Land of Darkness RPG

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle‘s post

The sounds of chaos died down from the courtyard above and Grash slowly emerged from his hiding place in the storeroom. Casting furtive glances about for the guards he walked down the dark hallway past the cells, looking neither right nor left at the prisoners. He had long ago ceased to regard the folk who passed through this place as actual beings. Rather, he thought of them as creatures like himself: dead already, without the formality of having their breath stopped or their hearts stilled. A few of the prisoners spoke to him, asking him to free them but he passed on as heedless as wood. He reached the stairs and climbed slowly, his every fibre tensed and reaching outward for signs that his captors were still alive. All he could hear, however, was the unnatural wailing of the Silent Watchers as they screeched their warning to the listening mountains.

He had been climbing these stairs for two years now, and did not need a light to find his way. He soon reached the top and marked without emotion that the door, which was normally locked and barred as tightly as steel, had been left open. He poked his head through the door into the lowering gloom that lay upon this land always and looked about. The courtyard was filled with bodies and body parts. There was no movement. He stepped out of the door and picked his way through the courtyard toward the gate. Once, from somewhere high above, he thought he heard a cry and he fell immediately to the ground for fear of having been seen, but there came no other cry to interrupt the wailing of the Watchers. He continued and soon got to the Gate, but he found his way barred by some unknown and invisible will. It held him back like a huge black hand and try as he might he could not move forward. Finally, panting and gasping with the effort he fell back from the gaze of the watchers, defeated.

The last time Grash had cried he has been but a boy, and a sound whipping at the foul hands of an orc had cured him of that weakness. But this was almost more than he could bear. His guards were dead, and before his very eyes he could see the road that lead to his freedom stretching out, but he could not reach it. Once more he threw himself forward but this violence seemed only to increase the resistance and he fell back into the court once more. As he lay there he thought about the freedom that was so tantalizingly close, and realised that it really was nothing more than an impossible dream. The wailing of the Watchers was sure to bring more orcs soon, and there was already, no doubt, one of the Dark Lord's Screechers already winging toward this place. Grash turned from the gate and crawled back to the cells on his hands and knees. Better to hide in the storeroom again and await the orcs than be caught out here. If he plead ignorance of the events he might escape with only a whipping.

As he slunk into the hallway once more, however, he heard the calls of the prisoners and a new idea occurred to him. Alone and naked as he was, escape was impossible. He knew the ways and paths about Cirith Ungol well, and could easily find a way down from here to the road that lead westward to Minas Morgul. But beyond that he was lost. Even to get to that point alone and unarmed would be impossible…but with the help of other folk, it might just be possible. He sat for a moment and thought this over. He had never in his life considered the possibility that other people might be able to help him, but as hard as that thought might be, in this circumstance it actually made some kind of sense.

His decision suddenly made, Grash rushed down the hall to where he had seen the jailer’s body lying in a bloody heap. He pulled the keys from the beast’s belt and began unlocking the cell doors.

[piosenniel]

Bêthberry’s post

The cell was cool, dank, dark. The stone walls sweated and against these she pressed her body, for the coolness and the moisture alleviated the sore swelling of the bruises on her back and limbs. Amid such relief, she dreamed.

Nyumbani unada ye mkulima. Mtu utakuyo ndege. She sang to herself the old words which she had not heard for over fifteen moons save from her own tongue. How often had she recited the story of the hunter who, trapped by the lion, had miraculously turned into a bird and flown away high above the beast. She told herself the story over and over again as she thought of ways to make herself a bird and escape. Caged she was, but she would sing.

~ ~ ~

At first, when she awoke to find herself in chains in the Umbarian camp, she spoke up to the marauders in her tongue and for that she was cuffed about the head, hits that brought back the surging pain in her head which she had felt before blackness swarmed over her mind during the attack. Every time she had spoken the tongue of the Amazigh, her tribe of Far Harad, she had been hit or scorned. Sometimes the brutes of Umbar would throw their garbage at her and taunt her with pidgin imitation of her speech and soon she soon gave up speaking in her tongue aloud. But she refused to use the tongue of Umbar, the words of those who bartered her people as payment for weapons from men even more foul than they. For that reason the jackals of Umbar had begrudgingly fed her, keeping her healthy on the journey out of her land, for her caramel skin and golden eyes and lithe body would bring a high price from the men of Mordor.

She had watched the sky change as they brought her into this strange land until she could no longer tell direction from the stars at night. Part of the time, too, she had been drugged so she could not remember the route. No longer could she smell the scent of the tamarisk tree or of cinnamon in the radiant heat of the savannah. Instead, the air hung heavy with acrid odours and she came to know the scent of sulfur for the first time in her life.

She could remember only too well, however, the indignities and abuse from the hands and bodies of these swilling men who were no better than warthogs. Mordor she would repeat to herself, learning its name and some of the words of their vicious speech, as rough in tongue as the speakers were in attitude and action, but she would never give them the satisfaction of speaking their language to them. She had fought them at first, until they had broken her arms for her defiance and she could no longer fight them off. The snap of her bones breaking had brought back the pain in her head incurred during the attack on Makhubela, her home village. Many things were to bring back that pain and add other wounds. Unable to resist physically, she had taken the pain into herself and given it a name, kwenye darasa, until she had become so intimate with it she could follow its path and would know its duration and could recognise when it would peak. And in binding herself to the pain she took control of it and became utterly indifferent to her captors and their desires. And they tired of her indifference and intransigence and beat her in ways anew. Then they threw her off into this cell, taunting her that she would be fed to a monster blacker than she and more loathsome.

~ ~ ~

Shehemu yakii! Her dream was disrupted by howls of rage and hurt and the clang of steel upon steel from some kind of fracas in the courtyard; her senses became alert as she heard the screeching of the strange watchers and then warily observed the slave Grash run down the hallway. She tensed as if for battle when she saw him, for there was an urgency to his movements she had not seen in him previously, but he ignored the calls of other captives.

She was curious about Grash. He had been startled to see her when she was first brought down to the cells, and stared with undisguised curiosity at her dusky skin. In her tongue she had asked him if her skin was much different from his own tanned hide, yet he had not hit her as the Umbarians had. He spoke in a tongue different from that of the filthy warthogs yet not one she knew. He would speak its words to her occasionally when he came to sweep her cell or bring what food was given to her and she remembered them in her cunning. He had come to call her Darash after overhearing her speak several times to her pain, for she had refused to divulge her real name to him and he had refused to repeat the name the orcs had given her. He smelled different than the foul men of Mordor and she had come to realise that despite his seeming freedom he also was captive.

Then more footsteps sounded outside her cell and she pressed herself even closer to the wall, hoping to disguise herself and perhaps gain an advantage. Yet, instead of one of the foul creatures it was Grash who reappeared. He opened her cell door and called to her, “Darash.” She stood to her full height but without comprehension until he beckoned with his head and grabbed her elbow, drawing her with haste into the hallway. At first she resisted but then she followed him, wary, and yet aware that something had changed, like the sudden hesitation in the air of a dry season storm which would bring release after calamitous drought.

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial’s post

Deep down beneath the tower, in the depths that did not even feel the natural wind through it’s corridors or the run on its hard stone floors, a lone prisoner waited in a cell. Waited, I say, but then, waiting implies hope, and this prisoner has barely any of that left. A lone strand, barely anything at all, remained in her broken and disjointed mind, but it is all she is surviving on.

At the back of the dark cell lay what resembled like a pile of rags, tattered and torn, strewn in a loose pile as if shaken then discarded by some larger-than-life dog. But if you look closer, avoiding the dank smell of rot and blood, both dried and fresh, you would see a body underneath these rags. Another clank from above and the body does not move, and neither does it respond to the drawn-out, agonised scream which is suddenly cut short which floats from high above. The being is barely recognisable now, it’s skin mottled, bruised and torn, it’s limbs broken and disjointed, but one thing is sure. Whatever it once was, the being is dead.

But something in the cell responded.

Near the door, in the darkest, gloomiest corner, something stirred, a brief, sudden movement as a limb spasms and a gasp sounded quietly. One blue eye, old before it’s time, snapped open, and Raeis looked around, her gaze quick and darting. As another rattle, closer this time, sounded from above, and the sound of a man’s voice calls, the elf tried suddenly to move towards the door, but is pulled short suddenly by the ropes binding her wrists above her head to a loop of metal hammered into the wall. Raeis gasped again, painfully struggling once more against the ropes, her legs kicking frantically from the rough stone wall, heedless of the scrapes across her bare ankles, as her nightmare began to come real once more – the nightmare that someone was coming closer and she couldn’t do anything to defend herself. Maybe it was a nightmare…her detached mind drifted through the thought and she ceased for a moment.

Another clank sounded and the elf made up her mind. She was surer than she had been of anything in the past few torturous years – this time, it was real. And despite every instinct that she had developed in that time, she was going to have to do the one thing everything in her mind screamed against.

“H…help.” Her cry was feeble, coming from a throat unused to calling, but, bracing herself, she tried again. “Help…help!”

Suspended by her wrists against the wall, her feet about half an inch off the floor, Raeis twisted around the try to see out of the barred slot in the door. The young elf woman had been tied in this position for several hours, and she guessed it was probably morning: the guards had taken the correct number of watches for it to be a few hours from dawn, not that that meant anything down here. But where was the next? The last monster had gone sometime when Raeis was asleep, and another had not yet come – the always rested their spears in one of the holes into the cell, poking the spear through as if to tease her, knowing that she would gladly take it, throw herself upon it…even if just to see if this existence was real. But this hour…it seemed to have stretched forever. Hearing another clank, Raeis twisted again, the ropes biting into her wrists once more and opening up new wounds, but in her desperation she only spared them a moment, biting her lip.

“Help! Please I…” she trailed off, breathing heavily as she writhed furiously, attempting to get out of the ropes although she knew they were done up tight. It was just another form of torturing the elf, to hang her like this. The other rope, which wound around her neck before passing through the loop above with the one tying her wrists, pulled tight every time she struggled, choking her and making breathing and calling hard. Against all sense, she continued to struggle, coughing and choking against the noose as she called, until eventually she saw a shadow cross the door’s slot. For a moment, she thought the dark figure was an orc, another guard, but as it paused and looked in, she saw bright, blue eyes gleaming in what little light was cast from a guttering lamp. Giving another sharp, dry cough, her throat feeling as though someone had taken a saw to it, she twisted her fingers once more, feebly this time, against the ropes, and looked into the man’s eyes with her one, dark blue one.

“Help…” she whispered.

[piosenniel]

alaklondewen’s post

Lyshka had heard the commotion in the tower, but paid it no heed. Her cell was dark with shadows and the floor was cold as she sat against the wall with her long legs tucked beneath her chin. Her eyes stared blankly into the darkness as her mind simply worked to pass the time quickly so her body would not feel the pain of hunger.

Then, her ears began to pick up on a sound that was unexpected…the jingling of keys and the swinging of the iron doors. The prisoners around her called out and the first sounds of joy she had heard in many years flooded the dungeon. Lyshka slowly pushed herself up with her hands and crept to the door. She peaked through the window, but kept herself hidden in the shadows.

A young man was freeing the other prisoners. One cell at a time he inserted the key, turned it, and let the door fall open. Lyshka watched as he made his way one by one to her cell door. She stepped backward. Only her face was not consumed by the darkness. The man stepped forward, and she heard the shift of the lock. Still, she would not allow hope to rise in her, and she touched the door and studied the young man’s face with suspicion. Sensing her movement, he met her gaze with dull blue eyes, and then he turned from her and continued his task.

Lyshka held her breath as the door slowly opened. She knew nothing of freedom and taking a step toward it was one of the most terrifying actions she ever made.

[piosenniel]

Durelin’s post

Another scream reverberated in his head, and it shook his mind, thus shaking his entire body in a convulsive shiver. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he had no trouble recognizing that sound of pain, and who felt that pain. It was sad that he knew his mother’s scream just as well as he did her loving voice, but he did not understand this. Jordo knew he felt something, and it was so very uncomfortable. This was painful, in some way – he thought he understood ‘pain’ – but he wondered why he felt pain. Pain was a punishment, and he had been good.

Jordo remained curled up on the ground, listening to the screams for several moments, until a hand touched him softly on the arm. It was cold and rough, blistered and bony, but it still sent warmth running through him, knowing that this was not an orc hand. He pulled his head out from within his arms, and noticed that the world around him had grown silent. There were no more screams. His mother knelt next to him in the dirt and soot, her face showing no signs of pain. And Jordo’s eyes were dry. The world was so silent.

“Mama, I’ll be good, mama! I won’ hurt you mama, I’ll be good! They won’ hurt us, I’ll be so much good!”

“So very good, Jordo.” Her loving voice made him smile, even though she now spoke without her mind, as it was wandering in sadness. “What you do can’t stop them from hurting your mama, and I’d never want it to. You must let them hurt me, Jordo.”

“Never!” he cried, but still his eyes were dry. His mother smiled.

“If you truly mean never, Jordo, they will hurt you so much more.”

“What you mean, mama? Mama?”

There was no answer, and now he looked down at his mother as she lay on the ground. She lay on the ground, silent and still, and yet his eyes were dry. “Mama?” his voice cried out in an horror and a growing anguish that he could not feel.

“You let them hurt you, mama!”

Now the sounds returned to his silent world, though he could not determine what he heard or distinguish any single sound. A warm itchiness tickled at his cheek, and his hand reached up to scratch it. He felt a wetness, and with this feeling so many others returned to his mind, and he cried freely. The knowledge of where he was, and that seeing his mother had had to have been a dream, made his body shake in small sobs.

Metal ground and screeched, and they were the first noticeable sounds yet heard. He was alone, yet he was in the little room he had known all his life: his cell. And so he felt at ease. He dried his eyes. They were coming to get him, it seemed, though it was not time yet for work; he knew that. But he also knew that he had nothing to fear, because he had always been so very good. But it was not an orc that came for him, but a man dressed in the same garb as Jordo. In his hand was a set of keys.

“Come with me!” he whispered urgently, and Jordo was so ready to obey that he was silent as he rose to follow the man.

[piosenniel]

Aylwen Dreamsong’s post:

Alone.

Jeren had never been so alone in his life.

In his small, confined imprisonment room Jeren could find little comfort. The dank, dusty stone walls and the little candle that held all light in the room held no warm company. The wooden entryway in the floor that led to a small set of creaky wooden stairs did not offer hope of escape; Jeren knew who – or what – awaited him should he dare to open the decaying slab of wood. Jeren suspected it had been locked anyway. The metal bars on the left wall opened to some other cell, but Jeren had not been in his own room long enough to wonder if any other beings had been held prisoner.

Alone.

Jeren had no company save for the noises of battle outside the tower.

They had been rumbling and shouting for a long while, or so it had seemed to Jeren. None of it gave any hope to Jeren. If the attackers came out victorious, Jeren was likely to be pursued and killed for his days of fighting in league with Sauron. If the attackers were massacred, he would still end up in the high tower as prisoner. He would remain a prisoner in his own King’s castle. Jeren had little pride left in him and no one to fight for. After being deemed a traitor and a piece of scum by those he had fought for and those he had led, Jeren had little motivation to do anything. His own life would never be worth enough to try and save, and he had spent his whole life trying to help others. Jeren sighed as he thought about the past, which had been dedicated to others, then held his breath as he took a good look at the present.

Alone.

Jeren did not know how long he had been in the cell.

His clothes had already begun to tatter, though. At the hems Jeren could see the threads unraveling, releasing the pressure and care woven into breeches he had worn for so many years. Jeren’s thick black curls did not feel as soft or bouncy as they once had, while his face and body burned with the pain of a thousand scrapes and bruises. His dark eyes had long clouded over in misery, losing the sharp black gaze and being replaced with hardened and disheartened anger. Still, no matter how many thoughts brashly ran throughout his mind, he remained alone…

…That is, until someone stuck their head through the little door in the floor.

“I am Grash…follow me!”

[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.

[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.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

This was not how he had planned it. The prisoners had come to a halt in the middle of the corridor and were speaking amongst themselves. Darash, backed by the Man Zuromor, was suggesting the madness of seeking to defeat the Monster as a group, while others were speaking in small groups, clearly trying to make allies to help them survive the coming attack. The Elf woman crouched against the wall, clearly near collapse from the terror of the airs that Grash could feel coming toward them from the darkness. Surely they must know that to fight was impossible, only flight and speed, and even then only the swiftest could hope to ever see the sky again. He shook his head and muttered under his breath. What was he to do? He had to get the group moving again, and quickly, but what little order existed amongst the prisoners was evaporating within the horrid reek of the enclosing darkness.

There came upon them then a freezing terror unlike anything they had ever known. For each it was as though their worst nightmare had come into the waking world and now approached on stealthy legs. The very darkness took on substance and choked them, taking the vision from their eyes and minds so that they were all of them little more than blind and naked animals, quivering in cold place that would destroy them with its very indifference. Grash gasped for air and reached out to catch himself against a wall, choking on terror. Instead of rock his hand met flesh and he felt a hand take his own. It was strong and gave some comfort, but he felt the shiver of mortality that thrilled the other’s flesh as it did his own. Forcing himself to see again, he looked into the eyes of Aldor. It was as though he were looking into a window that had for the first time been opened to the outside world. In an instant, Grash saw the naked terror of a soul in torment and realised that Aldor had to this point been hiding much about himself, but in the extremity of their fear his barriers had fallen and lay about him like broken glass. Aldor forced the words out through a throat clenched by the air it tried to breath. “Run,” he gasped. “We must run…”

Grash nodded and tried to move but he was powerless to go anywhere, for her overwhelming will had come upon them. The company could move only their eyes, and what they saw approaching them through the darkness filled with loathing. In the darkness behind them there loomed up a vast shape, like a void into the pits of nothingness against the pitch of her realm. They heard the slow creak of her mighty limbs and the rasping noise of her great body as it dragged along the ground. But most horrible of all were her eyes. Thousands of them glared at them in clusters about her head, and from them there came a cold and baleful light of hunger and merciless hatred of all that drew breath and lived.

But as helpless as they felt, she was still wary, for they were many, and she was wounded. She would not risk an open confrontation here in the passageway, so she used all her will to cow and terrify them now, to drive their minds into the blackness of panic that overcomes reason, before letting them flee where she wished them to go. She would drive them before her to their end, where she would feast mightily.

Suddenly freed of their immobility, but seized still by the animal terror of the monster, the company turned and fled headlong down the passage. None there were who could resist the terror of that moment, so great was the will and hatred of she who followed them, none save perhaps the wisest of the wise. They ran headlong into the eternal night of her realm until they came upon a vast web of incredible size blocking the straight way. They slashed at the cords of the web with their weapons, but she had not taken such care with a web in many years and it defied steel and iron. They turned about to face the onslaught, and Grash tried to lean against a wall so that he would have something at his back other than the terrible web, but he fell into darkness. He landed upon a gently sloping floor, and scrambling to his feet he cried out for the others. “This way! Come! Another passage! Come come!” He turned and ran into the smaller way, down and down into a reek so terrible that it brought tears to his eyes. Some of the company followed, while others, wary of this new route, so clearly laid out for them, tried to stand their ground, but the terror of her approach came upon them like a wave and they could not withstand it. They turned and fled into the narrow way after the others.

On and on they ran and after a while the horror of her approach lessened, but it did not go away. Finally they stopped, panting and gasping for breath amid a noisome reek that clogged the air with a putrid taste so vile that every breath was a labour. Grash leaned against the wall, and felt not stone beneath his hand but a pulpy softness that writhed and squirmed. He spun away and help up his torch. At that instant the blindness that had overcome them all was lifted and they looked about at a sight that threatened their very reason. Hung about them upon the walls and roof of the tunnel were hundreds and thousands of vile creatures. Whether they were the spawn of the monster that had driven them here, or merely loathsome creatures that had some into her lair seeking the dregs of her feasts none could tell. Like spiders they were, but larger, some reaching the size of the largest rats that dwelled in the dungeons of Cirith Ungol. They were black and covered with fine hair, and the company could plainly see the poisonous glint of their stings, and hear the dreadful clicking of their jaws.

For a moment they stared in horror at the living, writhing mass of legs and bodies that hung about them, but there was no time to decide what was to be done, for like a pack of wild dogs that had been awaiting the command of their leader, the creatures swung toward the company upon their webs, seeking their tender flesh with their legs and stings and jaws…

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

As the horrific creatures charged them all, Zuromor courage took hold on him. But he found he was not afraid of getting himself hurt, but he feared for the elf-woman. He did not want such vile things touching her. Yet at the same time he could not understand why he wanted to protect her.

Without thinking Zuromor Jumped in front of her and hacked one the attackers in twain. He turned to her and he felt light-hearted. It was as though nothing was attacking him and he felt himself smile. His smile soon turned to a fierce scowl as he again swung his blade and began to strike at any foul creature that came near her. He would protect her.....no matter the cost.

[CaptainofDespair]

The scampering, scurrying creatures could be heard clacking their hideous fangs together in the darkness. They moved with precision and timing, slowly encircling their prey, and choosing those that were weakened or separated from the group as targets. They formed a great mass as they did this, creating a horrible black ocean of anguish and torment. Should they managed to bring down any of their intended prey, a terrible, brutal death awaited them. Being torn limb for limb, and hearing their own bones break as the beasts pulled them apart, would be the the unfortunate victim's end.

Morgoroth was unlucky, for he had stayed behind, to guide Jordo, and protect him from Shelob. As they fled down the corridor, Jordo had become separated, but found a defense among the other slaves and prisoners ahead, where as the Elf lagged behind, covering the escape. And now he was fully cut off, and his only shelter was a low overhang. There he perched himself, attempting concealment over overt defense. The creatures would find him eventually, but he would live for awhile at least.

Watching from this point, he could see the others finally coming together, though rather slowly. The group realized it needed to survive, and to stand together was the only option now. Yet, try as they may to unite, the creatures were far better prepared. It would take cunning, and brutal determination to see them through the hordes of the Tunnel.

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~