Land of Darkness RPG

[Himaran]

"Do not threaten him." At that particular moment, Dwali decided upon the seventh reason he disliked elves; they were overconfident. The Silvian who had spoken to Brór actually meant to say 'Quit looking at me wrong, or I'll run you through leave your mangled corpse in the courtyard.' Or at least, it seemed so to the young dwarf watching his new friend confront the pair of elves before them.

But at any rate, it appeared that Brór was looking for a fight; and if the current conversation continued unchecked he would be receiving one. The elves were in physically stronger state, and would probably be the ones to survive in the event of actual combat. Thankfully, the male elf mumbled something to his companion, and the pair moved on into a different section of the tower. "Quite helpful, those elves are," said Dwali. "They ask who we are looking for, and than leave before we can tell them. Quite helpful indeed." Brór merely nodded, and they continued their search, wondering if a possible feud been overcome or catalysed.

The dwarves wandered though the dark passages of the tower, eventually returning to the courtyard. They had lost all trace of Dorim, and could only hope that he had found the Uruk and survived the encounter. "Perhaps we should look for Grash," suggested Dwali. "I want to get out of this cursed tower. And by now, either Dorim or the orc is dead; unless he escaped." Brór nodded in agreement, and although both were worried about their companion, the pair slowly made their way back through the tower to the meeting place.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor had been looking for additional weaponry when he was alerted by Grash's screams. He quickly whirled about to see what was wrong. As he did so he saw an orc running towards the gate. Zuromor ran as fast as he could towards the orc and saw a woman in the orc's path. She had managed to slow him down but had been tossed aside. It seemed the orc might be getting away and Zuromor had to do something

As he ran after the orc he saw a dagger protruding from the back of an orc just ahead. He stooped low as he neared the downed orc and ripped out the dagger while he ran. He hefted it a few times and then he threw the dagger with all his might. The orc ran just outside the gate as the dagger seemed to stop in mid-air for a moment before falling back down to earth. The orc had escaped.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The others followed Grash into the tunnel, as he knew they would – for what else was there for them to do? They quickly passed down the winding corridor carved by the makers of the Tower in ages past. Its walls were smooth, and Grash wondered at this, for he did not know of the ancient Men who had founded the Tower before its capture by the Dark Lord. They soon reached a low wall that ran across the mouth of the corridor that they had to scramble over. The Elves fairly leapt over the barrier, but the others had to climb as best they could. The Dwarves gave one another what aid they could in their crossing, but did not offer their hands to the Men. Aldor was quick to mount the low wall and help Grash and the other Men onto the other side. Darash and Lyshka, Grash noted, refused all aid.

When they were assembled upon the other side there were two ways. One lay to their left and sloped gently upward. There came from that tunnel a faint breeze of foul air from which they determined that it led to the tunnel’s exit. Some of the company were perhaps tempted to go that way and avoid the Monster, but that direction would only have led them back to Mordor. The only way to escape were they to go back from the tunnel was along the road to Minas Morgul… Steeling themselves, they headed into the impenetrable gloom of the Monster’s lair.

The tunnel ran straight and broad so it was easy to find their way, but there were many openings on either hand from which came noisome smells and foul airs. Grash led the way bearing one of the torches. The flame, which had seemed so bright in the cellars of the Tower, was but a flickering will-o-the-wisp in the pall of this realm, or like the poisonous glow of a corpse candle. As they walked on, the air grew thick and heavy, and closed in about them all choking their breath and stilling their hearts. When Zuromor spoke to Grash, his voice sounded alarmingly loud even though it was barely a whisper. “Grash,” he asked “how do you expect to live through this? You said you freed us so you would be able to leave. What if you are one of those who are eaten?”

Grash merely shrugged. “Maybe I do get eaten. Maybe I do not. If I go through tunnel alone then no escape at all. This way, perhaps I do escape.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment in which Grash could sense the man working up to another question. It was a matter of indifference to Grash whether he would ask it or not, so he simply plodded along in silence. “How many do you think will be taken?” Zuromor asked.

Again Grash shrugged. “When Monster takes orcs, she takes three of four. But orcs nasty krattûk beasts, they not taste good, I think.” He smiled darkly. “Many here taste sweeter than orcs, I think,” he flicked his eyes back to where the Elves strode, and behind them, the Dwarves, their dark forms barely visible through the pitch. He looked back into the dark that ran on before their feet. “Sweeter than Grash, I think. Sweeter than Men.” And again he smiled.

He heard a sound almost like a snicker and looked behind him. Jeren was walking at his back, but his face was serious and fixed. Grash wondered if the Man had heard him speaking with Zuromor…

[Bêthberry]

Darash turned her eyes from the shadows of the courtyard to the deep gloom of the tunnel. Though no one could see, the muscles on her neck quivered. But that was all the evidence she displayed of her fear. She had never been underground, never crawled through rock and dark and places where offal hung to fill the air with putrid scent. The group trudged on for she knew not how long, time being lost in the winding of the lair. They were climbing, she thought. The air seemed empty except for its stench. It hardly filled her lungs. She willed herself to breathe deeply, for she would need to gather her strength. And thoughts.

She watched Grash walk on ahead, the torch lighting the way. She recalled his words.

"Not all reach the other side," he had said. "Some get eaten, some do not."

As she walked over the smooth, cold stone, her feet unaccustomed to the orc boots, her hand followed one side, testing the walls as she walked for their strength and texture, as if she were learning the place. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Grash.

Grash has watched the movements of the orcs and noted them well. He is a cunning leopard. He has seen the herds gather and knows that the weak ones fall. But this is all he knows; he is an animal, not a man of the Amazigh. He sacrifices life like animals.

She kept these thoughts to herself, for this was not the time to challenge him. For now, it was enough to follow him cautiously, warily. There were enough of them here, many hands, many swords, to ward off this foul beast they spoke of. Why plan like the orcs and animals do, for some to fall? The way of these northerners was despicable.

A rumble in the bowels of the tunnel made Darash shake her head of these thoughts. She began to form thoughts of this animal, this beast, this monster, recalling what little she knew of it. If you know the animal's way, she reminded herself, you will know the way to fight it. She hefted the bags she carried, put a blade in each hand, and thought about how to speak to the others so they would have a strategy for all and not just for some. She would teach this Grash something.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“Sweeter than Grash, I think. Sweeter than Men.”

Jeren heard the words and rolled his eyes, scoffing lightly. However, this small noise echoed and brought a quick, sidelong glance from Grash. Jeren made his face serious and still as stone until the man turned back forward. I think that if she is hungry, she will eat whatever she gets. If she will stand the rank of the orcs, she will eat both Dwarf and Man. Or Man and Elf, whichever she gets first. She will not get me first, at least…

The Southron man kept these wicked thoughts to himself as the group walked the tunnel. It is well that we go toward the beast, Jeren thought. We are too many in number as it is. The Dwarves will slow us down, they are stubborn. The females will slow us down. Jeren strayed momentarily to the left, lifting his hand and letting it gently drag against the dimly lit wall. The damp, rocky wall grated against his fingertips, and Jeren withdrew his hand when the wall opened up temporarily into another shaft.

Suddenly, Jeren felt a tingle in the back of his throat. What the -- The Southron man's eyes squinted and his brows furrowed. Soon, Jeren broke out in fits of hacking. His exhales brought coughing and his inhales were difficult and wheezing. Jeren ignored everyone's attention and glances, focusing on the procession of the thick, nasty air into his lungs. He still was unused to the disgusting air. Cough after cough Jeren tried to stifle.

"Silence! No sound from you, too loud!" Grash hissed, and Jeren glared coldly at the man. I'll rip your throat out and then you can see how you like it, Jeren thought bitterly, though he did try harder to quiet his hacking...he just breathed less.

"When does the tunnel open?" Jeren whispered softly to Grash, though the words echoed once again and he knew the whole company could hear his words. Jeren's voice came out rough and broken, and he fought through another fit of his rebelling throat and lungs.

[Novnarwen]

"When does the tunnel open?" he heard the Southron say.

If you don't shut your big mouth very soon, we won't come to then end of the tunnel at all, Rhând thought miserably to himself. The echoes the other Southron, Jeren, had made when 'whispering', roared through the whole tunnel. The sound of his coughing too, made Rhând doubt they would ever get out the tunnel alive. This Jeren had caused too much noise. Surely, if there was a monster, which Rhând himself was starting to believe, it would certainly hear them if they weren't quiet. On the other hand though, it would be a good thing that people got annoyed with this Southron's behaviour. It would be a great accomplishment to himself, even though he hadn't done anything. He looked at the Southron for a moment. Yes, he would certainly be hated. The more mistakes he made, the more the others would hate him. Rhând, too, would help them hate the Southron even though he was a Southron himself. It surprised him that he hadn't realised it before, but it was clear to him now; Jeren would definitely be an important piece in this puzzle. If he were ever going to escape from these prisoners, and bring them back to their cells, Rhând would need a prisoner who was more hated than himself: Jeren. Rhând, himself, would of course avoid being hated, but if he was unfortunate enough to make a mistake, it was good to have someone in the company who absolutely no one liked.

Being more careful now as he went, not to bump into anyone, (certainly not Elves,) he laid his eyes on Jeren. He wanted to observe him, wanted to learn more about him. What weaknesses did he have? What strengths? Rhând gave a peculiar smile at this, as he didn't know if a full-blood Southron had any strengths. On the other hand, he reproached himself for underestimating another. It could be dangerous in a situation like this, but it would have to pass this time. How could possibly a Southron like Jeren, who found it convenient to cough in a tunnel where there was supposed to be a monster of the worst kind, do anything right? Yes, by the look of him, Rhând thought, he seemed dumb, ignorant and as all Southrons quite boring.

Following the dim light from the torch Grash held in his hand, Rhând was able, due to great concentration, to make out the tunnel's form; how it bent and so on. The cobwebs, which he came to notice even more than before, were terribly big. What was this place anyway? he wondered. He had heard of great spiders, but this size?! It seemed so surreal, but he knew that it was probably something of that kind which lived here. He bit his lip, feeling his neck getting stiffer and stiffer. He would have to do something about it, when coming out of the tunnel. He couldn't go on forever with the big lump. However, as he thought about it, it was probably just a matter of time before it got better. How much worse could it get? He thought to himself. He felt the need to curse, and he did so, but under his breath.

[CaptainofDespair]

The coughing and hacking that emanated from Jeren, had become quite an annoyance to the finely tuned ears of the dark Silvan. The noise echoed from wall to wall, and it seemed to shake even the finely strung webs that had been woven into the corridors by whatever brooding monstrosity of a long forgotten age, that lurked in the passage. The webs themselves were peculiar, as they seemed to reflect a light that did not exist in the darkness of the Tunnel. Not only that, but it seemed like the creature that had woven them, had arrayed them in a way that forced any passerby along a certain, well-worn path.

The march through the Tunnel was slow going, as many pitfalls and cobwebs hampered the efforts to continue forth. Every once and awhile someone would trip over a pile of orc bone left behind from one the creature's previous meals. None of this worried the elf. He knew his naturally imbued grace and dexterity would give him advantage over the others, who continued to bumble around through darkness. To the Mortals within the party, this was as quiet as they could get, but the fair and graceful First-born, the Children of Eru, were much more adept with stealth, and proceeded along much more softly careful of their surroundings. The clanging of rough orc armor could be heard as the dwarves carried on towards the rear, bumping into the walls blindly in the dark, and causing undue clatter.

Morgoroth was on edge however, as he knew the creature would come for her meal eventually. So he began to take precautions against such a horrid demise of those he had taken under his wing. Raeis and he walked side by side, and kept Jordo to the center, protecting him from an ambush that was likely to come soon. He kept his bow at his side, with an arrow at the ready, prepared to sing its deadly song in the uneasy dark of the Tunnel.

Besides the eerie light produced by the webbing, nothing else could very well be seen. Only the light of the slowly dimming torches would provide any artificial light. Yet, the torches would soon fade, and with them, any hope to prevent an ambush. This is what She was waiting for, the time when all lights go out...

[Kransha]

Bror looked warily from side to side, the orbs clouded beneath his hanging, furrowed brow, which looked as heavy as the savage weapon he clutched in each hand, both metal-shod and bound up in thick gloves of chain mail. His beard, frazzled and unkempt, was whisked over his drooping shoulders by the subtlest of breezes, the last, he feared, he would ever feel. He did not care for wind, and had not appreciated the gentle tranquility of daylight in the past, but now felt more than ever that he missed it dearly. In this dark, dank land, this seemingly impassable tunnel, with lurking shadows to overplay those that simply augmented the sinister atmosphere. For some time, at the tail of the motley party, the dwarf trio had traipsed slowly deeper into the tunnel, to court whatever doom the others would and face it alongside them, no matter how much tension the entirety of the group was suffering from, and had been for the duration of their 'adventure.'

Elves and men were all around him, or at least before him and ahead. They still looked segregated purposefully into their own units, but had formed a strange, muddled clump to be near each other, only for the sake of individual safety. Some might trust one another, but most did not trust anyone save themselves and one or two others. Dwarves trusted dwarves, elves trusted elves, men trusted men, and friends trusted friends, but no alliances had been made in earnest, which left the group uneasy. The three dwarves were as uneasy as the rest, and perhaps more, as they did not share any bond with the other races present.

The dwarf at the head of the three, Bror, was, as the other two were, half accustomed to the darkness. Years in the ominous fog of Cirith Ungol had manipulated his eyes’ former prowess. He was used to the darker shades and hues of these lands. But, his past life, the one left behind, left him with a second aspect of sight into the darkness, when he’d lived in a dimmer time, but brightened by happiness. He could see all around him, the rocky crags on the damp cave wall, the countless spider-built threads of cobwebs that hung above, with an assortment of dead and decaying creatures suspended from above, with a pestilential aura lingering around each corpse of orc and animal alike. Bror looked up and around, his nose wrinkling sensitively. He began to walk faster, jogging awkwardly in his heavily armored outfit, and soon had Dwali and Dorim pacing far behind. He weaved with some slight nimbleness past the elves and the men until he could see the back of their accidental leader, and he who had granted Bror his freedom, the man called Grash. Hurriedly, Bror sidled up to him. The man turned slowly, his face as slate as ever, as Bror began reluctantly to speak, ignoring anyone else who might be nearby, focusing unanimously on the man called Grash.

“Man…” he paused, reminding himself swiftly of the man’s true name, or the one he’d told his ‘allies,’ “Grash…you spoke of the beast in the tunnel earlier…you said that not all of us would ford this last obstacle, but some would, and that is why you freed us…” he paused again, his tongue held back with his words as he was unsure how to phrase his question, something he’d been considering for a long while, “Do you truly think that you will be one of those?...Do you trust corrupted men and prideful elves so much that, in this time where you hold onto life in this place of death, you would trust them to assist you...and each other…”

Grash looked at him with resilient lack of emotion and posed a brief question, still walking into the depths of the darkness. “You not trust elves and men?” Bror didn’t look back, but looked to the comfortable uniformity of the tunnel’s wall for consolation in whatever he thought. “No,” he said soon after, which didn’t surprise the younger man, “…no, I don’t. Neither do my kin. Elves serve only their own kind, and men serve only themselves…Were I one of them, I would not trust dwarves…It is hard to trust anyone after such emotions have been gouged from your mind.” He thought back to more painful days, days where he’d wished he had the strength of mind to run onto orcish blades and embrace a death with open arms.

The man nodded soberly, as if he understood better than Bror, which the dwarf severely doubted, and looked to him with a calm face. “You not trust…or you not want to trust?”

Bror looked at him darkly, but answered. “Both, I think…Answer the question!”

Grash turned from him too, still walking, but slower now as darkness closed in around them as the tendril-like legs of the keeper of this cave, sharp and unmerciful. He looked back barely a moment later, speaking as philosophically as a man with his waning oratory talents could. “Don’t know if I survive; maybe live, maybe not, but some get through...I want get through, but not get everything I want, not here. Some get through, some not, but some still get through. They go on, they get out. All might get through.”

The dwarf who he spoke to looked frustrated by Grash’s seeming evasion, but accepted the answer as either carelessness, or maybe misplaced optimism. He continued, digging deeper to get the reply he really desired. “But…if you have the opportunity…would you squander it in place of putting false trust in false allies? All our lives are at risk here, but the risk for some is not as great for some as it is for others…Some will help others and, if you run first, they will be the ones taken by Her.”

[Kransha]

Brór Stormhand knew that sound, that horrible, incessant, unending clacking that beat with a furious rhythm, not sounding together but in multitudes like vile locust swarms buzzing about in the shadows above. It infuriated him even now that they lurked above and descended only to strike. Like goblins they were, dwelling in the shadows and waiting until the moment most opportune to dive and strike. This incensed Brór, and he knew that, if ever his time had come to fight, now was it. He did not heed the words spoken to him by any and chaos reigned soon after. The hurried party scattered, but stayed at least in some group. Some moved left, some right, some frontward, some backward, all every which way, but Brór knew where he would go. Dismissing his kin, Dorim and Dwali, he ran as fast as his legs took his through the band, towards the small, beastly spiders that alighted on the ground and hung just out of reach, tantalizing him to hit them with his blade and club. Nevertheless, he cleared the group, and dove into the mound of dark, pestilential monsters, seeking either their death or his.

He hacked and bashed, thwacked and smashed, and hammered away madly at the creatures as they tried in vain to swarm him. His inflated ego, which bloated more after each sickening sound that signaled the demise of one beast, told him he was doing well in battle, but it was his mind’s false hope and that alone. Three more went down, ground into the gasping dirt and damp rock by his cragged cudgel crushed and his swift ax sliced in twain or more. Their corpses on the earth seemed swallowed up by the oncoming hordes that moved steadily towards him, their fragile, stick-like legs pattering gently on the cave floor around as they rushed to get behind him, or to some vulnerable side. They would leap at him through the misty shroud of their webs, trying to bite and taint his blood with their putrid venom, but he was armed, and heavily armed at that, like a wall of rough-hewn stone he stood, statuary in the sea of arachnids. But, though he stood firm, he was almost lost. Through the writhing mass of spider flesh, he saw none of the other prisoners. He was sure that some, in their arrogance, had stayed behind, or moved there, to battle the cluster of monstrosities, but he could not make them out. The orcish armor he wore stabbed at him as much as the puncturing teeth and claws of the spiders did, galling him to wear it and darkening his sight.

He knew now, now more than ever he had known that he was lost. He brought the hefty ax down mightily, cleaving a final spider in two with a revolting sound, but his weapon seared as water to fire through the monster’s hide and was borne into the rock below, which grabbed onto it, latching its remnants of webbing onto the prongs of the ax and pulling it. As Bror attempted to unsheathe it from the earth in one swift motion, another spider took its moment to lunge, pouncing viciously on Brór’s stray hand. Through the rings of his male the beast’s darting fangs went, piercing his tough flesh beneath, but only for a moment. He drew his hand away, leaving the ax where it lay to be assimilated by the spiders, and clutched his hand as the tight armored gauntlet fixes upon it held in the blood, only causing him more pain. He tore at the metal glove to no avail, but abandoned that cause a moment later in favor of fighting his assailants, clubbing the next spider that leapt back towards his kin.

The dwarf, standing amidst the clacks of fangs and the hisses of beasts, heard only doom’s drum in his ears, covered by a heavy-handed helmet of the orcs. He could see nothing, save the spiders and the jutting rocks. Many hanging roofs of stone sat around, coated with webbing, a desirable hiding place, but he could not flee. He was surrounded, and his kinsmen, even if they desired to help him, could not reach him. Who, besides them, would bother risking life and limb for the dwarf? It didn’t matter now; Bror didn’t blame himself, though his sense did, as his heart was busy with its own agenda. He had wanted to die here, sooner or later, and, as he’d told his kin, hope was still its same illusion. To have good humor was a way to go about death that Bror had once excelled in, and would again. When the last spider drained the life fluid from his empty skull, his dead face would wear a defiant smile, though he could not muster the expression. He dashed, headlong, forward, and plowed into the fray renewed.

Suddenly, his dimmed eyesight caught in its cone the sight of a figure, a figure upright, though crouching, which lurked darkly beneath the canopy of stone nearby. He yearned to know who he saw, but he could not tell. It was no spider, for it had but two arms, clasped about itself. But, in a flash and an instant, in between the clicks and clacks of spiders wanting his death and ingestion, he recognized the figure. He looked just as he had the last time he and Brór had crossed paths. It was the darker elf, Morgoroth by name, though Bror did not know what he was called. The last time Bror had accosted that elf, he had been similarly crouched in the courtyard of the tower, looking as lonesome and desolate as now he did. With this realization came more dissolution. This elf, of all elves save the single female, who had nearly come to blows with him, was least likely to help him. He despaired again, but not for long. If the elf’s eyes were open as they seemed to be, they would see Brór’s glory and demise - or more, if that elf saw fit to take part. For now, Brór was content to die, not beneath the stars, but beneath the likeness of stars, the glittering eyes of his enemies…

[CaptainofDespair]

The carnage and immense reek brought about with each demise of the horrid, and disgusting, creatures at the hands of the bloodlust crazed dwarf, was outlandish. For the moment, they seemed to smell worse than their bite was, but that soon changed. The creatures swarmed about the lonely dwarf, who's only comrades had abandoned him, biting and stinging the armor and flesh of the poor, woe begotten defender.

The dwarf fought bravely, for all his insane lust for death. Yet, even for his great strength, the black devils brought their wrath unto him harshly, and he could not withstand it much more. He nearly collapsed under their weight, and deadly jaws. but he rose once more, and fought them yet again, driving them to the ground. His dwarven comrades still stood motionless, occasionally batting away the minions of Shelob who came forth to greet them.

From his dark alcove, the Elf watched this cycle for both the scuttling enemy, and his fellow freed prisoners. Then as the Elf turned to his thoughts, he saw the embattled dwarf fall to the ground, while clusters of the vile beasts poured over him, as if a flood gate had been released. His end seemed near, and as the Elf turned his head to look away from an imminent death, something stirred in his heart. He felt pity for the dwarf, and without hesitating, he rose from the relative safety of his hidden spot, with bow and short sword in hand. He leaped down from his vantage point, softly landing on the ground. He instantly drew his bow, and fired a salvo of arrows into the spidery mass that the dwarf encapsulated in. Three of the terrible beasts fell off immediately, curled into balls of dead matter, pierced with Haradrim-made arrows. With a swipe from his blade, another was dispatched, collapsing to the floor, spewing a rancid mixture of blackened blood, and a caustic gas. Morgoroth thrust his hand through the remaining creatures, who were now preparing to counter the Elf’s intrusion., and caught hold of the dwarf, and pulled him from the heap. “Come master dwarf, we should not tally here long.” With that, the Elf led the beleaguered and wounded dwarf back to his alcove, fending off counters from the spider menace, all the while taking the venomous bites and stings of his abhorred and sinister enemy, in defense of the dwarf.

The alcove offered not only safety, but a place of which to rest peacefully. The spiders for some odd reason, would not climb the wall, as if they could not. Perhaps they had not fully developed themselves, or found no need to, and it was simply faded out of their gene pool. But whatever the case, the two were safe. Morgoroth laid the dwarf down in a small niche, to better protect the wounded fighter. “Stay yourself here master dwarf, you are safe now.” Without saying another word, the Elf moved in a crouched position towards the edge of the wall, and peered out into the crawling, writhing black abyss that was the spider horde. And the others were still yet surrounded and outmatched.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka spun slowly around, taking in the horrific scene. Now that the crazed dwarf had been removed from the immediate danger, the terrible creatures turned their full attention to those still left standing in the center of the room. Thousands of sparkling eyes looked over them, while anxious fangs dripped with poison at the promise of a sweet meal.

Stepping backward, Lyshka hoped to have her back covered by one of the other prisoners, but as she moved, her hair was lifted and she felt something sharp graze her scalp. The Easterling snapped her head around. Her gaze met the belly of one of the beasts, and she cried out in surprise. At the same time, she swung her arm and threw the creature across the room. It landed out of the light’s reach, but she imagined she heard a thump against the far wall.

Fear gripped the woman. Her heart pounded in her ears, and her breath was shallow. Using her Orc blade, she stabbed another spider that came too close to her feet. It’s black blood oozed like the growing shadows in the darkness, and the stinch that rose caused Lyshka to cover her face with her knifeless hand as she coughed the fumes from her lungs.

[Durelin]

Jordo had been frozen in a horror that he had not known since his escape from his cell in Mordor, from his cage. If his mind was not so filled with fear it would have realized that he had finally acknowledged his finding freedom an 'escape'. Not that his mind would understand that this was an improvement to his soul. With peace of mind, his thoughts would insist that it marred his soul, while his soul would listen with interest. But his mind was not at peace, and his soul was finding its old tarnishing torment. He could not find a scream in his throat to let out the fear that roiled and writhed inside.

The snake in his gut even spoke to him. Sometimes it whispered, other times it screamed, and he obeyed. If he obeyed it, it would leave him alone. If he obeyed it, he would feel no pain. One word was all that he needed to hear. The word would be one of wisest counsel, and would free him of those many eyes and many legs. The snake had no legs, and Jordo didn’t think it had eyes either. It didn’t need to move, to run, when Jordo could run for it. And he did, as it whispered frantically in his ear: Run! Fast, my friend…no time, my friend… Run, catch up with mamma!

Jordo ran to the nearest shadows, for once finding them a haven. His eyes darted, but he saw nothing. He heard screams and the grotesque clacking of what his eyes had seen to be a mouth. A set of crushing jaws that waited to bring from him his own screams of pain. It was the voices of those in fear and agony that twisted his soul into the snake, and it continued to slither in his stomach. His ears strained to hear what went on in the dark around him, though he fought to shut it all out of his head. Once it was in his head, he would not hear anything else.

He kept moving for some time, racing through shadows, feeling alone while still feeling that he was being watched. As the darkness rushed by him, he felt as if it was closing in behind him, folding in on itself, swallowing up anything that was not already of the dark. It was almost as if he could feel a rush of air each time the darkness folded like snapping jaws, trying to catch Jordo from behind. Thinking of jaws, his legs strained to move faster. But soon he gave in, as he knew he would never outrun the shadows. And she he curled up in them, still and quiet, and finding some sort of peace.

He stood there for a moment, listening to his breathing, focusing on it. The focus should of course always be on himself; long had he been concerned for his well-being, concerned enough to forget others, especially since the death of his mother. He heard not the noises of approaching people in fear, each one rushing to escape his or her own death. And Jordo forgot that his own death was chasing him, as the shadows had caught up with him. He suddenly felt a something large hit him, and he was on the floor, unable to get up for the people that ran over him and around him.

He curled up into a ball, and squeezed his eyes tight, hoping for the darkness to protect him once more. Jordo tried not to be in the way. Why was he always in someone's way? No one liked having someone in their way. They would punish him for being where they did not want him to be. And he felt pain, as he was kicked and stepped on, and finally a large booted foot hit him in the forehead. Soon the pain was lost in the darkness.

[The Perky Ent]

"This is it!" Dorim said under his breath. He knew, it would either be him, or them. Right now, he didn't care either. Taking his ax, Dorim took a deep breath and plunged into the vat of spiders. As one by one, spiders crept up on him, his ax dropped down on them, swiping spiders left and right. It was as hard keeping them off as it was keeping liquid off you under water. Constantly, they'd jump and land on Dorim, giving him a mere moment to get them off.

Finally, after about five minutes of fighting, an abnormally large spider jumped on Dorim's head and took him down. As hard as he tried, the spider wouldn't come off. It seemed it would kill him. Warding off other spiders, he couldnt' take the one on his head off. "You infernal creature!" Dorim said, as two spiders jumped on his stomach. Screaming, Dorim used all his power to knock them off. In a moment, the others saw several spiders fly very high into the air and come back down.

The rage inside Dorim was so powerful, that spiders slowed down as they approached. Dorim would not go down easy.

[Himaran]

The battle raged all around, bodies and weapons entwined with spiders and crawling legs. Grash's company put their scavanged weapons work in quick order, hacking their way through the mass of attacking arachnids. The beasts were like nothing Dwali had ever seen -- far larger than a common member of their species but much smaller than the projected size of Shelob... if that was truely her name. Perhaps the stories are all wrong... there is no Shelob, just these fat horrors. It was all a rumor, fabricated by the orcs over time. The dwarf continued to muse, fighting through the crowds of snapping predators and keeping near Dorim. His confidence grew as enemies fell all around him, and the walls began to clear.

Huge spiders, hah! Children's tales, orc legends, it makes no difference. Shelob is but a -- "YAI!" The Dwarf's mental rant ended with a vocal scream, as two of the spiders fell off the ceiling and landed on his face. Without the use of his eyes, Dwali was virtually helpless... and so he ran. Straight through the unseen swarm, groping at his covered features. He was able to pull one off and smash the other with a fist before realizing that he had dropped his weapon, and was on the same token surrounded. The axe, almost invisible in the dimly lit cavern, was over twenty yards behind him. More importantly, however, the spiders were closing in; and the dwarf had nothing with which to defend himself.

Then Dorim was there, tossing Dwali a small axe and charging into the horde of opponents. The pair ripped through them, scattered the dead to both sides. After reaching Dwali's axe, they turned to look for Bror, but he was nowhere in sight. "We'd best hold here until he shows up," suggested the younger dwarf, axe swinging in a furious patern. His companion agreed, and they continued to fend off the spiders before them. Where are you now Shelob, Dwali thought in a taunting voice. Is this the terror of the passage?