Land of Darkness RPG

[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.”

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka walked carefully in the thick, oppressive darkness of the tunnel. She kept one hand on the smooth stone of the wall and the other firmly gripped the knife she snatched from the Orc corpse. The ominous words of those around her worked themselves inside her head, making her tremble, but she still held herself together rigidly. She squeezed her teeth together tightly, making her jaw protrude on either side of her thin face. Every step she placed with caution, expecting, anticipating the foreboding attack.

For many months, the Easterling had dreamed of her entrance into this tunnel and her meeting with the mighty Shelob. Sitting in her cell, huddled in the dark, cool corner, Lyshka pictured herself walking to her timely death with her head held high. She would simply throw her arms out and cry, “Ak agnash skûg agh ak agnash dûthk!” The beast would then take her in her surrender and bring her the death that would bring an end to the bitterness life brought.

That is how she dreamed of it. But now…now she was free. Free. The idea created such a strange, surreal…even numb sensation in her mind. Lyshka was now free in the tunnel that held the creature she had been tortured by the simple thought of it.

She turned the knife slowly in her hand. She had not pictured herself armed in her dreams. A slow awkward smile crossed her face for a brief moment as she considered the possibility of actually escaping this horrible place. The moment was quickly gone however as she passed an open passage on her left. The stench was heavy and she gagged. Her concentration was broken and fear gripped her once more.

Instinctively, her free hand reached out and grabbed the other woman’s wrist tightly. The Easterling’s hand trembled, but she found strength in the other. The woman turned to Lyshka, meeting her gaze. Lyshka almost expected her to lash out at her, but the woman studied the Easterling’s face in the pale torch light and simply nodded in understanding.