Land of Darkness RPG

[CaptainofDespair]

Within the dark unconscious of his mind, the Elf despaired. He had not cried out when the pale light of the Nazgul’s blade had entered his flesh, but his mind shrieked in agony, writhing about, terrified by this turn of events. Memories of a fading past glistened in the dark, shimmering with an eerie, green light, dancing within the confines of his mind’s eye. But he was consoled not. An agonizing pain lingered on the outer rim of his thoughts, whispering in heretical voices, painting a visage of unimaginable horror in his unconscious sight.

As he lingered there, his body paralyzed in shock, from the profuse bleeding that poured forth in sheets from the maw of his gaping wound, a familiar voice reentered his mind. Flickering in the blackness of his decaying thoughts, came the fell voice of the Dark Lord. Only a monotonous drone at first, its hate and grandeur soon amplified, infecting the Elf’s thoughts in all corners of his smitten inner self. Fear gripped the heart of the Immortal, draining his being as he fought futilely against the fiery tide of dominion that engulfed him. The Dark Lord had returned, and with him came the vast hordes of terror and despair that accompanied his coming. “I warned you Elf! You could not possibly hope to escape from my domain. Your effort has only weakened you, and your self-sacrifice only speeds the demise I would surely give you.” The Dark Lord’s omnipresent voice scoured the Elf’s thoughts, searing them with cruel words, and laying waste to any hope he might have of living past this tragedy. Yet, for all his tact and guile, the Elf could not conjure a reply that would hand him victory over his seemingly unbeatable foe. His weakened, and fragile body, having been sapped of strength, had drained his mind, and he could no longer save himself from any oppressive advances of Sauron’s grotesque evil.

The onslaught continued for the Elf, but now, his body was slowly regaining strength, having survived the terrible blood loss of his wound. Now, all his will was being summoned forth to breach the terrible power of the Dark Lord, and drive him one last time from his mind. But yet again, he could not rally his thoughts into one great charge, to eviscerate the horrid power that drove the malicious voice in his head. He was alone, and helpless to the will of Sauron. Now, he would be left as a wraith, such as that which had smote him, with his soul shredded into a twisted shadow of malice, Mandos would not be his fate. Yet, a fleeting glimmer of light within the chasm of the abyss, which had consumed his very thoughts, and had twisted his mind into a dungeon of torture, rekindled some of the fire of his shattered will. Yet, the grasp of evil is not easily broken, and a force of equal wrath is needed to vanquish such a seemingly indomitable foe. And that force came. Like the Noldor hosts of old, it came in great wrath, to smite the will of Sauron, and break the hand of oppression. The force that came, was not some last, hidden remnant of Morgoroth’s being, but the voices that had accompanied him in the Tunnel, and saved him from death. Now, they came back, as one last gesture of thanks for giving them the gift of freedom from the torturous ways of Shelob. The voices came, hissing and shrieking in unison, and they battered the will of Sauron, whose attentions had been drawn away.

And just as quickly as the host of voices of the long since dead had come, it departed, leaving the Elf in perfect solitude, to gather himself. And that he did. Slowly, having regained control of his mind, which still lay in ruin, he sought to regain his body. Broken it was still, with a devastating wound still seething with a fresh burning sensation, from the blade of the Morgul Wraith. Consciousness came to him, as the hideous light of Mordor that lingered about him, swept into his eyes. Yet, his body was still weak, and movement was difficult. The orc host had nearly ceased its fighting, and had begun to move on, to the Morannon. Looking about him, he found a scimitar from a dead orc, and used it to prop up the numbed left side of his body. Slowly working in this fashion, he managed to stand himself upright. He scanned the area around him, and noticed his comrades, slinking off to the path into the mountains, hoping to hide themselves from the vicious orcs once more. The Elf, wielding the scimitar as a walking stick of sorts, slowly plodded towards his fleeing companions, to seek the safety of the realms beyond Mordor.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka quickly regained her footing after the dark woman shoved her into two passing orcs. “Watch it!” She heard one of them growl, but she ignored him, pulling her hood tighter with one hand and sliding her knife from her vest with the other. The look on Darash’s face was enough warning that the two were in trouble, yet the Easterling woman was unsure what the nature of it was.

Keeping low, Lyshka stole a quick glance over her shoulder, but could not place her companion in the sea of bodies. She could, however, see the end of the current company and the beginning of the next army to pass. The soldiers were still a mess from the dark rider, no one keeping their ranks, but there was enough of a break between the groups, Lyshka thought she could slip out and onto the path.

Immediately, she fumbled, catching herself with her empty hand on the blackened road. Rising, she began to feign a limp that slowed her movement tremendously, so that she quickly fell behind the others. All the while, her eyes darted around her looking for Darash or her other companions…anyone other than Aldor. She did not know why, but she did not trust him. She would not go to him if he was alone on the path.

The break in the orcs was almost upon her, when she caught sight of Darash! The dark-skinned woman was holding an orc in her arms, and Lyshka watched with a surprised interest that took her mind from her plans. At that moment, several things happened. Lyshka’s hooded disguise slipped from her face, and before she was aware of it, three orcs coming from just ahead of Darash and the strange orc in her grasp noticed her, pointed and began to quickly move her way.

Lyshka had to think quickly…the orc trio was almost upon her. Suddenly the break between the armies reached her. Looking rapidly side to side, she saw no escape and the orcs were just a few feet away. “There she is!” One of the enemies motioned to the others. As the second army overcame her, Lyshka dropped to the ground and rolled into a ball, and then she reached forward and grabbed the ankles of the soldier in front of her, pulling him down and into the threesome.

Taking advantage of the moment of distraction, the woman secured her hood, jumped to her feet, and began running toward the path. She felt a rush of energy that pushed her on. Her sprint was short-lived, however, as a massive black hand grabbed the back of her neck and raised her entire body from the ground. Lyshka wriggled and writhed, kicking her legs violently in the air. The orc, who had caught his prey, reached around and took hold of the front of her vest, turning her around to face him in the air.

“You’ll make a tasty bite.” Spittle sprayed from his crooked mouth as he licked at his lips.

Lyshka continued to struggle, but was no match to his strength. He had caught her off her guard, and she forgot about her weapon. She now felt the handle of the crude knife she had taken from the corpse hand in the tower. That seemed an age ago, but she raised the knife quickly and stabbed at the malformed face in front of her. Her aim was good and she landed the blade directly into her attacker’s left eye. Black blood oozed and dripped as the orc dropped the woman to tend his wound. He cried out like a wild animal, and Lyshka ran, dodging bodies toward the path that was now just feet away.

[Bêthberry]

Aldor was the least of Darash's worries at the moment. With horror, she watched Lyshka grabbed by one of the stinking beasts, Lyshka, one of the few here with whom she felt some connection! She tried to move towards the woman without drawing attention to herself, but the pull of the new orc line dragged her farther away. Then, suddenly, Darash saw the orc roar and drop the woman, his arms flailing. Two orcs seemed interested in him; they moved towards him, but knocked into other orcs, who turned and sneered at them. A general pellmell of pushing and shoving broke out, and Darash feared that the Easterling would be trampled, but she was lost to Darash's sight.

Yet this diversion gave safety and security to the amazon warrior of the tribe of Amazigh. Continuing to lumber alongside the new dispatch of orcs, Darash was able to grunt her way over towards the disruption, pointing towards it with her hand, her hood nodding also. The orcs around her leered as they figured she was simply anxious to join the brawl and they actually moved to make way for her to join, one of them gurglling in his throat, stopping her, and handing her another knife, his tongue hanging out his mouth in voyeurish display. Darash made some gutteral sounds and grabbed the blade, jesturing with it in the air crudely and waddling over towards the disturbance with what she hoped was some semblance of orcish lust for the brawl.

But the melee was not her real destination. Crouching low, she scanned the ground, hoping to find Lyshka. When she could not, she almost dispaired and began to falter. Why go more? Why go more? she whispered to herself. The words jolted her. They were not the words of her people. They were the words of the language of Grash. She shook her head and choaked slightly on the dust the orcs' feet was raising The newness of the language seemed to give her hope and washed away her despair.

She began to watch the ground as she made way towards where she hope Lyshka would be. She saw no clear tracks, just the stamp of the confused tread of the orcs. Then she saw a buckle, a buckle she recognised as one from the orc's tunic Lyshka had worn. It must have been ripped off when she was grabbed. Moved towards it, caught it, and caught the scent of Lyshka from it. With her head down even more, she caught the scent of the woman's trail. There was hope!

~ ~ ~

Following the scent had brought Darash up to the path, ignored by the orcs who were still struggling over the one Lyshka had wounded. She ran up and saw the woman who had made it somehow out of the beastial mob. With a burst of energy which joy gave her, she reached out and hugged the Easterling, her head resting on the woman's shoulder and cuddled against her neck. Lushka put out her arms around Darash and the two would have remained rooted there had not the noises around them reminded them of the urgency yet of their escape. The two ran further up the path and, turning, came upon Grash wrestling with Jerdo. More joy at victory surged through Darash's veins and she gazed triumpantly at the slave who had so far succeeded in bringing them out of emprisonment. She ran faster towards him, recalling how she wished to tell him of Aldor's treachery.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Lurg trembled in his chains as he was led before the Screecher, and thrown to where its feet would be, if it actually had feet. He cowered upon the ground like a worm, not daring to look up at his master. A terrible black hand seized the back of his throat and its touch was like fire and ice as it pulled him aloft like a rat. Lurg tried to look away from the awful emptiness of the Screecher’s hood, but his eyes were dragged into the void of night which lay there, and from whence issued a thin voice that hurt him.

“You survived the slaughter at Cirith Ungol,” it hissed. “You allowed the prisoners to escape.”

“No no!” Lurg squealed like a stuck rodent. “I didn’t! It was the captains. . .they got to fighting over something and one thing led to another. I tried to recapture the prisoners, but there were too many of them, and the other orcs ran away. . .”

“Silence!” the Screecher warned, shaking him mercilessly so that he flopped about in the mighty hand like a dirty rag. “You ran from your post and let them escape. You deserve to be roasted over coals for that and served to my mount.” Lurg cringed in the knowledge that just such a fate had befallen several of his mates. Since the defeat in the West the Screechers had all been more than usually cruel and short-tempered: before it had happened, Lurg would not have believed that such a thing were even possible. “But I have a better use for you. The prisoners have made it to the High Path. They have caused chaos in my army and even dared to assault me” and there came from the darkness a hiss of such hatred and malice that the orcs who stood about watching fell back in terror. “I have not the time to deal with the scum as they deserve,” the Screecher continued when he recovered from his rage. “So you shall deal with them for me. Take two score of your companions and search the High Pass for the prisoners. When you find them, kill them and bring their skins to me personally. If you do this, I will allow you to be tortured by your fellow orc-maggots. Fail me, and I will have you taken before the dark throne where my Master will gaze upon you with the Eye.”

Lurg collapsed in the Screecher’s hand. Seeing his triumph, Khamûl, the new King of the Nazgûl let him drop to the hard stone of the Morgul Vale. “Choose the maggots you will need for this from the forward ranks – I will not waste my good troops on that filth in the High Pass.”

Lurg raised himself to his feet as the Screecher passed on. He shook himself roughly trying to regain his composure. He had been taken by the outriders of the army just at the Dark Lord’s Stones and when they had brought him before their Master he was sure he was doomed, so he grasped this one last chance eagerly. He looked to the sky and saw that the day was already passing into afternoon – he would have to run his maggots hard if they were to reach the path before nightfall…


Grash

Grash watched in horror as the Nazgûl discovered Raies and then Morgoroth in the army. From where he and Jordo had concealed themselves it was difficult to see clearly all that was happening, but he saw enough to know that Morgoroth had been slain, and that most of the company would soon join him in the melee that broke out amongst the orcs. Such fights were common with orc-kind and Grash knew that it would be a bloody, vicious affair in which anyone not careful and quick would be struck down. He ducked his head behind the rock that he and Jordo had selected as their hiding place, his mind racing. What were they to do? There was no hope that any of the company could possibly escape to the path now – the only reasonable thing to do would be to go on without them. Grash looked at Jordo, not sure how the boy would react to this. He had seen how the youth had taken to the Elves, and how he had been almost incapable of responding to any other member of the party. Leaning forward, he put his hand on Jordo’s shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting fashion. “No hope for others,” he said gently. “All dead now. We go on alone. Come.” He stood up, pulling on the youth’s hand. “Come, come!” he urged, pulling at him.

“No!” Jordo cried, pulling his hand away and leaping upright. “We cannot go on without Raies and Morgoroth! He spun and made to run back down the path. Grash grabbed him about the shoulders, trying to stay him in his madness and scuffle ensued. They fell upon the ground. Jordo was young and strong, but Grash’s natural caginess soon gave him the upper hand. He straddled the form of Jordo, pinning his shoulders with his knees.

“No!” he barked in a hoarse whisper. “We go on. Others are dead, others are gone. No hope, no…” His words caught in his throat as he say two shapes upon the path. He struggled to his feet, his hand reaching for the dagger at his waist, but as he drew the weapon the foremost of the two stepped forward and in the morning light Grash saw the noble features of Darash emerge. He nearly dropped the dagger with surprise as she and Lyshka came forward. They were battered and bloodied, but the blood was not all theirs, and they bore an air of triumph about them. “How?” Grash staggered, “What?” But his amazement was stopped by the more staggering sight of the others on the path immediately behind them. Coming up the path was the Dwarf Brór with Zuromor and Raies behind him. The man and the Elf kept close together, and something about the manner in which Zuromor helped Raies along caught Grash’s attention. But this was soon stricken from his mind by the most amazing sight of all. The last pair coming along the path was Morgoroth, not dead at all but terribly wounded, on the supportive arm of Jeren.

The company yet lacked Dwali and Aldor but there was no longer time to wait for them. The sun was climbing behind the clouds and the pitch of night in Mordor was giving way to a grey dawn. The company was upon the path to freedom, but it was still largely open to the view of any in the Vale. They were tired beyond the strength of mortal beings, but they forced themselves to climb. The path wound its way up the steep shoulder of the mountain, slowly circling around to the south until the oppressive sight of the Dead City disappeared behind it. There was a palpable sense of relief in the group as they moved beyond the view of that place.

They pressed ahead for a few hours until they reached the summit of the path at midday. Without any words being spoken, they halted and fell to the ground.

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the dead city faded out of sight behind them, Raeis turned to walk backwards, shading her eyes against the fierce, merciless sun as she watched the Dead City leaving their sight. The dark, fierce towers stabbed viciously into the sky, unnatural and cruel looking, tormenting all around by the way they twisted the landscape, but the elf forced herself to keep watching, walking backwards, until the very last tip of the very last spire of the very last dark, mutilated tower had dipped out of sight. Dropping her head backwards, Raeis closed her eyes and smiled blissfully: it was gone.

"Gone." She breathed the word reverently as she opened her eyes and turned around to the rest. The motley assortion of escapees didn't even comment or raise an eyebrow as to her strange behaviour: none of them could have been called normal exactly, and the erratic behaviour of other's was nothing to such a strange group. But several of them did turn back to squint against the sun to where the Dead City wasn't; and seeing that it was so, they smiled, very slightly, a sense of relief coming over them, a sense of release that they had not felt since they first got out of the dark, damp holes which had been their cells, their prisons and nightmares, for so long. Of course, they were not yet safe - but to get that unsightly, twisted silhouette out of view...it seemed like an achievement.

Zurumor looked across at Raeis and she smiled back at him thoughtlessly. The man looked surprised and smiled gently back, reaching out towards her and, very gently, touched her shoulder gingerly, tenderly, then withdrew. The elf cocked her head onto one side, looking across at him, then smiled again. She loved the feeling it gave her, the way her muscles moved so naturally into the position, her lips pulling out so that she could feel the creases even up to her eyes. It seemed to make Zurumor happy as well, for her did the same again; but his smile seemed slightly different, seeming to use his eyes more than his actual lips. Raeis was fairly sure she wasn't doing the same with her eyes: was that how she looked, soulful, deep, kind - welcoming? Surely not: if she had managed to inject all those things into her eyes while smiling, she probably would have noticed at some point along the way. Looking around, she surveyed the others in the group, battle stained and torn, limping and scarred - but proud and victorious with it. Such a motley assortment of ragged beings you would not find elsewhere in Middle Earth if you scoured every inch for one hundred years: but a strange group of precious stones have different strengths and different facets, and no matter how shattered one seems, it will always add to the impression, the many sided pile that protects itself at all levels, no matter how odd it seems. Every one counts.

Except one.

Raeis glanced over at Darash where she walked side by side with Lyshka, the two women as thick as thieves. But the noble slavewoman seemed to feel some gaze on her, and turned her smouldering gaze back to Raeis suspiciously, then relaxed. Raeis mouthed a word to her: Aldor?

The woman's eyes narrowed dangerously and she shrugged, somehow conveying great depth in that one gesture. Raeis frowned slightly: if there is a sickly animal, you should keep it in sight, lest there is something infectious that could kill them all. She blinked at the metaphor formed in her mind, vaguely unsure of where it had come from, before drifting away from Zurumor towards Morgoroth, not noticing the brief slide of shock and hurt that flitted across the man's good natured face momentarily, a cloud passing over the sun.

The dark elf was limping terribly, head down and breathing deeply, supported by Jeren, but his pace was steady and his shoulders shook with determination. He flailed suddenly as he stumbled on a stone and Raeis caught him: weaker than she had been she was, but Morgoroth had been prepared to pay the ultimate sacrifice of blood for her. Awkwardly slipping her head under his other arm, she supported him with Jeren as best as she could, allowing him to walk more easily and with less effort. Still breathing heavily, the dark elf turned to her, strands of wet, black hair streaking his forehead. Raeis nodded deeply to him from beath her burden and tried out her smile again, this time more moderately, as she placed her free hand on her kinsman's chest, a silent gesture of thanks saying more than words could for what he had been prepared to give simply for the life of a broken elfwoman.

[Novnarwen]

Rhând

He cursed loudly, using the foulest words he could pronounce. Seven Orcs against two women: how could the outcome - both the women had escaped from the incident alive and unharmed, - be possible, Rhând asked himself. He cursed again. "Stupid twits! Useless idiots!" He groaned, shaking with rage. In order to escape himself, he had jeopardised everything he longed for. Now, he couldn’t possibly return to the prisoners. If Darash and Lyshka found Grash, they would certainly tell him about the attack, and if they had seen Rhând, they would tell Grash about that too. It was too risky, way too risky.

He was alone now. There was no one, except the Orcs, swarming around. How long could he manage to stay in this costume and avoid revealing himself? Knowing that at some point, the lousy costume would cause suspicion and his true self would be revealed, he hurried out of the crowd, cursing again. For how long could he go on like this? If Rhând was to find an ally amongst the Orcs, how could he be able to convince them anyway? Shaking his head, cursing his misfortune, he realised the facts: he didn’t look like a Haradrim, and would certainly be taken as a Gondorian spy and they would kill him instantly, unless... Yes, of course. He knew where the others were heading. He knew their route. Grinning to himself, he remembered the conversation with Grash, where he had asked specifically about the route. The route will be the key to my freedom, the key to Him. It will grant me my wish, my desire. I will finally again be His faithful servant. He frowned. If he was to carry out this plan, he would havr wait for the right moment to strike, even though it would take some time.

*

The day grew older. Slowly, the minutes and hours passed by. Rhând had wandered around and about, choosing his own path. He knew where the others were heading, but he needed allies. He couldn't do this alone, not now if his cover was blown. The situation he found himself in, reminded him of the cell in the Tower, where he had been held for many months. He'd been alone there too, except when some of the Orcs had paid him a visit now and then. He didn't speak to anyone, and none spoke to him; a strange silence, just like it had been in the Tower. There were only sounds, such as the hissing from the breeze coming in from his window, the Orcs jabbering and the rats squeaking; sounds he didn't really listen to. All in all, he was completely alone.

Wandering slowly, his feet aching, he tried figuring where he was supposed to go. The prisoners were heading for Ithilien. He knew that much. But where was Ithilien? Which direction? Being a person with little sense of locality, he again reminded himself of that he needed allies. He couldn't wait long either; he needed someone now.

"Come on, you lazy and useless apes! Move!"

He turned. A voice, here? Shaking with fear, he threw himself behind a group of stones and made himself as small as possible.

"Move it, I said!"

The ground trembled. Heavy feet were about. Rhând didn't move. He didn't dare. Who was heading this way, his way, whichever way it was? The sound of the armours, made Rhând drop dead. Orcs probably, he thought. I have to get moving myself, he thought, knowing that Orcs in general had a very good sense of smell. Crawling, hearing that whoever it was approached quickly, he became aware of his own Orcish armour and how much sound it made. Scared stiff now, he listened to the Orcs stop.

"Did you hear that?!" The voice reflected a brutality that scared the poor Haradrim so much that he actually wished he was back in his cell. At least, he had been somewhat safe there. He always knew what would happen to him at all times. If there were footsteps approaching his cell, he knew someone would come in, he would be beaten. Now, on the other hand, there were footsteps too, but he didn't know exactly who it was, and what would happen to him if he was caught.

"That ain't no rate or mouse, Lurg! That's something far bigger. Fresh flesh. Human maybe?"

"I second that! Maybe, it's them; those petty prisoners. I'll give 'em in. I've my blade ready! Find 'em now!"

Hearing this, Rhând panicked. He began to crawl in the sandy ground as fast as he could, wanting to escape this horrible Lurg. He breathed heavily, crawling. He was shaking, breathing and sweating at the same time. The Haradrim just wanted to get away and crawled on, but something stopped him however.

"Where do ya think you're going." Rhând stared into a pair of eyes, reflecting pure evil. "Can't find yer way? Lost, maybe?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jeren gave his strength to helping the Elf, who remained silent within his own wounds and thoughts as they followed the path. Morgoroth was too tall for Jeren to aid with ease or comfort, but somehow and in some unspeakable way the Southron put aside his own comforts and his own pains for someone who felt deeper pain. Jeren's own scratches and cuts and wounds seemed to stop throbbing or seemed to become dull poundings against his skin when he thought of the Elf's spilled blood and weary body. He had never thought much for the majesty of the Elven kind, until he came to know two of them up close. They seemed somehow more human than Jeren had once thought...

No!

It is folly to think that this changes things... Jeren thought bitterly, shifting his weight as he struggled to hold up Morgoroth. The dark Elf did indeed try his best to hold as much of his own weight as he could, but Jeren also did his best to ensure that Morgoroth did not fall. The other Elf, Raeis, ducked under Morgoroth's other arm to help, and Jeren thanked her with a slight nod that she may or may not have noticed. This changes nothing...it does not change the things I have done.

The Southron remembered how he had gotten himself imprisoned to begin with. A failed mission to attack one of the Elven lands had cost him his freedom. He had once planned to fight and kill the beings he now helped and called companions. Fighting blindly the people that his superiors told him to fight, leading soldiers into battle and to their deaths for a cause he never really believed in. A cause he never really even knew much about. It would be far too sentimental for Jeren to say that now he realized the beauty of the Elves, or their history or their ways...because the only thing he realized during his journey was that Elves were not so different from himself in their will to survive and their desire for freedom.

"Raeis?" Jeren murmured, not wanting to be lost once more within his own thoughts. The Southron had rarely, if ever, spoken to the female Elf, but he yearned to hear the voice of another instead of the voice that reigned within his own head.

"Yes?"

"Where will you go? When this is all over, I mean..."