Land of Darkness RPG

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

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

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

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

[Himaran]

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

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

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

[Novnarwen]

"I search with you as well!"

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

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

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

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

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

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry's post

She watched Grash intercede and take the stinking swine away, not sure whether he meant to protect her or the Haradrim or join with the pig. There was something strange about Grash, as if he was in his head fighting Orcs who weren't there, pulling himself away from them. Why had he released the prisoners? Why had he returned? she wondered.

"Mlungwana dharlotte mushabi. Whana dnego." The ancient words came back to her and Khastia stood more proudly erect at her full height. The few who were left in the area stared at her with some alarm and even Grash stopped to look at her in some amazement. She felt power surge back into her muscles, a feeling she had not felt for over a year. Watching the Haradrim closely and not trusting Grash completely, she raised her right arm into a fist and a warning and sneered. "Unala umwhano. Shuridah."

Then she looked down at the pots and vases Grash had pointed to. They were not her job. She flicked her head over towards the other slaves and then looked down at the pots before she turned her back on both, to catch the other woman's face.

The woman had been prepared to fight and in her face Kashtia saw iron will and determination. This one she would keep by her side, maybe an ally, she thought.

"Bhun lasta nunjoga. Arhana," she said to the woman.

She walked into the courtyard where the orcs' bodies lay, see ing the woman come with her. There were clothes here to find, if she could find a shrift and vest that would fit her. Better yet, clothes which she could pile on layer over layer, making herself look larger, as large as some of the orcs perhaps. They wore strange hard leathers on their feet, these orcs. Maybe she would try some for herself. And weapons. She saw no bows as yet, but cautiously explored the bodies and the perimeter, picking up knives and throwing some away that did not balance. She scooped several into a bag she found and then sought clothes. By the time she was ready to return, she would have a black leather vest over her torn clothes and several layers, which made her shoulders and chest look massive, and strange leggings. She picked up a helmet and other items which she secreted about ther, so others did not see.

The bag of knives clinked at her side. When the others returned, she would show them the right way to throw a knife, so to determine its weight and balance. Grash would learn and so would the Haradrim how a warrior could defend herself.

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alaklondewn's post - Lyshka

Lyshka understood naught of the other woman’s words, but she saw strength and pride in her eyes. The Easterling would keep close to her as they would prove to be quite a challenge to overcome together. Following the other woman, Lyshka stepped out into the courtyard and witnessed the remains of the bloody scene.

Corpses littered the dusty ground, and the Easterling walked slowly through them winding her way around their bodies. Many were face down, knives protruding from their blood soaked backs. Others whose faces were shown…wore eternal expressions of anguish. Lyshka was not saddened by the scene, nor was she sick. She was more curious than anything. Taking her bare toe, she nudged one body just to be sure the hideous creature was not faking death and would pounce on her from behind and slash her throat. The Orc lay still, however, its expression remained unchanging.

Kneeling, Lyshka examined its clothing and searched for a weapon. A short broad blade still lay in its hand, and she pried it free to hold in her own palm. The knife was heavy in hand, but the handle fit well. Rising, the Easterling tossed the knife side to side, hand to hand, to get a better feel. She lunged forward and jabbed the empty air, then quickly threw a glance over her shoulder at the other woman…ensuring her actions were not seen.

The woman then searched for clothing. She quickly found a thick leather vest that tied at the breast. The garment was bulky on her small frame, but was satisfactory in length. A large gash had opened the lower back of the vest, but it covered her nicely. As nicely as any Orc garment could do.

Peeling the dark leggings from another body, Lyshka was soon in Orcish attire and ready for more action.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jeren glowered at the woman indignantly, surprised at her needless ferocity. He did not know her, she certainly did not know him...did she? Jeren refused to show his doubt and shock outwardly, keeping these emotions within as he watched the woman's muscles tense and her face lift up into disgust. Taking in the lady's appearance he realized that she was not as emaciated or neglected as some of the other former prisoners. Jeren was certain he had not been captive long, and he was sure that he would be in the best shape of all his new companions...but this tense woman was not far behind. Holding back the impulse to strike the woman in her reasonless and agressive manner, Jeren did as she had and merely held a repremanding look upon his dark face.

“Garak-thûl, garak-thûl!” Grash cried with disapproval, grabbing Jeren's arm. Jeren looked back to the man, who had broken his glare so rudely, and eyed the man with the same lack of respect as the woman had previously shown him. As Grash looked back at him, unaffected, Jeren calmed and let his muscles relax in Grash's strong grip. “Come, come.” Grash continued, “Must go look for weapons, must look like orcs. Leave women to hide here.”

Jeren sighed and walked out under the arch and into the courtyard where the slaves of Mordor had begun their search for weapons and disguise. Grash had momentarily left Jeren to speak to the two women, and Jeren walked out into the dim courtyard. The Southron wondered at the company he would apparently be sharing until further notice, and he quickly noted that he would not be well-liked or respected, based solely on his appearance, name, and heritage. His people were far and wide known only for their strength in war, malice in battle, and cruelty in life. None of his new companions knew that he had been deemed a traitor to the workings of Mordor and its master, and none of his new companions knew of his life or his escapades. Jeren knew that somehow he would have to adjust, and show the Elves, the Dwarves, the other Men...especially the one fierce woman...that he had been just like them. He had been a prisoner, too.

Mumbling to himself in his own tongue, thought he knew vaguely the Common Speech, Jeren searched the grim courtyard for armour and weaponry. Jeren passed over all the long blades belonging to the orcs, choosing only two slightly dilapidated knives. The Southron man could not find any trace of a bow or a good set of arrows, so he felt contented with just the two shorter blades within his hands. Comforted with the weapons, Jeren began to silently search for suitable armour.

[Kransha]

A decade and a half of emotion being played out remained an invisible sight on Brór’s face as his unkempt beard of murk and grayish hue was whisked aimlessly around his head. His eyes lay transfixed on Dwali and the anonymous orc who had threatened them all. He seemed to be musing, as did Dorim, though their stances had eased steadily into battle-ready positions. Brór had outfitted himself amply, bearing the crude, imposing mace he clasped in his hands, two small, differing axes stuffed into a cord of leather he’d bound about his waist as a belt (which he’d use for throwing when the time was presented to him), and a long, ragged-edged dagger. Plates of randomly assorted mail, chain and leather alike, had been used to clothe him foolishly, as he had piled layers over his current fashion of rags and shreds. He cut the figure of a barbaric primitive, some foul individual, purposeless and senseless. A minute blaze flickered behind his eyes as he saw the fight.

At long last, or at short last, it was Dwali who was defeated, to Brór’s slight surprise only. Dwali’s fit of murderous, incensed, and passionate rage had peaked and ebbed, now failing him. He was thrown aside as the hapless orc stumbled up and turned his head. The remaining two dwarves, still retaining no emotion in their furious faces, did not hesitate to head forward. Dorim leapt as nimbly as dwarves could over the panting form of Dwali, who seemed to have been knocked out in the fray. The now duo looked ominously upon the orc, who looked to be inadvertently caught between a devilish smirk and a pitiful whimper as his curling lip quivered with anticipatory confusion. It could not be told whether he was gleeful or afraid.

Brór, the more experienced, older warrior, went at it first. His mace swung, but missed purposefully. The uruk stumbled oafishly as the spiky cudgel bashed the stone below, sending up a sudden spurt of dusty mist that clouded the vision of dwarf and orc. He raised the mace again and swung, this time hearing the satisfying crash of metal on metal that resounded eerily, carrying as if pulled by dark, shadowy hands past every crevice of the tower and crammed within. Twice more he swung, pulling his blows short as the orc, fumbling with his smaller blade, tried to parry and to dodge. After several of these arching, bashing swipes at the pungent-smelling air, Brór’s mace found home in the side of the orc, though not well. With a blunt blast from the cudgel hilt, Brór struck the uruk in the arm. The arm gave a protesting groan, as did its owner, and the uruk turned, limping back and slashing madly as he turned. Brór hurried after, but the orc suddenly spun and planted a fist in his chest, raised up. The dwarf fell, cursing in Khuzdul, and the orc scurried off like a rodent towards the nearby stairwell, disappearing down those stairs a moment later.

In an instant, Dorim was at Brór’s side, pulling him up with forceful care. “Quickly,” he cried, raising his weapon as Brór managed to find composure on his feet, “we must follow him!” Brór glanced at him, his face as it had been throughout the brief scuffle, calm and blandly serene. He looked up studiously, and gestured back towards Dwali, who remained unconscious behind the two of them. “What of Dwali?” he queried swiftly, tensed and ready to dive after the orc, but still tranquil somehow, “If other orcs yet live he may be slain, left here.” Dorim looked back at him with understanding and nodded, but Brór quickly shoved the other dwarf forward. “I will take him to down, you descend before me and pursue the creature. If he escapes, tell the man who freed us of his presence…but not the others if you can…Send him to his doom if you must, but leave what you can for me. Go, go swiftly! Baruk Khazâd!”

And Dorim was off momentarily, his own weapon ready as he plunged, throwing himself down the winding stairs two at a time. Meanwhile, as fast as he could, Brór stuffed the rough mace into the bowels of his newly armored tunic and hefted the husk of Dwali, a lighter and smaller dwarf than he, even after emaciation in Cirith Ungol, onto his shoulder, trying to encourage the form to use his limp legs and walk as he dragged both himself and the living burden down the stairs slowly, towards the lower level, courtyard, other prisoners, and his the dwarves’ orcish quarry, possibly the last living orc in the Pass of Cirith Ungol.