoroth... her companions had fallen one by one, freed from their prisons but never to escape. Now they had gone, fallen to treachery or the dust of the plains, and how many remained?

Seven.

Raeis smiled absently despite herself, her lips forming the now almost familiar shape without her noticing.

Lyshka, Darash, Grash, Bror, Zurumor, Jeren, Dwali...
Yavanna, Nienna, Mandos, Aule, Ulmo, Manwe, Varda.

The mirror was perfect: a Lord or a Lady for each of her fine companions. But no...no, they were in danger. The perfection - it would be broken!

"No!" The elf's scream was the first sound she had made in several fierce minutes and it ripped from her throat like a jagged claw. Rolling underneath the attacking club of her nearest enemy, the bruised and battered elf came up agily in front of the orc who assaulted Grash, her blade crashing into his with power that belied her size. The orc stumbled back from his prey, and the fierce light of hate in the elf's eyes for a moment quelled him, before he came again forwards. Raeis gave a bellow of anger and the light burned bright in her eyes as she fought them off, standing over Grash's body.

"No! Seven of us there are, and seven of us there will be," she cried, every inch the Noldor of her ancestors, held strong and true by the Seven. "As long as I draw breath, not one of them shall fall, upon the Lords, I swear this!"

The elf was beset upon from all sides, but even as she fought hopelessly against all odds, the power of her vow and the faraway West all that were holding her up, a blade identical to hers joined her fight on the left hand side. Raeis did not need to turn her head to see who it was, but instead she felt a warmth of a different kind inside her. Bloodied and almost wounded beyond repair though he was, he had come once more to defend her blind side, as he had in the caves of the Spider: ever kind and understanding, thoughtful...and self sacrificing.

Raeis clashed her blade momentarily against his and raised her free hand to the handle of his blade as she flattened herself against Zurumor's warm back to fight the other side. Leaning her shorn head against his, she whispered softly, "If you go now, we go together."

When the rangers came, horns blowing fear into the twisted black souls deep in the bodies of the orcs, they found a strange sight when they saw the fair, scarred elf and green eyed Man, back to back over the body of another and fiercely defending this, all they had, with anything they had, and more. The elf would even have fought the men of Ithilien, the light in her eyes so fierce as if was, had Zurumor not stopped her, laying his hands against her and resting her head against his shoulder as she calmed down: lending her a gentle touch that would hold her to him forever until she fell in a bloodied heap onto her knees.

The broken of Mordor who have been betrayed by all who ever knew them know nothing of distinction. They care little, in the end, for the outside casings that make a being: elf, man, dwarf, scarred or beautiful, there is no definition between these things when the captured are cornered in battle. Their world is a mass of greys and blacks in this, this Land of Darkness.

So when true light shines, all see it's true beauty.

[Bêthberry]

The blade never reached the hand of Darash, for, ironically, the orcs had destroyed any chance she had to use it again. In fighting with her bare hands, her arms had once again been broken. Her hands hung uselessly at the ends of her forearms, which were covered with bloody gashes where the orcs had slashed her flesh. Through immense effort, with salt biting her brow, and hot pain roiling through her body, she could tighten her muscles and try to will her hands to grasp and hold off assailants, but the sharp edges of her broken bones tormented her flesh as much as did he external cuts to her arms. And the smoke of the sulverah smote her nostrils, burning them, and spread through her head, confusing her senses. She thought she saw the orcs retreating, but her rational mind told her that was impossible. Suddenly, she sensed more around her, not orcs, but men nonetheless reaching out to her body, catching her in her fall. She would have fought them off; she tried to, but she swooned under the combined effects of blood loss, fatigue, pain, the drugged smoke which she herself had used on the spider's spawn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

How long she had slept she did not know. She knew only that when she awoke, it was with a headache and thirst she had never known before. And then a surging fear as she saw a tall Man standing over her, clad in green and brown, placing his hands on her shoulders to keep her down. She would have struggled had she not hear his calming voice.

"It is not an orcs' hovel we have brought you to. You are safe here. The Rangers of Gondor do not harm the weak or the disabled. And Ithilien is not Mordor."

Darash lay back, remembering the pain in her arms and feeling them now spread with cooling ointments and held in place by splints and swaddled with clean cloths. The excruciating pain was gone, replaced by a numbed soreness which felt strangely like sleep. The Man reached over her once again and gently lifted her by the shoulders, holding a cup of mildly sweet liquid to her lips. At first, her cracked lips could not manage the lip of the cup and the fluid spilt down her chin, but as it flowed over her parched mouth she found she could drink more ably. The Man let her lay back to recover some strength and then lifted her again to allow her to drink. Her eyes thanked him and courtesy and respect in his shone back at her.

"Others,?" she panted. "Safe too? Where?"

"We count seven of your companions, although a stranger group of comrades I have not set my eyes upon."

She nodded, and sleep, precious balm, overcame her again.

~ ~ ~ ~
Yet when next she woke, she was able to rise and even, tentatively with arms still wrapped in splints and bandages, take advantage of the basin of warm water near her bed, and the fragrant soap embedded with herbs. Clean new clothes lay on her bed. She struggled to pull on the leggings and lift the tunic over her head but the softness of the garments seemed to fall over her easily. At her door, she was met by the Man again, who beckoned to her to follow him. He brought her to Grash, who lay still but breathing regularly on a pallet of straw. When he awoke, she comforted him with the news of help and listened while the Ranger explained to both of them how his bird had spied them in their need. Darash chuckled to herself, thinking of the old Amizgh story of the trapped animal who changed into a bird to escape. Stories have a way of coming true, she thought to herself.

Then the ground trembled and a great shudder went through the world. She swayed, and held onto the pallet for support. She might even have touched Grash's shoulder. The wind wrapped around them and the oppressive weight she had felt when she had been brought to this Northern land suddenly and at last lifted. She breathed deeply and freely for the first time since she had been kidnapped.

Grash looked at her. "Darash,?" he began. "We are free."

She lifted awkwardly her bandaged arm to stop him.

"Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re," she said, her throat muscles relaxing in saying her true name aloud for the first time in his presence. As she pointed to herself, he nodded and repeated her name and lay back upon his bed, his face showing a mixture of light and apprehension and joy he had never known before. What is freedom? he wondered aloud. She smiled. "See now," she said, briefly, with a hint of discipline and sternness in her voice.

One of the Rangers spoke up. "He needs his rest, the wound in his side is deep, and I promised to teach you how to read our sky. Will you come now, Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re?" She nodded and followed the Ranger out, full of curiosity to know what this man who read the earth and sky as she did would show her. "Show me Lyshka too," she asked.