Land of Darkness RPG

[alaklondewen]

Everything happened so quickly. Lyshka stood frozen…her new blade was limp in her hand as she watched the Orc crossing the courtyard. The beast moved too quickly for his pursuers, and although the other woman made an attack, she was thrown to the side by its bulk.

The Easterling was too far from its path to be able to easily catch up to the Orc, and she was not comfortable with her aim. If he was close she could jump upon his back and slice him open, but that would not work from this distance. Knowing the danger they would all be in if the creature escaped, the Easterling watched silently with bated breath.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The female elf walked ahead of Morgoroth, the stairs not being wide enough for two to safely walk abreast, three long knives held in one fist, protruding like metal claws from her hands, a sword in the other, and the elven sword in it's sheath tucked carefully under her arm. She wondered at Morgoroth though - he would search all of Cirith Ungol to find one knife, if it were possible, and then would leave happy. All it would take would be a length of steel branded with a few careful marks, and he would be happy. Raeis barely remembered the love of weapons she had had in her past life, the existence in Mirkwood whose reality she was unsure of - not being a warrior she had not had regular use of them, but had been skilled with bow or sword in practise, loving the feel of the metal warming beneath her hands, the silver sound made when she spun a sword through the air or loosed an arrow... Since then though, all she had known of weapons had marred that love, as the hatred borne by their wielders destroyed her features and her life.

So it was gingerly that she held the weapons in her hands: the careful wariness of one meeting a dear, lifelong friend who had betrayed the other, now coming back with a promise of help.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Raeis looked around with a furtiveness created by habit. Seeing no one there, her heart jumped inside her - abandoned?!

"Hai?!" Looking about, she called softly for anyone else.

[Durelin]

Climbing long winding stairs, Jordo found his mind winding and twisting with them. It wandered from the cold stone walls that surrounded him, finding peace of mind in doing something. Each stair was something to do; it kept him moving, and so kept his brain focused on something simple. The simplicity of doing work was all that Jordo knew to be peaceful. Suddenly he found himself staring down at his hands. They were held out before him because they had nothing better to do. He allowed himself to actually take interest in the fact that they were not being controlled by a hard hand and a stinging whip, forced to do work and watched closely as they did their best to comply. It seemed that his hands were finally able to move freely. He smiled slightly, feeling happy for them. Sharing in some kind of joy, his mind got lost in a strange warmth, and he didn't bother to find his way out of it.

Then all of a sudden he found he had reached the top of the stairs, and he looked up. But too late. His body hit something warmer and softer than the chilling walls around him, and his face was covered by long, soft blonde hair for a moment before he stepped quickly back down a step. The elf whirled around, a long knife at the ready. He had not made a sound when Jordo suddenly bumped into his back, but the man now squeaked in surprise and fear. Morgoroth had gotten a safe distance from his supposed assailant and been prepared to kill before Jordo could even let out a frightened yelp.

The elf sighed, partially in relief, but mostly in exasperation, as he saw who he had been prepared to kill. Jordo had trouble meeting those dark green eyes. The quiet pressure made him look down at the floor and fidget with the helm that was in his hands as he had not liked the feel of looking through those makeshift slits for eyes. His mind began to feel that he was looking out through someone else’s eyes, and hoped only that they were not menacing yellow slits. A shiver ran down his spine, and a tingling spanned his skin. He did not like the feel of this crude leather armor on his bare skin, either.

The man glanced up quickly, and though the eyes were not frightening or unfriendly, he knew that there had to be some kind of punishment awaiting him. He had done something wrong. The focus on him made him feel that he was in an unwelcome, unwanted position. He wanted the eyes to ignore him again, wanted them to leave him alone.

“Be alert, Jordo. And remain close behind.”

Morgoroth suddenly turned, and ran to the corner at the end of the hall. Jordo followed as quickly as he could, but was careful not to run into the elf this time, as he stopped abruptly to look down the next hall. He let out a heavy sigh once more.

“She is not there. Let us hope she has only gotten ahead of us.”

The elf began to run again, and Jordo did his best to obey Morgoroth’s former instructions. “Come. Quickly.” And the man did his best to comply with these, as well.

[Novnarwen]

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

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

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

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

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

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

[Himaran]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Bêthberry]

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

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

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

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

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

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