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!”

[piosenniel]

Sarin Mithrilanger’s post

Darkness spanned Zuromor’s entire cell once more. It was always dark and gloomy beyond all imagining. He sat in the darkest corner of both his cell and his mind. Dark thoughts came to him, besieged him. In an effort to shake himself away from such things he began to exercise, though he now tired of even thinking of doing such things. The orcs were not without intelligence however and they usually had a guard outside the group of cells his own was in – in case any of the slaves tried something foolish. But this night (or day) was different. There was no guard on watch. This seemed strange to him, but strange things often happened in Mordor.

He was just finishing up his routine when he heard raised voices and odd noises that soon sounded like keys. He approached the cell door and peered down as far as he could. Soon he saw a figure approaching. He sighed and stood in the center of his cell expecting an orc to come and threaten him. But in a matter of moments a man stepped in front of his door and unlocked it.

Zuromor was so shocked he dared not move. The man looked at him for a moment and then waved for him to follow. Zuromor hesitated - freedom seemed like another prison, just bigger. But maybe there is a land where orcs do not roam. He smiled briefly as the thought crossed his mind. He quickly followed this mysterious figure to his first taste of freedom. He was out of his cell and for the first time, there were no orcs around him.

[piosenniel]

Novnarwen's post:

A four legged oblong thing came sneaking through the closed bars this morning. Yes, for it is believed that it was morning. It ran hurriedly after the smell, of which it had been eager to get closer to for a long time. It was a nasty smell, the smell of rot and dried blood. But this little creature didn't think it horrible at all. It came closer and closer, having its nose sticking up in the air, squeaking, trembling with curiosity. Its long, thick, tail could only just be seen as the dim light crept through the bars and into the square room. The tail made a whispering sound now and then, as it was dragged, quickly, over the stone floor. Suddenly, what it had been waiting for; there were movements in the corner. Its yellow eyes lit up, its mouth twitched and its tail slid more quietly along the floor. Not long now...

In the dark corner of the room, something was indeed moving. A steady movement it was, someone was breathing. Rags and old clothing covered what was beneath.

Finally, it was there! It ran, scraping its sharp nails on the floor, through a hole in the clothing. Sniffing, letting in the stank of rot, dried blood and sweat, it set its teeth into the flesh.

"OUCH!!!"

A voice, so loud that the bricks in the wall trembled, exploded from underneath the rags. The rags moved quickly from the ground, and a pair of feet could be spotted; a man arose. His face was pale and his eyes red and bleary. He was covered in sweat and dirt, this, making him look old and grim. The rings under his eyes showed the number of days, weeks and months he had staid here. His eyes looked desperately around. Cursing like mad, lifting a hand to where he had been bit, he discovered the creature crawling pettily towards the bars again. With gritted teeth and a malicious look in his face, he sprang over. As there was a crack, the man lifted his foot gently and laughed gruffly. "Never bite a sleeping man. Never!"

Rhând sat down, laid his head on the ground and stirred into the dead rat's eyes. The open wound the rat had left him, made him writhe with pain. "Darn you rat!" he said slowly, feeling the pain in his neck die away for a bit. "Where did you come from?" he smirked and paused. "Was it through the bars or was it elsewhere? Is there another way to get out of this hole?" he shuddered, biting his lip. He cursed the rat, the hole of a cell and all the servants of Sauron. How had he ended up here? He knew very well how, but he had difficulties coping with it anyhow. He cursed once more, loudly this time. Offering the dead rat one last look, filled with hatred that is, he rose to his feet and clapped his hands together. Thirteen months inside of this hole, it was too much! He clapped his hands together once more. Clever they are, the free men, he thought to himself. They must have known that he wasn't who he claimed to be, and set him up. He frowned. A year had passed and he didn't even know the truth about what had happened. He wasn't sure whether it was the Gondorians who had set him up or whether it was Sauron's faithful servants. He supposed it was the Gondorians though. "Those foul folk of free men!" He yelled and cursed. He should have known that day, when that ambassador had called him in for a meeting. The ambassador must have already known, Rhând was certain of it. Why else would that filthy Gondorian have smirked so annoyingly at him that day? He clapped once more, jumped up and down, dancing. He broke into a song; which touched every aspect of his life now and what it had been before. He grabbed the dead rat, held it in is tail, and swung it in the air.

Some would call him crazy, but the months locked up in the cell had made him different from what he had been like. From the very first day he had been brought to the Tower, or rather; from the day he had been interrogated, Rhând had been tortured. He usually screamed, asked for mercy or tried again to tell the truth about being set up, but this only made it more enjoyable for his interrogaters. However, as Rhând got to know their ways of tormenting, he was more aware and tried to make friends with his keepers. Sometimes, he found it good fun to learn about their miserable lives, even though they probably never spoke the truth. By doing this, he also made them forget about him, as they all believed he was both crazy and harmless.

"This is good fun," he muttered to himself, still having the rat in his left hand, swinging it back and forwards. But he was interrupted by a terrible uproar. He cast himself to the floor, slightly afraid that they were coming to get him. What was he supposed to tell them today? He wondered. He had already listened to their pathetic lives; he would have to figure out something new, creative. Maybe the torture would stop completely then. He lay down, covered his head with his rags, casting the rat towards the bars. Rhând focused, trying to hear what was going on. There was shouting, no; roars, coming from .... somewhere. Rhând even got the odd feeling of whoever it that was shouting, weren't coming his way. He frowned; almost disappointed that no one was visiting. It was after all quite lonely staying here day after day in this dark hole.

A few minutes had passed, when at last Rhând realised that someone was coming. He cursed, and regretted that he had even thought that some of these nasty, treacherous creatures, could be good company. He curled together on the floor, making himself look small; hoping that whoever came by, would just leave again; thinking that it was just an empty cell. He spent his mucles, in case they would burst into the room and grab him. He felt the bite on his neck burn with pain, and he cursed the inner circle, before letting out a sigh.

"Anyone there?"

A voice from the other side of the bars muttered silently. Of course, Rhând heard the whisper quite well, but grew uncertain about what to answer. This did not at all sound like the voice of the orcs who guarded the Tower or any other he had got to know through the torturing. Gritting his teeth, he realised that if it was indeed someone else, something terribly wrong was at hand in the Tower. How could possibly a normal man or woman, who weren't prisoners, walk freely around in the Cirith Ungol? Unless.... they were prisoners, he thought.

Next thing he knew, he was out of the cell, trotting behind a man he had never seen before; named Grash.

[piosenniel]

The Perky Ent's post:

The festering odor of orcs emanated through Dorim’s cell. The constant darkness that filled his prison remained its putrid hue. Dorim’s back was firmly against his wall, where no light could reach him. Drops of water dripped from the damp ceiling and landed in front of Dorim’s barefoot feet. Inside his head, nothing passed through Dorim’s mind. No thoughts of heroic escape or fantasies of love. Nothing, as he had nothing to live for. In the last 15 years of his life, he was deprived of purpose. The only things that could move his in-animate body was either if someone opened his cell, or if Sauron decided he was worthless and should be killed. Fortunately for him, fate would choose the first option.

Hearing a giant crash from the ceiling, Dorim didn’t bother to look up. Whatever it was, it surely wasn’t important enough. Soon after, Dorim began hearing even more loud sounds. He could hear people of all races mumbling in their cells. All races of Middle Earth had somehow found their way into the hell that Dorim waked up to every day. Then, as he closed his eyes, Dorim could feel sand from Harad beneath his feet. What little light crept into the cell vanished, as a pillar of light smiled down on Dorim. Behind him, he sensed something, and behind him was a lone Haradrim, holding a dagger. Dorim reached for his ax, finding nothing. The man was facing the other way though, not looking at Dorim. Then, another, larger beam of light came, and revealed a large group of Haradrim in a circle. They all pulled out their daggers, and began to make the circle they were in smaller. Suddenly, there was a shout, and a red bead of light shot upward from the center of the circle. Suddenly, the lone Haradrim dropped to the ground, revealing a dwarf with a piece of glass in his hand. Dorim. Suddenly, one of the men sliced Dorim’s head, and all the lights went out.

Suddenly, Dorim heard something he never thought he would here. The opening of cell doors. There was a confused merriment being flushed through the cells. It flowed past Dorim, having little effect. There were still rumbles in the ceiling, but they were significantly lighter. Suddenly, a dark figure ran to the barred door of his cell. Dorim could faintly hear the jingling of keys. Suddenly, in an instant, the dark figure opened the cell door, and ran. Dorim, if he were still as foolish as he used to be, would have stood there in amazement, pondering the occurrence. Dorim rushed out of his cell, cutting his foot on a rock. It didn’t matter. Freedom was in his grasp.

Looking out of his cell, Dorim noticed several others had been released. The fact that no guards were in sight troubled Dorim. “Maybe it’s a trap?” Dorim thought, wondering why fate had chosen this to happen. Dorim always believed in fate. He thought his capture was meant to be. That like his parents, he wouldn’t be remembered. His pessimistic thought came through Dorim’s mind every time something happened. It was just his way of looking at life. “It must be a trap! It must be! That blasted spider must be hungry!” Dorim thought, starting to back away from the exit. Then, he heard the scream of an orc, and realized something was wrong in the tower of Cirith Ungol. This was no mass feeding. It was freedom.

[piosenniel]

Kransha’s post

Bror sat, as he always did, leaning in cold and solemn silence against the rough-rocked wall of his cell, the back of his thick skull pounding, a resonating beat thumping like a drum in the back of his head as he sat, his eyes firmly shut with heavy eyelids sealed as if they were sewn together. There was very little light to let in, but the checkered shadows around him let in slim plumes of light whenever they were absent, though Bror had discovered that this was mostly a silhouette drama fabricated by his own mind, which was gnawed at daily by the insect of tedium. Even though that invisible spider was not as lethal as the monstrous being who skulked through the jagged rocks of the pass of Cirith Ungol, its omnipresence in Bror was just as painful.

‘Baruk Khazâd. Khazâd aimênu.’ He chanted slowly in his head, hearing the melodious thunder of the dwarven battle-cry pounding incessantly in his ears, the blast of it increasing as the dragging moments passed, roared by a hundred of his folk at least, a chorus that lingered in the blank corridors just before his eyes, beneath his nose, under his beard, and out of his reach. He breathed deep, the beard hair around his mouth blowing about as a sail would in a calm sea breeze. His eyes beginning to open, his ears quivered sensitively, listening to the murderous, raucous cries that rained down on him from the levels of the tower above.

There were sounds, not that there ever weren’t, but these sounds held a strange feeling in them that wafted like smoke through the rusted bars of Brór’s cell. He lips parted as he began mouthing the words inaudibly to himself, thinking even in his tongue, although he feared he would never need the language again. He knew that no one else in Cirith Ungol knew the words he spoke of save the other few dwarves, and he had long considered attempting to teach it to the other prisoners, just so he would not be alone in the knowledge, but it was a miserably foolish thought and his secretive nature would not allow him even to speak it aloud, coupled with threats from the orcs, who didn’t appreciate their prisoners saying things that they couldn’t understand. One dwarf had made that mistake and paid a most terrible price, but sights such as that no longer haunted Bror.

He managed to shift from his position, inching his way forward through the dank cell that contained him. His eyes widened weakly, his furrowed brow easing up as he looked through the bars and peered out, circumspect, observing his surroundings which he was so familiar with. Sounds of vicious mayhem had been rattling and clanging above him for a long time now, but those sounds had drifted away, out of his hearing, and he suspected that whatever struggle had occurred, it was now over. Suddenly, his keen eyes flitted to a figure scurrying down the damp hallway, busying himself with the unlocking of cells. At first, Bror could not fathom what was going on, as he ceased thinking in Khuzdul and reverted involuntarily back to the tongue so oft used in Cirith Ungol, being the only one that all races within new and were fluent in.

Was it possible? Were the prisoners being freed? Was this some sort of mass feeding session for the spider in the pass? He considered as quickly as he could, his dulled mind sharpening upon the whetstone of spontaneity in the span of an instant. He stepped back from the icy bars, half in shock and half in a pooling mixture of horror and glee, as the man, a black-haired being, lean and with the same look as many human prisoners, but with an odd glint in his eye, unlocked his cell door and hurried off as the barred object that had held Bror in this forsaken place for 19 years swung open, limp and useless, as if it were nothing. Staggering with a weight that had never been before, and another weight removed, Bror walked out, through the threshold, and into the hall.

[piosenniel]

CaptainofDespair's post:

Morgoroth awoke in his cold, dank cell on a dark morning. His unusually long captivity in Cirith Ungol had made him aware of everything that went on in Mordor. He had learned to tell, just from the sounds an orc made while moving, what was going on. He was kept alone, segregated from the other prisoners. This was ordered out of caution on the Tower Guards' part. He was dangerous, not because he could free himself, but because his calming allure, and his intermittent singing, would act as a bolster to the captive population, and might allow for a rebellion.

But this day felt strange to him, for he perceived many new guard detachments being sent farther down into the Tower. He wondered what was going on down the depths of the dungeon. He could make out the faint sounds of screaming prisoners.

"Most likely they are being beaten or tortured", he muttered to himself. "They won't last long."

Suddenly, the horrid shrieking stopped. A another detachment of orcs went scurrying down the hall past his cell. Two of the guards stopped outside his door, and began conversing in their gutteral language. Morgoroth had managed to decipher some of which the orcs had said. One of them had, before the two had moved on down the hall, spoken of a small uprising on the third cell block. A few slaves had freed themselves, and were now in the process of holding of the orc contingents sent down to quell their revolt. A thought crossed Morgoroth's mind at that moment.

"Hmm...maybe this one will succeed where the others have failed..." He paused for a moment, and then continued where he left off from. "However unlikely it may be." He chuckled softly to himself. "And if the revolt has lucky on its side, the Orcs will kill each other over some paltry trinkets taken from a haul elsewhere."

Again, screams were heard reverberating from the lower levels. The orcs were dead no doubt, and many had probably turned to killing each other. The captains of the tower had never seen eye to eye, so even in a small rebellion, if they had some previous conflict, they would not aid one another. What seemed like an hour passed by quickly, and now, a hurried scampering of feet echoed up the hall, slowly making its way nearer to his cell. Morgoroth could hear the hushed mumbling of voices a few feet outside his wooden door. Slowly, he heard the clanging of keys approach. The movement hastened, as the being on the other side of the doorway searched frantically for the right key. At last, they found it, and inserted it into the lock. The mechanisms within the lock could be heard moving, as the key was twisted in its place. Silence then pervaded the area. But the thud of the lock hitting the stone floor interupted the aura of serenity that had overcome the Elf in that instant. The door was then flung open by a mysterious man standing the doorway. Morgoroth knew he was no orc, or mannish guard, but a prisoner of the Tower, awaiting his fate with Shelob. The figure quickly left, leaving Morgoroth to make his own exit from the cell. He gracefully got up from his hay-covered, stone slab bed, and bolted out the door.

[piosenniel]

Himaran's post

Dwali sat in the back of his small cell, listening to the sounds of battle coming from all directions. Such a horrid clamor did not bother, nay, even affect him; for it could only mean that some worse evil was approaching. Perhaps it is finally time to die. Time to leave this world of darkness... and enter another. Relaxing against the cold stone in a relatively calm fashion, Dwali contemplated what was to come.
Maybe it was the great spider they had spoken of, Shelob, or another rival orc army. Then the thought that it was a force from Gondor flickered through his mind, but the dwarf tried to ignore it. The mind is deceitful. It leads to hope, and hope slowly turns to reality. He shifted his postion, trying to find a comfortable spot on the rough prison wall.

And reality... is darkness. And death.

Although only a prisoner in Morder for three years, Dwali spent much of his time brooding in the inky blackness of his underground cell. He had been tortured for information about his race after arriving at the tower, but had since been left alone to guess his painful end; fed on scraps more putrid than orc fare. The dwarf's personality, already frayed since the murder of his parents, had molded into one of pessimism, sarcasm, and an assurance that his death was imminent. But on that particular day, Dwali's demise was not to be.

As the screams and clangs of metal began to fade, another sound caught the dwarf's keen ears. It was that of a key turning in a lock, and a rusty door swinging open. And then realization dawned -- it was his door! Dwali stood quickly, trying to recognize his rescuer (or murderer, more likely). It was a young man, but his other features were hidden by the darkness of the cavern. "You are free," he wispered. "Follow me, there are others."

Ignoring the nagging thought that it could be a trap, Dwali stepped out of his chamber. It was probably all some sort of trick, and he would soon be beaten and returned to his tiny prison; but even to be out for a few minutes would be worth it. Then he stopped, and hurried back inside. The dwarf felt around the bottom of the wall, hands digging and feeling about in a frantic manner. Then his left hand hit cold steel, and he pulled it out gingerly. There, it a hidden crack, was the knife he had stolen from a nearby guard over a year before. Perhaps it would be of some use afterall.

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post

Grash led them down the dark passage toward the storeroom at its end. They were a motley collection of folk and they were still adjusting to their sudden and unexpected freedom. Some were clearly joyous at their release, while others merely looked about them as though in a daze. All bore some mark of torment or abuse, and if Grash were capable of human feeling he would have been heartbroken by the pitiable state of them all. There was not a whole shirt or unrent garment amongst them: they were starved, exhausted, naked and entirely unarmed in the dungeons of their torturers. And yet they were free. Free – Grash let the word roll about in his mind, like a tasty morsel of meat about his tongue, tasting and relishing it. He had never known freedom, and was as yet unsure of its flavour. He felt it was sweet, but when he looked about him at where he was and who he had to rely on, his mouth went sour with the forethought of failure. Once more he thought about running away and hiding, and telling the orcs that the prisoners had freed themselves, but he knew they would never believe him. He had no choice now, but to continue with his plan of escape.

Reaching the end of the passageway, he led them through the low arch to the right of the Underdoor, behind which lurked the nameless terror that consumed all who dared venture into its lair. Never had Grash passed that door without a shiver, knowing that it was his fate one day to go through it, prodded on by the jeering insults and sharpened knives of orcs. He saw many amongst this ragged group glare at the door with similar feelings of horror.

When they were gathered in the storeroom, Grash turned to speak. At first, however, his heart failed, for in all his life he had never spoken to a group. Indeed, in the last three years the only speaking he had done had been to respond as curtly as possible to the rough commands of his captors. When he looked about him he saw the eyes of the prisoners glinting in the half-dark of the room, all of them looking to him for guidance and escape. Grash, hardened as he was by the long terrors of a life spent in servitude to the cruelest of masters, was afraid. He swallowed twice, though his mouth was dry, and began to outline his plan. “Krâzduk dakka, nit grankúl.” The instant he spoke he could see that few if any of them understood a word of what he said. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps they did not speak the Black Speech of Mordor, which had been his tongue since birth. He switched into the Common Speech that the orcs used when speaking with members of other tribes. “Food,” he said, pointing at the sacks and casks that lay about. “Water,” and he indicated the small cistern. “We take some with us. From here, in skins and bags. Grik, need weapons, armour, clothes. Search bodies and find these things; try to look like orcs.” He saw that they understood him, as uncouth as his speech might be. He gestured at the group, making motions with his hands as though he were trying to part them. “In groups,” he said. “We look in groups. Two or three; go above into courtyard, fraz Tower. Then meet here, and leave…through Door.”

There was a slight murmur as they took this in, and Grash could see that his plan was not being taken very well. One of the Dwarves stepped forward. He was sinewy and tough, like all Dwarves, but this one was darker than most, even after his years in the Tower. Grash had heard orcs speaking of him once, and they had said that he had been prisoner here for nineteen years. “Why must we go out through that door?” he demanded. “The beast which lurks there will destroy us all!” There were sounds of assent from the rest.

Grash tried to explain. “Gate closed by terrible creatures of stone. Cannot go out, cannot get past great wall that cannot be seen. You go to gate, you see.” He pointed out through the arch of the storeroom, toward the Door. “Only way, only way out. You come with me through there, or go back to cell now and wait for orcs to return.”

The male Elf spoke, then. Grash was awed by the two Elves, for he had never seen one until he had come to the Tower, and all that he had heard of them had been from the orcs who ruled his life. He knew more than to trust the word of an orc, but still he was somewhat afraid of the Elves – afraid that they might kill him and take his blood so they could live forever. “Why must we find weapons?” he asked. “Where are the others rebels? Surely they are armed, to have killed so many orcs.”

“No, no,” Grash said, shaking his head. “No others. No rebels. Orcs killed orcs, fought each other. Some ran away, will soon bring others. Other orcs and maybe,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “maybe even, Screechers – Screechers of the Dark Lord.” He shivered at the thought. “Hurry, hurry,” he said, “look for weapons, look for clothes. Go in groups, but come back soon; orcs coming, be here soon. We must be gone before they find us.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis rubbed her wrists gingerly, letting pain sear through them as the sweat of her hands mingled with the blood that slickened her skin. Pain was no stranger to the elf but...but this pain was of her own making. She was causing it. Her own choice... She clenched the fingers of her left hand tighter, digging her ragged nails in a little, as if testing as to whether it was actually real, then gasped quietly as the pain of her nails in her raw, bloody flesh laced like white hot pokers through her arms, lancing through her body. It was almost exhilerating.

"Stop," a voice said quietly. A hand grabbed Raeis's left wrist, pulling her fingers away from the wounds on her right wrist. Her reaction was a reflex: she lashed out, ripping her hand from the grasp of the other as she glared up at him. The other elf looked back at her in a sort of confusion, but a studied confusion. His eyes were sharp, intelligent - so very different from any that Raseis had seen in so many years that she felt captivated by them, almost drawn in...shutting her eyes tightly, childishly, almost petulantly, Raeis looked away, pressing her lips together firmly. His eyes seemed to wield some power over her and no one would have power over her.

She felt her wrist burn with renewed vigour - when Raeis had pulled away from the other elf, he had ripped another layer of skin away. She looked up at him angrily. "You hurt me..." she whispered, her voice soft, parched.

He shook his head, and Raeis was intrigued by the way his dark hair moved as he did so, a dull sheen moving across it in response to his movement. She could scarcely believe he was real, they were real, she was real... "If you damage your right hand, you won't be able to fight."

Raeis smiled defiantly. "'m left-handed," she shot back, then grinned again, surprised at herself. A sort of heady euphoria settled over her as she realised that she could say whatever she liked without punishment, could converse with another - and another of her species as well. She looked more closely at the other elf now, although she was careful to avoid those wise, captivating eyes. Dark hair, grey eyes, a shadow over his face from the years he had spent captive, but he was elven - an elf! An elf! - and Silvan, she thought.

"What is your name?" she asked, curious.

"Morgoroth Aranur," he replied courteously. Raeis regarded him for a second, head on one side and eyes glittering in the half darkness before she broke the habit of so many years of captivity. "I am Raeis," she replied grandly. Yes...Raeis...I am Raeis...an elf, and not a prisoner...ye-es....

"Food. Weapons. We must find these to escape."

The words strung together brokenly in the Common Tongue made Raeis spin around from Morgoroth to face a dark man, an easterling. He was like those men who sometimes came with the orcs to gawp and mock and beat and... Raeis's hand whipped out viciously towards the man, fingers splawed like a talon as she gave a cry of anger.

"No!" Once more, Morgoroth caught her wrist with incredibly speed, stopping her hand just a few inches from the other man's face. The other man stumbled back hastily, anger and fear in her otherworldly blue eyes as he looked back at Raeis. She watched him haughtily and Morgoroth let go of her wrist. She took a step closer to Grash, although he kept his distance, tilting her head again like a bird to observe him. After a second, she reached out a hand slowly towards his face. The man watched her warily, but did not flinch this time, although he was evidently nervous of the elf. "You freed me..." she murmured quietly, surprised. "But you will not hurt me. No one will hurt Raeis now..."

Smiling lopsidedly, Raeis turned away, thoughts of weapons and food leaping into her disjointed mind of a sudden. Stretching her arms out in front of her and flexing her fingers, she rolled her neck around to dispel a painful cramp then shook herself like an animal, before starting off in a stealthy run to where she knew she could find weapons...

[CaptainofDespair]

Taking in the dark, clouded air of Mordor, Morgoroth gasped for a fresh breath. But finally, after his eighteen years in a tortured nightmare, he was free. This new freedom was, however, not what he expected it to be. Surrounded by the high mountain walls of the Ephel Duath, and with the harsh, almost inescapable watch of the Great Eye so very near, he did not feel free.

His encounter with Raeis however, had given him a brief feeling of homeliness, as if he was back in Mirkwood, listening to the sounds of the birds amongst the trees. He could have drowned in her deep blue eyes, for they had drawn in him in, as a spider does to the fly, and he had immersed himself in the history of them. But his attention had quickly gone back to the man they knew as Grash. He listened to him speak of the Silent Watchers, and of the Tunnel. Having heard stories of what lurked in the Tunnel from the orc guards, he knew all too well what waited for them. But Morgoroth saw a certain confidence in the man, and he trusted him.

He scanned the motley, rag-tag group that had been freed by Grash. Morgoroth was not surprised to see a few of the Haradrim and Easterlings thrown in with a the slaves. But he was curious as to why dwarves were being held captive here, in Cirith Ungol. His knowledge of the dwarves was limited, but he knew they were great craftsmen. He wondered why they would not be put into the service of the Dark Lord. But soon he realized, that he would have time to contemplate this thought later. The Orcs would return to Ungol, and if the escapees were still in the Tower, there would be slaughtered ruthlessly. Time was of the essence, and the questions that were hurtling through his mind, would have to wait.

Now, he noticed that the remnant slaves and prisoners were pairing off, and preparing to head into the tower, to search for those which would be a necessity if they were to survive. Having been in complete solitude for so long, Morgoroth's mind told him to seek the recluse within, as he had always done. But now, his heart demanded a different course of action. So, he made his way to the now ajar entrance of the courtyard, blocking the path of Raeis, whom had made an attempt to sneak off on her own.

"Milady..." Raeis stopped in her tracks, seeing the tall, but tattered elf blocking the path that she had chosen to take. "You do not think I would allow you to run off into such an evil place, without the proper...company?" She stared at the Silvan, still intrigued by why he had taken his time to prevent her from entering the Tower. "I believe it is my duty, not only as an elf, but as a noble child of Eru, to keep you from harm. We should stay together, as it would prove most beneficial in the long run," he continued. He flashed Raeis a sharp smile, and stood patiently awaiting her decision.

Raeis looked at him quizzically, and it took her a few moments to respond. but finally she muttered a low-toned response. "Fine...We shall keep each other company," she groaned. Morgoroth stepped aside from his post at the gateway, and allowed her to pass. As he turned to follow her in, he looked back a brief moment, caught up with the eerie display of carnage that had ensued in the courtyard. "Stupid Orcs," he muttered, as he hastily trotted into the Tower, to catch up with Raeis.

[Novnarwen]

It was an odd feeling which arose inside of him. The moment he had left the little hole of a cell, he'd felt somewhat different. A year had passed by, a whole year, and he had been locked up for all this time. Standing now, utterly surprised by the people he found himself facing, he was lost for words. He listened to the man who had come and set him free. Rhând couldn't make out the details as he was completely in his own thoughts. However, he understood that they were going in groups, getting weapons. After that they would find a way out. Rhând stood silently watching the others with his mouth open. How could possibly this be happening? This Grash couldn’t really expect all of the to find a way out together. They didn't know each other. Most likely, Rhând figured, they were all traitors of Sauron and fighting for the free folk. Why else would they be in the Tower? He knew that he, of course, was an exception. But it had been a mistake. He was truly a faithful servant. However, as he looked at the others, who he supposedly would be going out of the Tower with, he realised something new. There were elves here! Feeling his body getting tense and his veins getting purple, he tried to control his fury. They were evil creatures, proud and arrogant. Last of all, they were amongst them who were against His will. With disgust, he cast a glance over at the elves - two in number - two too many. They were standing closely together as if they were scared the Dark Lord would take care of them personally. Rhând smirked, but was careful not to be seen. How disgraceful.

Realising that the others were taking Grash seriously, about making groups, Rhând found himself thinking about who he should go with. Knowing that the elves were out of question, he turned to look at the others. It was very important not to mix with the wrong people. As Rhând began to think about it, it was probably best for him to mix with a possible leader. Yes, for he was now determined to follow the group, at least until they were out of the Tower.

Making no suggestion yet about whom he wanted to go with, he tried not to stare too much at the others. Intensely, he watched the dwarves. They could be good, because they were rumoured to have a strong will. Besides, they were strong, physically, and stout. But he had also heard that that was indeed all there was too. According to his sources, they were quite dumb. In that case, could he make good use of them if time came? Eventually, he would have to get away from the group, as he was probably the only one who was a servant of Sauron. Yes, for even though his year in prison, he would again prove his faithfulness, and again he would gain trust. After a few seconds thought, he realised that the elves would never side with dwarves in a confrontation. Rumour had it that the two races were highly hostile towards each other. No, dwarves out of question and elves out of question. What about the women? No, women were too emotional, and would most likely not charge for the leader position in the group. Yes, there would most definitely be a leader here. Against his will or not, a leader would be born. Rhând was not going to be that leader, but he would have to find the one who would. It would be best if he found the man who would against his will be the leader, because he would likely be easiest to have an influence on.

As Rhând turned to the remaining men, he couldn't make out their figures properly. He could, however, see some things of value. One was slightly short, and due to the uncertainty in his face expression, he would definitely not be the one who would lead the group. Not even dwarves, who were dumb, would let that happen. The two others remaining; Grash and another, seemed both to be of the calibre Rhând was looking for. The one, standing next to Grash, could possibly be a Southron and therefore most likely to be the man who would fight with claws to get the position in the company he wanted. Good, but he wouldn't be loved for it. Grash would. He had set them free, he would be the leader without really wanting it. He would be easy to trick, he would be the one Rhând would use. Yes, the pieces finally started to make a complete puzzle.

At last Rhând pointed at himself and at Grash, to symbolise that they should go together.

Just then, he had realised that his own intelligence had played him. Why hadn't he thought of it before? If he wanted to gain respect amongst Sauron's servants and make up for the mistake he made over one year ago, bringing lost prisoners back to their cells would certainly help him get what he so eargerly sought.

[Kransha]

Brór walked slowly, dragging his feet, which were feebly garbed by withered rags and threads, along the cold, rock-solid earth beneath. Fresh air was not unknown to him, though the vile air of Mordor bore a furious, deathly stench as if a smoggy haze had descended on the tower and interspersed parapets, the cloud working its way down with a insubstantial, slow speed as it pulled itself over the land, groping as the clawed digits of orcs would…or the rough a multitudinous legs of the beast that waited for its prey just outside the shadowy tower. Brór’s eyes shifted up, with a threadbare hint of anxiety in them. He was struck, as he saw the billowing clouds wafting through the sky as ominously as ever, by a disjointed paroxysm of fear, and then of hope, and then of both together. It was a strange, lancing feeling that jetted through him, but was whisked away by the passing wind, the first breeze Brór had ever felt in the land of shade.

He glanced around as his pace increased, still weak and tediously wrought, but with some notion, though vague, of vigor, which he had not let attach to him in fifteen of his nineteen imprisoned years. Beside him, as the trio of dwarves hurriedly ascended into Cirith Ungol’s high depths, were two others of his kind. One was less than half his age, by the look of him, and the other barely that half. They both seemed older than they doubtless were, an effect which leeched life from all those imprisoned, but Brór’s quick thought told him the summer’s they’d seen. As he threw his feet, one by one, up the jagged, chipped stone of the stairs to the next level, he turned from them, moving in front. Most knew that many weapons would be found in on the higher levels above the courtyard and overlooking it, since many orcs congregated there from time to time.

“This forsaken place is rank with orc stench, even after they are gone.” Said one, the second oldest, who Brór knew to be called Dorim, with disgust evident in his tone. Brór looked at him icily, his gaze as cold as it was years ago, unchanged by anything, even this new possibility. Dorim kicked aside a body, colored dark as coal and decked with jutting prongs of misplaced steel, which lay in a twisted, wrenched position on the stairs. “It is the stench of death,” Brór corrected quietly, “not of orcs.”

“Death and orcs share the same jagged blade.” Retorted the one called Dorim, with the same flat, unemotional treble that Brór bore in his gravelly voice. He leaned down, not hesitating to heave the orc over onto his back, sending the knife which was there embedded deeper in. The orc, though dead, gurgled and twitched violently, but the dwarves remained unfazed. Dorim inspected the corpse for weaponry and, finding none, instead flipped the stiffened husk again and yanked the rusty, crimson-soaked blade from his back, buried hilt deep. He examined it too, and clutched it in his hand.

“It would seem not,” interjected one who Brór did not know, a younger dwarf, “if one blade has crushed the other here.” Dorim nodded astutely as he wiped the blood from the knife on his rags, almost delighting in it. Brór nodded as well, walking forward across the open, cracked stones, examining the many lifeless carcasses, cast aside as useless puppets might be from their masters’ hands. He looked at their battered forms, the blood that stained the earth beneath, the wreckage and debris spread around. Limping unconsciously, he leaned down and drew one of the more intriguing, and pain-inducing weapons from beneath an orc, a crude mace, with spikes and points welded upon it to make it formidable. In some dark, horrible way, it reminded him of the ax he’d once sported in the days of his freedom. He hefted it onto his shoulder.

“Yes, crushed and broken indeed. We’ll be lucky to find a weapon intact.” He looked relieved to have what he had, which was still very unruly a device. Most blades were broken, shattered into metallic splinters on the floor. “I have my own” the young one shot in swiftly, but still pessimistically, “…this.” He drew out a small glinting object, a knife or dagger of some sort. Brór looked at it dismissively and turned, prodding the last jerking bodies with his new weapon. “That won’t do against the mistress of the pass. One slave thought, in the foolishness and youth of his heart, that he could take the spider with a knife he stole. The orc who saw him off said he’d been struck down before he neared her, and that he’d made a great meal.” Brór considered momentarily the thought of being unceremoniously devoured by that dark being, that spawn of Unholiant, who inhabited the pass so nearby, the pass that must be taken. His mind winced, flinching from that fate, but his heart, wanting death whenever it could come, did not. His heart invited it instead, and his arm swung the mace he held just to illustrate his purposeful dedication to his rebellious thoughts.

“We have numbers, at least,” remarked the youngest dwarf, “and we can take the fiend with us.” Brór nearly smiled at his defiance, but the facial expression could not creep across his wizened, pain-ridden face. “I know not if we can,” his voice sounded all but mournful, as it should, for it seemed that he might even be happy to go down beneath the tendrils and venomous fangs of the spider, “but we can try as we may.” Now he paused, his narrow eyes widening to let the sight of sky seep into every niche of them. He turned to the young one, “What is your name, lad?” He queried, the new tone in his throat somewhat refreshing and the words of greeting like water in place of dirt.

“Dwali.” He replied, extending his hand slowly (the one that contained no knife). Speedily Brór shook it, but no excitement could be told by that gesture, since he did the task as tiredly as a man bereft of life. Both hands retracted as Dorim watched behind, still looking over the field of battle. That dwarf, Dorim Stoneweaver, still drew up more supplies as he could, but seemed as much a pessimist as the other two.

“I am Brór, Brór Stormhand.”

[Durelin]

He could hear his breathing rushing in his ears, the inhale louder than the exhale, and his heart pounded its rhythm. Jordo’s eyes raced, checking every corner, then settling to rest on the door to the storeroom for a moment, only to search the room once more. There were so many shadows, as there always were in this place, shadows that could hide a ghastly hand that might drag him back to his cell. He awaited it, so that everything could return to normal. His body shivered in a clammy fear, and yet his body still sweat in the heat of this place. Feeling his legs wobbling beneath him, Jordo sat down on the floor, his hand resting in something wet that he ignored.

Looking around him, he did not raise his head, for he felt it might be a great effort. So he looked at feet of those who stood conversing around him. Many of the voices he heard he could not understand, but he could still hear the excitement in all the different tongues. He heard and sensed no fear in them, and he knew fear. They ignored the fact that they were surrounded by darkness and fire, and that a door could be opened to the great darkness that draped the land of Mordor. He watched feet shift restlessly, most were grimy and leathery of skin as his own. They were all brought together in a likeness that would not be present in any other position. All were covered in years of toil, with memories leaving permanent scars. There was something familiar in the eyes of each, man, elf, or dwarf.

Jordo then saw a pair of feet move toward the door, quickly followed by another. He decided to look up, and found with great relief that his head was functioning normally. He saw a tall being with long black hair that shown slightly, though Jordo could not think how it avoided being marred by the ashes that filled the air of Mordor. The head covered in the flowing black hair turned slightly, revealing his ears, pointed on the end. He gasped, and all his fear rushed out of his body against that intake of air. The elf’s hand grasped the arm of another of his kind, and Jordo let the breath that he now hold escape. She was a beautiful being, even in her condition. He had never seen any of these people at work about him, and he was glad he had not. Seeing them beneath a whip might have made their sorrowful beauty less beautiful. Jordo then glanced between the male and female elf, and decided that perhaps it would have only made it more sorrowful.

He still passed his stare from elf to elf until their backs suddenly disappeared behind a dark wooden door. They had exited the sanctuary, and Jordo shivered at the thought of this. But then he pictured the elves in his mind, and he found himself on his feet. His legs no longer felt weak beneath him, and he felt they were strong enough to walk. He made his way across the creaking floorboards, his legs quickly gaining strength, and thus his stride gained speed. He finally found himself in front of the door, after bumping his way through a the crowded room. He shut his eyes as he reached out to the handle. He felt the cold metal as a shock, and he shivered once more in a shadowy cold. Jordo now wondered what awaited him on the other side, shadows would be there, but what would they hide? And would flames await him to end his cold, only to burn him?

He found himself looking upon a courtyard, still shivering. The cold did not engulf him, but it lingered in the air of this place. He was able to sigh in relief, as he was heartened by the sound of voices nearby. They spoke in a strange tongue, that played a melody in Jordo’s ears, soothing him. He glanced around him, knowing what he would find. The two elves spoke, and he watched them, lost in their song. He was silent and still, standing before the open doorway, between two sanctuaries, and he breathed what felt like open air.

[Bêthberry]

She who would now answer to Darash followed the man out, looking left and right warily for signs of entrapment or attack. None seemed forthcoming. Slowly Grash released other prisoners and Darash found herself face to face with peoples she had never imagined in her life.

Nmubelima derlig she murmered to herself as she saw the three short creatures, coming perhaps midway to her forearm. She had never seen dwarves, although she had heard the stories of dark short tribes south of her village. They stared at her and she knew not what to say, except the formal words of her people for strangers meeting. And they were not enough. The three grey pithniba quickly formed their own group and were away, accomplishing the search that this Grash had demanded.

She spied a lone woman who stood hesitantly and walked over to her, but just then she stopped and stared with hatred and open disgust at one other person Grash had released.

A jackel of Umbar in their midst who she heard called Jeren! She turned towards Grash with a gutteral cry of reprimand and prepared herself to attack the jackel who bartered humans if he took one step nearer her or this other woman. Her face she forced into a cold mask of contempt as she fought the urge to spit on him.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka wrapped her long arms tightly around her body as she watched a listened to those around her. Naturally the dwarves and elves drifted together, each to their own kind, but those that were left were men, save one. The Easterling drew her limbs closer to cover her body as her eyes darted from man to man, waiting, expecting one or all of them to attack her. They, she and the other woman, were outnumbered and it would be difficult to defend themselves against all. Lyshka stepped back. Her body was tense.

The dark-haired man expected them to gather food and water, but she would not go alone with any man to search above or below. Turning her eyes, she suspiciously studied the other woman. The woman was darker than she, and her clothing was marked with an exotic design. Lyshka wondered at her.

Feeling Lyshka’s gaze, the woman glanced at the Easterling and their eyes met. The woman nodded and Lyshka returned the gesture. To her surprise, the woman began to move toward Lyshka, but she stopped short when another prisoner caught her eye. Fury rose and flashed in the woman’s eyes, and Lyshka lifted her own body to her fullest height and flexed her fingers, ready to protect herself and the other woman if this disgusting man, the woman felt was a threat, made any move.

[Himaran]

“I am Brór, Brór Stormhand.”

Dwali thought hard for a moment; the name seemed faintly familierly, but still out of the reach of his waning memory. Ah, what did it matter; Brór would die too, burning in the fires of Mordor like them all. This was just a respite, and intermission; then they would all be recaptured, tortured, and finally sent away from this dark hell. But if he was to face that fate, Dwali knew that he would go down fighting; and now was the time to prepare. Death and orcs are certainly not the same... but one results in the other, and I intend to be ready for both.

"Then you must be... Dorim. Come, let's find some blades." They began to traverse the courtyard, staying fairly close together. Dwali found a stout, single-headed axe to supplement the knife he had stolen, and the other dwarves had similar luck. Clothing was slightly more difficult to come by; there were many bodies, but most of the orc dead wore tattered rags and torn armor. Than Dorim gave a shout, motioning them over. Two large Uruks, obviously captains, lay sprawled on the stone floor; arrows protruding from their necks and torsos.

"These will do," he said, but there was immediately an uncomfortable pause. Three dwarves were staring at two sets of armor and leather garmets. Dwali, however, signaled for Brór and Dorim to take them; he was already better clothed than they. Grateful for the quick resolution to what could have become a prolonged argument, the pair stripped the orcs quickly. They were pleased when minutes later, Dwali found a similarly dressed corpse. Thus, the trio returned to the meeting place wearing and carrying full orc gear, and although quite uncomfortable, it would provide enought protection in the probable event of a fight.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash watched the Elves leave with a sense of relief, for their beauty, marred as it might be by ill treatment and neglect, was almost oppressive in this dark and horrible place. Grash had never seen real beauty, except maybe for his mother. He could not remember her face but he sometimes tried to imagine it. The Dwarves were also quick to band together against the others and hurry from the room, casting suspicious glances at the Elves and Men. Grash barely noticed, for he had spent his entire existence trapped in the mean life of the slave, in which petty jealousies soon arose, and people were quick to anger and violence over the smallest matters: insults, food, women. He had seen Men kill one another for such things, and for much less. What had it mattered when their lives were not even theirs to throw away? There were times when Grash felt that to die would be an act of rebellion.

The only people in the room were the Men, including the two women. One of the other slaves – Grash searched his memory for a name and found only Jordo – had followed the Elves as though he meant to go with them. Grash noted that and decided to keep a close eye on Jordo in the future: any Man who would willingly put himself in the hands of a pair of demons had to be watched closely. The remaining Men shuffled about slightly, as though unsure of what to do next. A slave with a shifty look stepped forward, indicating that Grash should come with him. There was something about his urgency that made Grash wary, but he nodded and moved with him toward the arch.

Cries, both terrible and great, called his attention to the far corner where the two women had come together. The tall one he called Darash was pointing at a Southron and speaking in her own tongue. Although he could not understand the words she spoke, nor fathom why she spoke them as she did, Grash knew the sound and tenor of a person near violence. Darash held her body as though ready for immediate combat, and Grash noted with surprise that this was a natural posture that came as easily to her as did the lowly stoop of the slave to Grash. The other woman rose to her feet, reaching out with her hands as though they were claws.

Grash’s first impulse was to stay quiet, keep his head down and slink for the door. This was how he had survived so many years – if one got involved in someone else’s conflict, it could only lead to trouble. But then it occurred to him that there were no guards to wade into the fight and club apart the assailants. If it came to blows, someone could end up killed, and that might prove difficult to manage. Grash moved toward the women crying out “Garak-thûl, garak-thûl!” as he had heard the orcs do when they were forcing apart combatants. He seized upon the arm of the Southron and began pulling him toward the arch. “Come, come” he said quickly. “Must go look for weapons, must look like orcs. Leave women to hide here.” A sudden idea occurred to him, and he turned to the females. “Food and water,” he told them, pointing at the provisions about them, “you bring food and water. Women bring food and water.”

The Perky Ent's Post

Dorim strided across the cells slowly. The stench and light slowed him down. As Dorim walked, he noticed people in front of him and behind. Of the tired, dirty prisoners, Dorim noticed two that standed out. They were dwarves. As Dorim began to climb up the stairs, he glanced at them, but then turned his face back. A weapon would be much more important than friendship. “This forsaken place is rank with orc stench, even after they are gone” Dorim said in a disgusted voice, looking down at the bodies of dead orcs. “It is the stench of death, not of orcs.” A dwarf next to Dorim said. Dorim hated being contradicted, and therefore wasn’t so keen on the dwarf, whos name happened to be Brór. “Death and orcs share the same jagged blade.” Dorim retorted, in the same flat tone as Brór. Feeling no reason to continue the conversation further, Dorim looked over the dead body of an orc. It was still twitching. Without a moment to consider what he was doing, Dorim heaved the orc onto it’s back, and shoved the knife inbedding in his back even deeper. Although the orc was still twitching, Dorim took no notice and began searching the orc for weapons. Finding none, Dorim took the only one he could find, and ripped the blade from the orcs back out and clutched it in his hand.

“It would seem not,” the third dwarf said. “if one blade hascrushed the other here.” Dorim gave a small nod, and took what rages he had to clean off the blood from the knife, delighted that he had a weapon. As Dorim looked down at the festering orcs on the ground, Brór and the young dwarf began talking. “Dwali” Dorim heard the young dwarf say. “So Dorim, Brór, and Dwali are the dwarves of Mordor” Dorim said, looking at the two. “Then you must be… Dorim. Come, let’s find some blades.” Dwali said, as the three began to traverse the courtyard close together. Then, they began to go their separate ways, looking for weapons. Dorim could see many armed orcs, but none with the equiptment he needed. Then, seeing two dead Uruk captains, Dorim gave a shout. “These will do” Dorim said, stripping the orcs of everything they had. Greatful for the goods he was now wearing, Dorim looked around again to see how the others were doing.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor was free. The mere thought of it sent his mind into a constant whirl of emotions and dreams. He was ripped away from his reverie as he heard Grash speaking to the others about searching for the much needed supplies. He completely agreed but he was too nervous and too unsure of this freedom to make any movements or to speak at all. As he stood and watched he saw the Elves and Dwarves take off with their own and another clambering after the Elves, he noticed that a strange and peculiar man had gestured to Grash. As Grash replied with his own gesture it soon became quite apparent that they were going to travel together. Zuromor stood there shaking. He was not sure if he should follow or merely wander about by himself. After all he had been alone for so long... how could he travel with others? While he was thinking this all over time was moving along and he soon realized that he would have to stand up from here on and be as strong as he portrayed himself to be. He quickly moved up next to Grash and walked proudly as his beaten body would allow.

"I search with you as well!"

He did this to stand up for the first time and also because he did not trust himself. What would he do on his own? Surely dispair would seize him, and he would forever be alone. He also did not trust Grash's other partner. But he simply shrugged it off as his being weary of company, for he had never known it.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Lurg knew few things. He knew, for instance, how to skin a rat so that the choicest morsels would be preserved. He knew how to toy with a prisoner for days without killing him. And he knew that when the Big Chiefs began to brawl with one another, to lay low and wait for it all to be over. He did not know why the orcs of the Tower had begun to fight with those from Morgul. He did not know who had invaded the Tower, nor what they had brought with them that had driven the Chiefs into an even greater frenzy of greed and bloodlust than usual. He didn’t care. His only care this long nasty night had been to play dead and wait for it all to be over.

In the worst part of it he had slipped down the stairs to the first level where a nice pile of bodies lay out upon the parapets, having been thrown there from the levels above. He wormed his way beneath the bodies and kept still, comforting himself from time to time by licking the blood that pooled upon the stone below him. The sounds of battle died, but he remained where he was just in case. The first time he thought it was safe to come out, the Watchers had started bleating. The second time, a cry of agony from somewhere far above had stilled his movements. But now, finally, it was time. Gingerly removing himself from his grisly cover, he slunk to the stairs once more. He stuck his head into the stairwell with great care, half expecting one of those filthy Morgul maggots to slice it off. What he was not expecting was to come face to face with three ragged looking Dwarves, all of them laden with orc arms and weapons and coming down the stairs from the upper levels.

For a split second, none of them moved or spoke. The Dwarves merely stared at him stupidly, as shocked as he by their encounter. Lurg recognised them immediately, for he had often sought entertainment in the dungeon. He had, at one time or another, played with all the prisoners down there, but the Dwarves had been a special practice of his. Their fabled endurance and hardiness presented just the kind of challenge that fired his wicked imagination, and he had spent many hours thinking of ways to entertain himself with them, and hours more putting those wicked imaginings into cruel practice. Lurg recovered from his shock quickly, and with the cunning of his race instantly put a plan into action. As quickly as a stinging adder he drew his dagger and lunged at the smallest of the Dwarves, seizing him about the neck with one hairy forearm and pressing his jagged blade into the terrified flesh just beneath the Dwarf’s ear. He knew this one well, having long enjoyed the pitiful display of the Dwarf’s hatred for his race, even through the torture. Dwali was his name.

The Dwarf struggled to free himself but it was useless; despite his native strength, his years of imprisonment had so weakened his body and will that he was no match to the evil ferocity of the orc. Dwali tried to pull out a knife but the orc pressed his own into the skin so that he drew blood. “Drop it, my pretty,” he hissed in his ear. “You know how well I can use a blade, so drop your own or I’ll split you from neck to ear!” Dwali had no choice but to do as he was told. He dropped his knife and his axe upon the flagstones.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor walked along with Grash and Aldor (as he soon found out was the name of the other man.) and looked around for the needed supplies. Jeren quickly caught up to them and began to tag along. As they walked Zuromor noticed something shining out of a door way. He split away from the group and walked to the door.Once he walked out the door he noticed that he stood in a large courtyard. He cautiously walked towards the object that barely shined on the floor of the courtyard, and saw that it was one of the swords he had seen the orcs wielding. He quickly snatched it up and began to swing at invisible opponets while he tried to become familiar with the weapon.

With each swing he felt the power of his body for the first time...and that power felt good. Amidst his swinging he noticed a shield still attached to the arm of a downed orc. He picked it up and put it on. As he did so Grash, Jeren, and Aldor had backtracked and found him equipping his new found equipment. They soon found their own as Zuromor found a poor example of a mail shirt , a collection of rags and a rusty cracked helmet. They all walked aimlessly around the courtyard.

Zuromor could not help but be weary of them both. Their company was great but after all this abuse he could not help but think that everyone, whether orc or no, was cruel. He had come to expect the worst in others..but they had done nothing to deserve that. As the walked Zuromor decided that these men were his friends and he welcomed them.

[Himaran]

The orc blade was sharp, but Dwali felt not the blood running down the side of his neck. He saw before him the most hideous creature on earth; a slavemaster, the slavemaster, the Uruk that had tortured the dwarves as a daily routine in the past. Part of the dwarf told him to relax and die -- it was inevitable, anyway -- but another voice in his young head was screaming for him to fight back. Somehow, the second thought was far more appealing to one enslaved by such a burning rage.

The brute's grin quickly disappeared when Dwali headbutted him, and Lurg stumbled backwards. Still holding onto his knife, he charged the dwarf, but Dwali had already scooped up his smaller weapon and caught the blow. Lurg was, however, in perfectly good shape, having lived on the best of plundered rations ever since he was rotated to the tower. The smaller of the two had been released nought thirty minutes earlier, after teetering on the edge of starvation through three years of the most inhumane treatment imaginable. Naturely, the Uruk began to force him back, and death had never seemed closer. But then something deep inside Dwali's mind simply snapped.

Years of hatred compressed inside his withering frame were suddenly released in a virtual explosion of rage; one which Lurg would not survive. The dwarf, bloodshot eyes flaring, roared and grabbed his opponent's blade with his free hand. The Uruk, obviously surprised that his target completely ignored the sharp steel cutting into the flesh of his left hand, lost sight of Dwali's right. The pair toppled to the ground, with the dwarf's fingers digging into the rough skin around Lurg's neck. Brór and Dorim simply watched in awe as their young companion began throttling the beast that had been the primary cause of their past misery. But then, for an unexplainable reason, the spell was broken. Lurg forced the dwarf off of him, then planted a knee in his forhead. The Uruk left the unconcious dwarf on the ground and turned on the others, though in a much slower manner.

[Novnarwen]

"I search with you as well!"

Rhând heard one of the freed prisoner say this over and over again in his head. After that, another Southron had followed Grash and himself, which was indeed bad news for Rhând. When being asked for his name, Rhând couldn't quite figure what to answer. If he told them his real name, he was afraid that the Southron would react. After all, he would probably recognize the name as being a name of Harad. Instead, he bit his lip and muttered therefore slowly. "Aldor. I am Aldor." Zuromor, a man with dark filthy hair and green eyes, nodded approvingly. The Southron's name was apparently Jeren, but Rhând didn't care about him too much. Just being a Southron, looking like one and having a name from Harad, would not make him popular amongst the free prisoners no matter how kind, gentle or affectionate he was. (Not that he was either of these things . . .)

After a few minutes walking, the four of them found themselves in the middle of the courtyard surrounding the Tower. From here they spread slightly, in order to get what they needed; weapons and armours. Rhând turned, going straight towards a couple of Orcs lying lifeless at the ground. He would have to find a little orc, whose armour could fit Rhând's skinny body. After the months in the tower he had definitely lost weight. And having been a bit slender before he was locked up, he certainly looked as if he was starving now. Actually, when he thought about it, he was quite hungry. He looked over his shoulder, seeing that the others were busy finding equipment. He bent down, feeling the pain of the bite that the rat had given him on his neck, searching the orcs nearby for something to eat. Nothing! he thought, cursing in his own tongue.

"Weapons?" A voice from behind made him jump. He looked into the eyes of Zuromor, who seemed to have found most of the equipment he needed. Rhând made a nod, smiling as warmly as he could. "I'll just take these," he stuttered, meanwhile pointing down at the dead orcs' selections of knives and swords. By this, Zuromor was apparently satisfied and stalked off to see if the others had found anything.

Again, Rhând cursed, but not as loudly as before. What if Zuromor had heard him talking in another tongue than the Common Speech? Would it not seem suspicious? He had already told them that his name was Aldor, and they hadn't questioned him, so they obviously believed he was from Gondor. However, if they knew that he spoke the language of the Harad, they would certainly know that he was indeed someone else than whom he claimed to be and then it would all be over. He prayed that he hadn't heard, and promised himself to only speak the Common Speech.

Bending down again, he grabbed a hold of a dead orc and began to undress him. A few minutes later, Rhând was fully dressed; having a pair of dirty boots on his feet, bearing rusty armour and a sword which was hanging from a belt. He also grabbed a few knives of which he would not show to the others. They could be very useful one day, and he covered them secretly from everyone's view. He spotted one of the others and went towards him.

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry's post

She watched Grash intercede and take the stinking swine away, not sure whether he meant to protect her or the Haradrim or join with the pig. There was something strange about Grash, as if he was in his head fighting Orcs who weren't there, pulling himself away from them. Why had he released the prisoners? Why had he returned? she wondered.

"Mlungwana dharlotte mushabi. Whana dnego." The ancient words came back to her and Khastia stood more proudly erect at her full height. The few who were left in the area stared at her with some alarm and even Grash stopped to look at her in some amazement. She felt power surge back into her muscles, a feeling she had not felt for over a year. Watching the Haradrim closely and not trusting Grash completely, she raised her right arm into a fist and a warning and sneered. "Unala umwhano. Shuridah."

Then she looked down at the pots and vases Grash had pointed to. They were not her job. She flicked her head over towards the other slaves and then looked down at the pots before she turned her back on both, to catch the other woman's face.

The woman had been prepared to fight and in her face Kashtia saw iron will and determination. This one she would keep by her side, maybe an ally, she thought.

"Bhun lasta nunjoga. Arhana," she said to the woman.

She walked into the courtyard where the orcs' bodies lay, see ing the woman come with her. There were clothes here to find, if she could find a shrift and vest that would fit her. Better yet, clothes which she could pile on layer over layer, making herself look larger, as large as some of the orcs perhaps. They wore strange hard leathers on their feet, these orcs. Maybe she would try some for herself. And weapons. She saw no bows as yet, but cautiously explored the bodies and the perimeter, picking up knives and throwing some away that did not balance. She scooped several into a bag she found and then sought clothes. By the time she was ready to return, she would have a black leather vest over her torn clothes and several layers, which made her shoulders and chest look massive, and strange leggings. She picked up a helmet and other items which she secreted about ther, so others did not see.

The bag of knives clinked at her side. When the others returned, she would show them the right way to throw a knife, so to determine its weight and balance. Grash would learn and so would the Haradrim how a warrior could defend herself.

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alaklondewn's post - Lyshka

Lyshka understood naught of the other woman’s words, but she saw strength and pride in her eyes. The Easterling would keep close to her as they would prove to be quite a challenge to overcome together. Following the other woman, Lyshka stepped out into the courtyard and witnessed the remains of the bloody scene.

Corpses littered the dusty ground, and the Easterling walked slowly through them winding her way around their bodies. Many were face down, knives protruding from their blood soaked backs. Others whose faces were shown…wore eternal expressions of anguish. Lyshka was not saddened by the scene, nor was she sick. She was more curious than anything. Taking her bare toe, she nudged one body just to be sure the hideous creature was not faking death and would pounce on her from behind and slash her throat. The Orc lay still, however, its expression remained unchanging.

Kneeling, Lyshka examined its clothing and searched for a weapon. A short broad blade still lay in its hand, and she pried it free to hold in her own palm. The knife was heavy in hand, but the handle fit well. Rising, the Easterling tossed the knife side to side, hand to hand, to get a better feel. She lunged forward and jabbed the empty air, then quickly threw a glance over her shoulder at the other woman…ensuring her actions were not seen.

The woman then searched for clothing. She quickly found a thick leather vest that tied at the breast. The garment was bulky on her small frame, but was satisfactory in length. A large gash had opened the lower back of the vest, but it covered her nicely. As nicely as any Orc garment could do.

Peeling the dark leggings from another body, Lyshka was soon in Orcish attire and ready for more action.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jeren glowered at the woman indignantly, surprised at her needless ferocity. He did not know her, she certainly did not know him...did she? Jeren refused to show his doubt and shock outwardly, keeping these emotions within as he watched the woman's muscles tense and her face lift up into disgust. Taking in the lady's appearance he realized that she was not as emaciated or neglected as some of the other former prisoners. Jeren was certain he had not been captive long, and he was sure that he would be in the best shape of all his new companions...but this tense woman was not far behind. Holding back the impulse to strike the woman in her reasonless and agressive manner, Jeren did as she had and merely held a repremanding look upon his dark face.

“Garak-thûl, garak-thûl!” Grash cried with disapproval, grabbing Jeren's arm. Jeren looked back to the man, who had broken his glare so rudely, and eyed the man with the same lack of respect as the woman had previously shown him. As Grash looked back at him, unaffected, Jeren calmed and let his muscles relax in Grash's strong grip. “Come, come.” Grash continued, “Must go look for weapons, must look like orcs. Leave women to hide here.”

Jeren sighed and walked out under the arch and into the courtyard where the slaves of Mordor had begun their search for weapons and disguise. Grash had momentarily left Jeren to speak to the two women, and Jeren walked out into the dim courtyard. The Southron wondered at the company he would apparently be sharing until further notice, and he quickly noted that he would not be well-liked or respected, based solely on his appearance, name, and heritage. His people were far and wide known only for their strength in war, malice in battle, and cruelty in life. None of his new companions knew that he had been deemed a traitor to the workings of Mordor and its master, and none of his new companions knew of his life or his escapades. Jeren knew that somehow he would have to adjust, and show the Elves, the Dwarves, the other Men...especially the one fierce woman...that he had been just like them. He had been a prisoner, too.

Mumbling to himself in his own tongue, thought he knew vaguely the Common Speech, Jeren searched the grim courtyard for armour and weaponry. Jeren passed over all the long blades belonging to the orcs, choosing only two slightly dilapidated knives. The Southron man could not find any trace of a bow or a good set of arrows, so he felt contented with just the two shorter blades within his hands. Comforted with the weapons, Jeren began to silently search for suitable armour.

[Kransha]

A decade and a half of emotion being played out remained an invisible sight on Brór’s face as his unkempt beard of murk and grayish hue was whisked aimlessly around his head. His eyes lay transfixed on Dwali and the anonymous orc who had threatened them all. He seemed to be musing, as did Dorim, though their stances had eased steadily into battle-ready positions. Brór had outfitted himself amply, bearing the crude, imposing mace he clasped in his hands, two small, differing axes stuffed into a cord of leather he’d bound about his waist as a belt (which he’d use for throwing when the time was presented to him), and a long, ragged-edged dagger. Plates of randomly assorted mail, chain and leather alike, had been used to clothe him foolishly, as he had piled layers over his current fashion of rags and shreds. He cut the figure of a barbaric primitive, some foul individual, purposeless and senseless. A minute blaze flickered behind his eyes as he saw the fight.

At long last, or at short last, it was Dwali who was defeated, to Brór’s slight surprise only. Dwali’s fit of murderous, incensed, and passionate rage had peaked and ebbed, now failing him. He was thrown aside as the hapless orc stumbled up and turned his head. The remaining two dwarves, still retaining no emotion in their furious faces, did not hesitate to head forward. Dorim leapt as nimbly as dwarves could over the panting form of Dwali, who seemed to have been knocked out in the fray. The now duo looked ominously upon the orc, who looked to be inadvertently caught between a devilish smirk and a pitiful whimper as his curling lip quivered with anticipatory confusion. It could not be told whether he was gleeful or afraid.

Brór, the more experienced, older warrior, went at it first. His mace swung, but missed purposefully. The uruk stumbled oafishly as the spiky cudgel bashed the stone below, sending up a sudden spurt of dusty mist that clouded the vision of dwarf and orc. He raised the mace again and swung, this time hearing the satisfying crash of metal on metal that resounded eerily, carrying as if pulled by dark, shadowy hands past every crevice of the tower and crammed within. Twice more he swung, pulling his blows short as the orc, fumbling with his smaller blade, tried to parry and to dodge. After several of these arching, bashing swipes at the pungent-smelling air, Brór’s mace found home in the side of the orc, though not well. With a blunt blast from the cudgel hilt, Brór struck the uruk in the arm. The arm gave a protesting groan, as did its owner, and the uruk turned, limping back and slashing madly as he turned. Brór hurried after, but the orc suddenly spun and planted a fist in his chest, raised up. The dwarf fell, cursing in Khuzdul, and the orc scurried off like a rodent towards the nearby stairwell, disappearing down those stairs a moment later.

In an instant, Dorim was at Brór’s side, pulling him up with forceful care. “Quickly,” he cried, raising his weapon as Brór managed to find composure on his feet, “we must follow him!” Brór glanced at him, his face as it had been throughout the brief scuffle, calm and blandly serene. He looked up studiously, and gestured back towards Dwali, who remained unconscious behind the two of them. “What of Dwali?” he queried swiftly, tensed and ready to dive after the orc, but still tranquil somehow, “If other orcs yet live he may be slain, left here.” Dorim looked back at him with understanding and nodded, but Brór quickly shoved the other dwarf forward. “I will take him to down, you descend before me and pursue the creature. If he escapes, tell the man who freed us of his presence…but not the others if you can…Send him to his doom if you must, but leave what you can for me. Go, go swiftly! Baruk Khazâd!”

And Dorim was off momentarily, his own weapon ready as he plunged, throwing himself down the winding stairs two at a time. Meanwhile, as fast as he could, Brór stuffed the rough mace into the bowels of his newly armored tunic and hefted the husk of Dwali, a lighter and smaller dwarf than he, even after emaciation in Cirith Ungol, onto his shoulder, trying to encourage the form to use his limp legs and walk as he dragged both himself and the living burden down the stairs slowly, towards the lower level, courtyard, other prisoners, and his the dwarves’ orcish quarry, possibly the last living orc in the Pass of Cirith Ungol.

[Himaran]

Dwali's vision eventually changed from exploding, cascading lights into a blurred image; which slowly cleared and revealed the hunched form of Brór. "Are ye alright, lad? That was quite a blow you took there." The dwarf did not respond immediately, embarrased by his failure to kill the Uruk. Lying facedown on the edge of the stairwell, he felt defeated and alone. Had not the others been there, Dwali most certainly would have been slain. His adrenaline, stimulated by pure rage, had worn off; and the young one felt not like warrior. A child meddling with foes to great for him to overcome, perhaps, but not the dwarven soldier he had always wished to become.

Sitting up, and rubbing the sizeable lump on his forehead, Dwali tried not to show his discomfort in conversing with a fighter more experienced than he. "What happened to him," the dwarf asked bluntly. Brór seemed preoccupied, looking down the curving, downward path into the tower. Dorim was nowhere in sight, which could only mean he was pursuing their quarry. If only I could have finished it there, sent the slavemaster to the dark pits of hell.

"He fled, but Dorim went after him. A cunning orc, indeed. It would be a bad stroke of luck if he alerted the army of our escape."

"Aye," replied Dwali. "If that were to happen, we would have more to worry about than an old spider." He stood, and quickly collected his two discarded weapons. I should have fought him, but acted like a coward. No true warrior drops his arms in combat. Then his thoughts turned to Dorim, somewhere in the tower; searching for the Uruk who should have already been slain. We must go after him, Dwali thought, but he decided to wait for Brór to suggest it. After all, it was probably a thoroughly useless idea, and one which would only bring ridicule the dwarf so wanted to avoid.

Presently, his older companion said "Come, we must follow. I tried to carry you, but decided to wait for you to revive." The pair hurried down the stairs, into the waiting darkess below.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Morning was approaching, inasmuch as it could in this land of eternal darkness. Grash, who had spent his life rising with the son to work the fields and going to bed with the night to get what rest he could, had developed an innate response to the coming of day, and he could feel the Sun beginning to lighten the horizon beyond the looming shadows of Mordor. He looked up at the noisome smoke that roiled tirelessly above the heads of the mountains, searching for some sign that the black might be lightened by grey, but there was no change. Good he thought. The night of this place will hide us from the orcs. The land was not wholly dark, however, for the distant wrath of the fiery mountain lit the underside of the clouds with a lurid stain like drying blood. Grash hurriedly looked away from the reeking roof of this land and scanned the equally blood-stained stones of the courtyard for something he could use.

He had never so much as held a weapon, so he was at a loss now what to do. There were many tools of death and destruction lying about, but none of them looked remotely familiar. At length his eyes fell on a curved dagger, no longer than his forearm, that reminded him somewhat of one of the small scythes that the slaves had used to harvest the tough grains favoured by the orcs for baking their waybread. He lifted the weapon from out of the dead hand that had wielded it and tried its balance. It felt good in his hand, and he swung it a few times, his arms easily remembering the accustomed motions of reaping the crops. He smiled in an unhappy manner as he thought how little prepared he was for combat. As useless as the weapon was, though, he kept it. He soon found an orc who had been roughly his own size and he quickly stripped the corpse of its leather garments. He had never worn anything more than a light shift and it took some getting used to the weight and stifling closeness of the shirt and jerkin, particularly in the stuffy warmth of this land, but he endured it. The orc’s helm was useless for it had disappeared with the orc’s head, but Grash found another small helmet nearby that fit reasonably well.

At the sound of an approaching footstep he flinched and swung about, his hand fumbling for his knife, but it was only the Man who had first joined him. Grash dropped his hand from his belt and held it out to indicate that he meant the Man no harm. He looked at the fellow’s arms and armour and noted with some relief that at least one person had understood what he had wanted them to do. The Man smiled, but Grash’s face remained impassive, for he had never seen such a look before and had no clear idea of how to react to it. The Man’s face fell somewhat and he held out his hand. Grash moved back a step, uncertain of what the Man wanted of him. Once more the Man’s face became thoughtful, but then it brightened. He pointed at himself and said in the Common Tongue, “Aldor. My name is Aldor. You and I, we should be…friends, yes? Friends? We can help one another; stick together.”

Grash frowned lightly, not sure what to make of this. He pointed at himself and said, “I am Grash. Have no friends. Need no friends. But we will help each other. We must help each other to get out of this land.” He looked up at the sky once more, and said as though to himself, “Yes, must help to get out of this land of darkness.”

He looked at Aldor once more and tried to mimic the Man’s smile but judging from Aldor’s reaction, he did not do a very good job. He began to indicate that they should return to the storeroom when he was distracted by the sight of the two women moving about the courtyard. He was surprised to see that Darash had already armed herself and was busy gathering more weapons and putting them in a sack she had found. He scowled and was about to rush over to her to demand that she and the other woman return below and gather food, when a commotion from the far side of the courtyard drew his attention. An orc came bursting through the door of the outer stairwell. He was holding his side as though in pain and labouring, but his speed was tremendous. Quite close behind him was one of the Dwarves, a maniacal look in his eye. The orc froze for a moment when he saw so many people about the courtyard, but the instant he realised who they were he snarled and spit in hatred and rage. Stooping so low that his hands almost dragged along the ground, he ran through the courtyard to the gate.

Grash was terrified. If the orc got away he would tell other orcs that the prisoners were free, and they would come looking for them. “Kill!” he cried out. “Kill orc! Kill kill kill!”

[Novnarwen]

And so he had failed, or at least, he had somewhat failed. Asking Grash to be friends was apparently not the smartest thing Rhând had done during his time as a free man. However, hopefully Grash would reconsider his offer and maybe he would turn to him (Aldor, which was the name Grash knew him by,) when Grash needed him. Yes, for if Grash didn't need him now, he would certainly in a while. Thinking this through a couple of times, looking at Grash, he made up his mind that this arrangement would probably be for the best anyway. At least it would be best in the long run Rhând noted to himself, being immensely satisfied by his accomplishment. It didn't take long for the part Southron to get lost in his own thoughts. Suddenly, he thought his armour too heavy for him and wanted to pull it off, but remembered it would be too risky if Grash saw the knives he had collected and hidden. So, even though feeling as if being drained of energy, he held firm and stood watching the women who came bursting into the courtyard. He stared at them with pity. As he discovered that one of them already had collected several pieces of weapons and armed herself heavily, he couldn’t help himself getting quite frustrated by their ignorance; especially thinking of the woman who was collecting weapons in a sack. Poor woman. She doesn't seem to know her place . . . He tried not to take heed, but he grew stuck with the thought of how wasted it was to bring these two women along; they would simply just ruin everything, by getting themselves killed or something. That would certainly not be very good for Rhând. Not good at all. Turning in these eleven prisoners, would be the least he could do to gain trust again. In fact, when he thought about it, less than these eleven would actually seem as if he was making a fool of Him. But there was nothing he could do now, he would have to run through with it, only having eleven, and hope it would help him and his purpose. Yes, Rhând would make sure that everyone stayed alive until he could show his true self.

“Kill!” he cried out. “Kill orc! Kill kill kill!”

Rhând was under the impression that the orc had come from nowhere in particular, as if the orc had lain hidden amongst the many dead orcs and watched them from his pile of dead bodies. As he could see the orc running through the courtyard where they stood, only standing still for a moment or two watching the freed prisoners, he was alarmed. Rhând hadn't reacted at once. Now, on the other hand, he had realised what was happening and knew instantly that the cry, which had seemed so faint at the moment it was let out, had come from Grash. He pointed at the Orc, who was speeding towards the gate. As desperate as he felt, he couldn't do anything but stand quietly beside Grash and see the orc run on. Few seconds later, one of the dwarves, he had seen in the storeroom earlier, came hurrying after. The dwarf called out something, but Rhând couldn't quite make out what he said as he didn't understand it.

By this cry filled with panic, all of them seemed to wake up; they couldn't possibly just stand here, letting the orc escape, could they? Rhând looked desperately around at the others. They wouldn't live to see another day if that happened. All their effort till now would be wasted. For a minute or so, Rhând regretted the fact that he gone with Grash in the first place. He had survived in the cell for thirteen months; surely he could survive at least this year through. Yes, he should have waited. He would probably have managed to escape somehow anyway. But as much as Rhând regretted now, his situation didn't alter to what it had been before; the lonely life in the cell. He was here, present, seeing an orc running towards the gate which would definitely be his death; a bitter end it would be. Could they prevent it from happening? Could he do anything? After all, his longing to be cleared from the false accusations lingered inside of him. No matter how he tried to explain himself that he was innocent, and where his loyalty lay, he couldn't stop yearning after the moment where others, too, would realise that Rhând was forever faithful and would never have betrayed the Dark Lord.

Trembling with anxiety, as it was certainly a thought which made him excited; the day he would be cleared, he found himself springing after the orc, seeing the back of the dwarf and Grash ahead.

[Bêthberry]

Kashtia did not need to know that word, "kill", for the panic and urgency in Grash's voice made clear the desperate situation. And the scruffling sound of the orc's footsteps had rung around the stone stairwell even before Grash had called out his command. Still, she was not prepared, for all the knives she had collected were in the bag and she was still getting used to the strange orcish clothes. The leather jerkin hindered her movements and the delay cost them all.

Scrambling almost with his arms on the ground like a beast, the orc rushed towards the gate. Only Kashtia was between him and gate, but others were alerted behind the creature. She grabbed a knife from the bag, any knife she could get her hands on, hefted it once to get the feel of it, and then threw it. But her aim was off, the jerkin held her back, and she felt her muscles in her forearm cramp where the bone had poorly mended. The knife hit the orc's shoulder, making a slight cut, but glanced off. She had time to grab one more knife, this one longer. She stood up to face the orc as he neared her. He was dripping blood and gore onto the stone floor. Perhaps she could slow him down.

He came within two feet of her and was not expecting her to charge into his path. Her movement put him off his run but still his huge weight carried him forward. Her nostrils filled with the stench of him, she thrust the knife deeply into the orc's lower chest, where she thought his belly would be. In her luck, she chose well, for she missed the bone and the blade sliced into the beast's innards. He roared, raising his arm from his bloody side and knocked her over, more in the wild motion of pain than in any deliberate attack. She fell to the stones and rolled, over and over to get away from him quickly, in hopes she could prepare another attack, but her movements were hampered by the bodies of other orcs.

[CaptainofDespair]

Wandering between condemned corridors and broken hallways just off the courtyard entrance of Cirith Ungol, the two Silvan Elves searched for weapons and armor more befitting of their stature. Raeis had proven herself to be a quick elf, much faster than her male counterpart, even after her long captivity. Whilst he was struggling to keep up with his new friend, Morgoroth noticed a small set of doors blocked by the mangled body of an orc grunt. He stopped his pursuit of the female Silvan, and studied the door. Deciding to see what was within, he first called Raeis to make her way back. She did so, but with a slight sense of hesitation, wondering what the male elf could possibly want.

“These doors may hold something useful for us,” he murmured to her. “Haradrim and other foul Men were sometimes stationed in the tower, as a way of keeping the orcs from killing each other. They may have stored weapons of use to us here.” Raeis nodded, and without saying a word, they pushed the heavy wooden doors apart, revealing a dark room behind, a small armory. Very little of use was contained inside, save for a few broken scimitars, and shattered spears. Morgoroth had become disheartened at this sight, and turned to leave the room, and continue with his search, when he heard a crash behind him. Raeis had been prodding through a stack of battered crates, when a few had come tumbling down, smashing into broken shards and sharp splinters on the stone floor. Contained within the debris of the crates, were quivers of arrows, and a few small bows, suitable enough for the Elves. Amongst the ruins of the other crates, were a few long knives, and so these were taken up, and split between the two Silvans.

As the two began to make their way out of the dilapidated, and nearly collapsed room, the heavy thuds of an orc were heard rushing into the courtyard. By the time Raeis and Morgoroth had forced their way out of the room, and into the corridor, the horrendous sounds of the orc had died off. The two began to make their way to the large wooden door that separated the dark air of Mordor, from the dank, blood-filled air of the Tower, when they spotted one of the three dwarves. He was rushing down the stairs, obviously chasing the orc who had fled out into the courtyard. Morgoroth made no motion to alert the dwarf, and simply let him continue his fruitless search for the now-gone orc. When the dwarf had passed, the dark Elf turned his attention back to the search for some form of garb that he could shroud himself in. Raeis must have known his thoughts, or had been prepared for the same task, for no sooner had the dwarf left, that she had begun making her way to the courtyard. For the second time that day, he could only follow his new accomplice.

Reaching the doorway into the courtyard, Morgoroth halted. The heavy, ash filled atmosphere that made up Mordor, hit him like brick. He had become accustomed to the relative cleanness of the Tower, and the open, yet dirty air of the Black Lands, was something his nostrils could not take. Reaching into a pouch on his hip, he pulled forth a piece of tattered cloth. He wrapped this around his face, much as he had seen the Haradrim do. The cloth, that now surrounded his face, managed to filter much of the dirt in the air, and he was able to take a step into the courtyard once more. He soon caught up to Raeis, who was pilfering the bodies of the orcs foo some form of protective wares. She had cast aside a few leather cuirasses, which had been too large for her torso. Skimming through these, Morgoroth took up one that had looked his size. Upon putting it on, the leather was soon found to be close-fitting, and allowed for a greater deal of freedom in his movement. From another orc body, he gathered a cloak, which he draped over his shoulders, refraining from using his hood. Raeis soon found some garments of her build, and quickly put them on. When all was said and done, Morgoroth dragged his tired form over to a corner of the yard, and sat himself down, seeking a bit of rest. He draped his new bow across his knees, and drifted into a dazed, dream-like state, preparing his body and mind for the torturous journey ahead.

[Kransha]

Brór wandered, slowly, throughout the area of the dusty, dirty, smoky room of the tower, still eying the stairwell nearby suspiciously, walking circumspect and cold. Dwali squatted not far off, still digging through the limp, twisted clumps of dead uruk that were heaped about all over. Brór stooped over, dragging his hefty mace upon the ground and letting it bounce across the floor wistfully. Soon, he picked it up, and stuffed it into his armored belt, behind the newly taken breastplate of burnt, charred steal and a hauberk of chain mail. He leaned down, his fingers curling around the deformed staff of an ax which he lifted curiously.

The ax bore, yet again, a resemblance that Brór dubbed uncanny to his ancient blade, a nameless weapon, cold and jagged as the ice upon the ivory-capped peaks of the highest mountains. He had swung that ax for many years, more than a century’s half he’d used it, cleaving countless orcs in twain and worse. When it had been given him as a child, he’d sat with a retrospective look upon his barely bearded face and an uncharacteristically pleasant twinkle in his shady eye, staring at it, his gaze overrunning its depths, its dimensions. Where was that now, that youthful pleasantry and naiveté? Alas, he knew where it was. The Tower of Cirith Ungol had stolen it from him, taken it unnaturally and unfairly. The ax he’d held, weighty back then, had fallen in the dust with a silent thump, left as a reminder of his failure there and now. He had never failed, not in combat, or even with his dulled wit, but he was still a failure as much as any other loathsome fool imprisoned. Now, though, his cynical reverie ended with the sound of echoing footsteps below. As his glued gaze pried itself from the ax, he looked glumly, but suddenly with more verve, to Dwali.

“You wish to follow, do you not?” Brór murmured, a smile again worming its way over his pursed lips. The smile did not materialize, though it was as forceful as it could be, and Brór’s look stayed a cold, slate hue of careless emptiness. But, thankfully for both dwarves, their meeting had at least tempered the shadow of pessimism with a sliver of sunny light, that of companionship, which was a merry thing for their kind. Walking forward and clutching his newly looted ax tightly in a wrinkly, creased palm, Brór continued coyly. “If you wish to hold your thoughts in, you shouldn’t plainly wear them on your face, lad.” He seemed strangely to be chiding the younger dwarf, though his smirk was still as invisible as ever it had been.

“Aye, I wish that.” The other dwarf said, standing from where he’d been silently, meditatively squatting and looking back at his peer. “But, I’ll wager you wish it as well.” The rumble, throaty and raspy, that beat heartily in Brór’s chest might have signaled a fierce, dwarven laugh, but naught came out. Instead, the very edge of his mouth elevated, suggesting a vague grin as he clapped the lad on the shoulder, striking his left hand, now in a tight gauntlet of dully colored metal shards riveted together, against the pauldrons strapped to Dwali’s upper arm. “I would be a false dwarf if I said I did not.” He said, his voice swelling as he pulled Dwali forward, and the two of them rushed, gallivanting down the winding stairs towards the first level of the tower and the courtyard. They were there faster than either of them had expected, and sprung out lithely into the courtyard, breathing in quick, stolen breaths as they took in the sight of two figures. Both were elves, nearest the door, one male and the other female. The dwarf duo headed speedily to the male elf, shadowy in gait, who sat upon the earth, nearly motionless. Though Brór knew not what he was called, the elf’s name was Morgoroth, and the female elf was called Raeis.

“The fleeing orc, you saw him?” Questioned Dwali subtly, his eyebrows peaked slightly with no otherwise changes in his more wizened features, which were reminiscent of some aged thing of more years than he. Brór still looked to be the oldest, of course, and older than the elves and men, for he had seen more days than the man, and more of time’s winds than the elves, though they were older than he. Both dwarves looked almost incredulously at the elves, one sitting and blankly staring in the yard’s corner, and the other still rummaging diligently through the orc corpses, which lay strewn messily across the rent tiles of dark, blood-spattered stone. The first, handling the bow leaned against his bent knees, looked up darkly at each dwarf. “Yes.” The Silvan Elf, whose name Brór did not know, said quietly, “He passed and fled.”

Now, many dwarves strongly disliked elves, elves of any kind, Silvan or no, though that’s what elves these were. The elf, though probably much older than Brór in years, had all the look of a fellow who’d seen many less. That alone was enough to infuriate Brór, but he dismissed that fact years ago. Elves had worked continually alongside him during his stay in the tower and prison, so petty prejudices were easily dismissed, but now they returned. With freedom came new feelings, and with expanded boundaries came renewed hostilities. Were these wretched beings going to wallow here and allow that orc to escape and inform others of his repugnant kind of the freed prisoners? That was foolishness and stupidity. Though Brór was brooding, even as he spoke, he could not abide this. He knew, deep down, that his dormant dislike for elves was making his mind exaggerate, but now that there was no orc whip to crack down upon his back, he didn’t care.

“And you did not give chase?” he said, fiery hostility renewed in him as he spoke, his fist clenching involuntarily, “You let him pass and did not even try to follow?”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis watched the other Silvan elf curiously for a moment, frozen in her work a few metres away from him, a vixen pausing momentarily in scavenging to watch another, unknown fox further away - strange and yet familiar, and whether a friend or foe was yet to be decided. Looking at him closely, she saw his eyes droop and his whole face seemed to relax - asleep? A memory stirred within her of the meditative trance the elves could sink into, a peaceful void of real thought, entered by dreams and memories of past and sometimes of future. In the years of her captivity, when no moment could be counted as safe, Raeis had barely if ever been able to rely on the security of doing this, for at any time she could have been interrupted whilst vulnerable by the orcs. Besides, her nerves were so frayed now that she barely even knew if she would be able to enter that state now anyway, and had reverted to the dull, black void that men called sleep.

The elf shivered suddenly as she realised how very like the Haradrim the male elf looked, draped with black cloth across his face and wearing their leathers, a bow of their making across his lap...why, if the orcs were to see him now, what would they know him as but another of the men? All of the rest of them would be instantly recognisable as prisoners but...

An idea suddenly hit Raeis and she wondered why it had not hit her earlier - the simplicity of the plan was incredible. Yet it would work. If yet there were orcs or Haradrim around, ready to block their escape (and woe betide them if they did, she added darkly), they would instantly stop them...or they would stop prisoners. But if they were all the wear such clothes, covering face and ears and wearing the right garb, saying nothing...

Who would know the difference?

Raeis allowed herself a simple smile of happiness, surprising herself at the feeling. It was brought on not to spite her captors, to laugh at them as they tormented her, for that had been it's only purpose in her captivity - no, it was brought on by feeling. Happiness. Relishing the feeling with wary satisfaction, the female elf settled on her knees and lifted a long knife from the stash in the corner - obviously where orcs had left their weapons to be easily and quickly picked up without hampering them as they went about whatever despicable business they chose to amuse their small minds with. Strangely though, this one was in a sheath, although it didn't seem to fit well - it wouldn't properly settle into the sheath, part of it sticking out awkwardly, dents made on two sides at the top of the sheath where it's rude tenant had been forced in. And where the sword was crude and marked from ill treatment and use, the sheath was oddly elegant - Raeis tilted her head hesitantly to look at the marks on the side. To her astonishment, she found them to be runes, although not ones that seemed familar - they were not the angular, ugly, crude etchings the orcs sometimes made, and nor were they in the elven script that Raeis remembered. They seemed to mix the two - elegant but tarnished, tainted, marred in some way...

"I think this sword would fit the sheath better."

The hesitant voice sent nerves tingling all the way through Raeis's body and she actually jumped. Spinning around with snake-like speed onto one knee, she whipped the sword out in front of her in the vague direction of the voice. The sudden, quick movement caused the sheath to shoot of the end of the ill-fitting sword, flinging itself away across the stone courtyard to clatter loudly on the stone. The man who had spoken gave a startled squeak of surprise and ducked to one side, surprisingly fast for a mortal - for that was what Raeis now saw him to be. He was short and stocky, and his freckles and large eyes made him seem child-like, although the obvious muscles in his arms and legs made it obvious that he was nothing of the sort. At least, not physically....there was something very juvenile about the fear in his eyes as he looked at the elf. As Raeis rose and moved forward a step, her sword still level, he shuffled backwards quickly, staring up at the immortal with simple fear.

For a moment, Raeis caught herself enjoying the rush of power and with a shock of anger at herself she dropped the sword, the clatter resonating throughout the courtyard as she did so. Taking a step back from it, Raeis walked around the weapon, her flecked blue eyes never leaving it, then they darted back to the man's face.

"Who are you?" she asked, curiously.

"Jordo," he replied promptly, every inch obedient. Raeis was surprised at his simplicity, but there was something harmless in it. However, when he raised the sword again, she couldn't help taking a step back again. He turned it around quickly and offered her the other end, even though it meant he was holding the blade. Raeis hesitated, then took it tentatively, careful not to harm his hands but ready to move if he attacked. No one would cause her pain again, but this simple, kind mortal did not deserve pain either - indeed, something in Raeis stirred to protect him almost. Almost.

Taking the sword, Raeis scurried to the other side of the courtyard to pick up the beautiful sheath again, and slid one into the other carefully. Surprisingly, Jordo had been right - incredibly so, for the sword seemed to actually match the sheath. Neither were perfect, of course - little could stay untarnished in a land of evil. But beauty is always seem in union, and these two fitted perfectly. With the unfamiliar feeling of happiness again coursing through her veins like adrenaline, Raeis looked up to see that a few dwarves entering the door. Short, stout little men, built like barrels that had seen thin times - not exactly menacing, but she felt herself clench up at the sight of them, the deep set emnity between the two peoples arising subconciously.

The dwarves seemed to feel the same way. They entered stiffly, swaggering a little, and one approached Morgoroth, waking him with the clanking of his axe as he audaciously began to question the elf. Raeis could not hear the first words he said, but she heard the next as the dwarf rose his voice.

"And you did not give chase? You let him pass and did not even try to follow?"

Raeis immediately felt the hostility in the dwarf's voice and felt it rise within herself in response. The sword slid uneasily out of the sheath, grating against the sides, but Raeis didn't flinch, her hand perfectly still as she raised it to the dwarves.

"Do not threaten him," she said, softly, an edge of danger to her voice. "And do not threaten me. What is it that you seek?

[CaptainofDespair]

With an obviously hostile dwarf standing above him, and with the animosity between the two races already embedded in both minds, Morgoroth knew he must watch himself, for he walked a very fine line. Raeis however, did not seem to see it this way, as she rose to protect her comrade. With blade in hand, she came forth like a serpent, ready to strike. The young Dwarf did not notice her at first, and by the time her voice had made her presence known to him, he would have had his head splattered on the walls and cobblestone floor of the courtyard. But Morgoroth could see the fiery intent in Raeis’ eyes, and he rose quickly to stop her. “No!” he spoke as he grabbed her forearm, keeping the blade just out of reach of the dwarf’s head. “Our quarrel is not with each other. We have more important matters to attend to.” He let forth a heavy sigh as he pushed his way past the trio of dwarves.

Raeis was still in shock as she began to follow her immortal compatriot. His willingness to protect those that had threatened him startled her, as well those in the vicinity of the occurrence. Even the dwarves had expected that he would have allowed for their brethren’s death. Yet, even with this showing of kindness, or mercy, neither party still wished to associate with the other, and they went their separate ways. Raeis soon managed to catch up with Morgoroth, as he made his way back into the darkness of the Tower. Yet following her this time, was the slave Jordo, who had not wanted to be left alone in the courtyard. He watched the elves move with their naturally imbued grace and elegance, and was entranced by it, drawn into their world for a fleeting moment.

The pair of elves, followed by Jordo, who still kept to the darkness that pervaded the corridors, slowly meandered their way through the Tower. Morgoroth had the look about him that he was searching for something long lost. After futilely searching a few dark, empty rooms, The Elves began to make their way back to the courtyard. As they neared the doorway, the immortal male gave a passing glance at the stairs.

The dark Silvan suddenly stopped at the base of the stairwell, and he turned to meet the gaze of his female companion, who wondered why he had stopped. “We will rest here for a few moments. The stairs will be a task to climb when we are still so weak from our imprisonment.” As Raeis moved to take a seat on the stairs behind him, Morgoroth noticed the newly freed slave lurking in the shadows. He knew the boy would not understand his own native Sindarin, so he refrained from using it. In place of it, he used the Common Tongue, which he spoke with equal fluency. “Come forth from the shadows which conceal you, young one.” Jordo was quick to obey, though he did not fully know why he did. As he stepped out into the shadows, his freckled face was revealed to the Elf, who stood stone-still, scanning the now freed slave’s face. “Tell me your name,” the Silvan demanded. “Jordo,” came the reply from the man-child. “Do not be frightened. Come, rest with us. There is a long, harsh road ahead of us.” Jordo walked towards the stairs hesitantly, still wary of the Elves, and still quite dumbstruck that they had granted him a seat by their side, let alone see him in the shadows of the Tower. But finally, with a hint of suspicion still glazed on his mind, he sat down next to the female Silvan.

Raeis continued to wonder for a few minutes why he had decided to head up the stairs, when the courtyard would prove a more bountiful search for more wares. Finally, she gathered up her thoughts, and sought to inquire to this. “Why must we go up the stairs? Out there . . . ” she pointed out past the heavy, wooden doors leading to the courtyard. “It is easier to acquire what we need out there.” Morgoroth stared at her for a moment, deciding upon an explanation of actions. “When I was first captured, I had with me a special set of weapons. Two long knives and a sword crafted of the finest elven steel are what was taken from me.” He paused to take a breath, and then continued with his answer. “When I was transferred from Cirith Gorgor, those were shipped to Cirith Ungol as well. I am hoping, however unlikely it may seem, that they are still contained within this place, somewhere.” He motioned to the stairs. It is time we set off now. The Elf stood up quickly, as his short rest had revitalized both his body and spirit. He reached out his hand to Raeis, to help her up off the narrow stairs. She held back a moment, unsure of the Silvan’s intent, but finally, she took his hand, and took to standing once more. Jordo had not been resting like the elves, for he was invigorated by his new freedom, and could not contain his energy while sitting down. But nevertheless, the party was readied, and they began their climb up the stairs.

[alaklondewen]

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

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

[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.