Land of Darkness RPG

[Bêthberry]

Darash snorted the foul air out of her nostrils as the blinding cloud was lifted, to show the malevolent creatures dangling in front of them. Then she watched as everyone seemed to disperse, the dwarf to run madly into the midst of the beasts, to be pulled away by one of the elves. Lyshka at her side swung a blade into a creature and its black blook spewed forth. Raeis was shaking Jordo, trying to get him to move.

"Anansi si-lay-na, si-lay-na-bom," Darash spoke aloud, in defiance of the trickster god she knew from her people's tales. She looked quickly around and then called out, "Ray--iss, Lysskah, Grrash, come, see, heylph." Then, without waiting for them to reply, she acted, hoping they would understand what she was doing.

With one hand, she grabbed Grash's arm, pulling his torch closer to her. Then she opened one of the dried gourds she had taken from the orcs, showing a yellowish clumps of soft rock.

"Surverah, surverah," she said, and held her nose while pointing to the dangling creatures who were gaining on them.

Then Darash pointed to her sword and knife and to the torch and to the rocks, while pulling the cloth orc tunic she wore underneath the leather jerkin. She began to rip it into pieces, then wrapped one about her face, covering her nose and mouth. She gave strips to Lyshka, and Grash, two to Raeis.

"Fashtah, fashtah," she insisted, taking the second one from Raeis and tying it around Jordo's mouth. Lyshka began to understand what Darash wanted, and began tearing more cloths for face masks and handing them out.

Once Darash had her mask in place, she stuck a lump of the soft yellow surverah on the sword Raeis had given her. She held the rock close to Grash's torch and suddenly the rock flared, emitting a terrible stench. Then Darash walked forth into the creatures, swinging the flaming sword in their faces, twirling the smoke around them. As she did so, the creatures began to spasm, twitching, and then slowly they rocked back and forth on their strands, hanging dead. As Darsh moved forward, she held one hand over her face, turned away from the flaming sword, to warn the others that the smoke could poison them also.

Lysha and Raeis, their faces covered, understood what to do. They grabbed more of the yellow sulverah from Darash's gourd, impaled it on their weapons, and flamed them next to Grash's torch. Slowly they, too, moved out among the clicking, deadly creatures.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor had stared at Raeis as she charged the enemy and still did so as she repelled them with the toxic gas. She was indeed an amazing woman. As he watched her he again felt his heart grow light and he began to daze away into strange thoughts. Soon he found himself helping them slay the other spiders. He positioned himself next to Raeis and stared at her every chance he recieved. SHe must have seen him for she shot him a confused glance and said, "What is it!"
"Oh it's nothing......I just ...uh thought I saw one behind you that's all...*ahem*. Excuse me." Zuromor walked away all together embarrased and cursed himself for being so stupid.

Zuromor kept himself busy by searching for more spiders so that he could think of things to say to Raeis. He didn't know why he wanted to but he did so all the same. As he walked about he heard a familiar clacking sound. He looked up and for a blink second he could have sworn he saw something very large moving about. But as it was so dark and no one was being heavily attacked anymore he though nothing of it. After all that supposed monster probably wouldn't want to fight us now....right?

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

I hate spiders, I hate spiders, I hate spiders…Jeren repeated the words to himself, his dark eyes wide as the horrendous creatures crawled towards the group. The fear in his heart was written upon his face, but none would voice it, least of all Jeren himself. Everyone was afraid. Jeren did not fear much in the world, and perhaps it was not even fear that the Southron felt for the creeping, spindly-legged things. Perhaps Jeren just found immense disgust in them, driving him to irrational distaste. They are smaller than I, they are smaller…they are probably more afraid of me than I am of them.

Looking at the numerous, vicious creatures advancing on the former prisoners, Jeren began to doubt his previous sentiments. The Southron tried not to show his distaste and disgust for the spindly creatures, and became ever thankful for the dim lighting in the tunnel. He did not want anyone to know his weaknesses.

Several spiders made their way towards Jeren, who began to kick at the things without any other rational thought. He just wanted them off of his feet and away from his legs! He saw pieces of cloth being passed about, and Jeren's brows furrowed in befuddled confusion. He tore a bit of his own fraying tunic off and used it like the others had...as a mask of some sort. Jeren looked over someone's shoulder into the torchlight to see if he could tell what the woman Darash would do. He could not quite tell who stood before him, not from his or her back.

Still, Jeren was not blind to the spider creeping ever towards the person's calves. It was a hairy one, and Jeren's stomach squirmed to see it creeping quickly along the tunnel floor towards the person in front of him. The Southron wanted to bolt, but there was nowhere to go. Drawing his sword, Jeren began to hack skittishly at the spider that crawled towards the leg of the other former prisoner. Jeren's heart jumped when he saw the black blood seeping out and the eight legs twitching placidly.

Jeren looked up from the dead creature just in time to see Darash shove her sword, tipped in some yellow rock, into Grash's torch flame.

[Novnarwen]

Rhând

He didn't understand what was happening. From the little crack in the tunnel wall, where he had stood seconds ago, being very near to ending the male elf's miserable life, he hadn't paid attention to what some of the other members of the company were doing. As the creatures had found him in the crack, he realised he would have to run for it, but then something odd had happened. Without hesitating, he had run, but stopped as soon as he was halfway towards the women and Grash. The creatures had suddenly stopped in mid air, twitching. Rhând coughed as a cloud of smoke passed him, and he came to realise that the others had covered their mouths. Being paralyzed with shock, he stood calmly watching what was happening.

"Cover," the prisoner said pointing at his cloth which covered his nose and mouth, "with cloth!" Grash continued. When hearing those words, the Southron finally managed to tear himself away from the twitching creatures going towards the four of them. He was handed a cloth, which he bound hurriedly to his face. He turned around, and paced back and forth, leaving the four; the three women and Grash, alone. Greatly confused about how the situation had developed - from almost dying in the crack, to being able to walk amongst the creatures as if they were harmless - Rhând looked questioningly at Grash. But, as expected, the man didn't return his gaze.

Seeing the women, he noticed something. What were they doing? Not being able to see too clearly, due to the clouds of smoke, he only spotted the women taking something in their hands. He took a step closer, being immensely curious about their doings. Perhaps it had something to do with the creatures’ odd behaviour and the cloths each of the prisoners wore. He frowned, feeling a bit annoyed by the cloth itching. Yes, they were certainly doing something. It had to be them, who had caused the creatures to drop dead and the smoke to appear. Yes, the women were polluting the air! Ha! Brilliant! With a smirk, no one could see, he saw them touching something. The colour of yellow became clear through the dim light from Grash's torch, and Rhând realised that he wasn't as far from the women as he had thought. If they were polluting the air with this yellow looking thing, these women were smarter than he had first expected. However, he could use this. This yellow surverah, as he heard them call it, was deadly; at least to the creatures. Surely, it was quite dangerous for them as well. Why else wear these silly masks?

It might not too dangerous for them now, but it will when I get my hands on it. Satisfied by the discovery of a new weapon, he approached them.

One thing bothered him about his sudden approach. It would seem suspicious of him to mix, purposely, with the women since they had this newly discovered weapon. Instead, he looked at them and smiled, pointed at himself and down the tunnel. With another grin, he stalked off in the other direction. If I find a way out of here, I may gain some friendships. If I find nothing, I might be able to cause panics, and then I will make my move. He grabbed his sword again, drawing it slowly out of the sheath. Silently, he walked on. It was darker now, as he didn't have a torch to light up the way. He held his left hand high, placing it on the wall, feeling his way forwards.

He felt a draught. It felt like a wind compared to completely still air in the tunnel. "A way out," Rhând, muttered to himself, still quiet and careful.

For each step, he felt the draught getting stronger and stronger. Soon, a dim light could be seen in what seemed like an end to the tunnel. He ran quickly, but stopped instantly as he discovered a cobweb. He lifted valiantly his sword, and with great effort, he hit it with great power. "Oh!" The Southron let out a sigh, as he fell to the cold ground. "The spider .. It is really true." Feeling quite miserable, he got hurriedly to his feet. He had to find the others, let them know about this, and cause panic.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The foul and acrid smoke of his flaming brand made Grash choke and splutter, but doggedly he followed Darash about the tunnel, attempting to drive off the last of the creatures. All about them lay the lifeless forms of the monsters, some crushed by stone and sword, some twitching out the last of their vermin existence amongst the ooze of their fallen mates. A stench beyond bearing came from the corpses mingling with the reek of the company’s torches to the point where they were near choking despite the rags that they wore about their mouths. Gasping for words, Grash took hold of Darash’s hand. “Come, come,” he said. “Monsters gone, must go, go now.” The woman wheeled upon him, pulling her hand from his grasp. She looked upon him with such hauteur that had Grash been anything more than a slave he might have taken offence. But as used as he was to a life of submission, he could only bow his head before her and avert his eyes.

One of the Dwarves stood forward. He was bloodied and covered with grime and dirt from his labours, but there was a fire in his eye that Grash had not seen before. He recognized the Dwarf as the maniacal one that had charged the beasts as though he cared nothing for his life. Brór spoke thickly through the smoke. “Which way do we go?” he demanded. “Back the way we came to the monster and her trap, or onward into the depths of these tunnels and we know not where?”

It was the Elf woman who spoke next. “We cannot go far, or quickly. There are some who are wounded.” She pointed to where the Man Jordo, more a boy really, lay with his back against the wall of the tunnel. Grash was surprised to hear her speak in such a tone of assurance. He looked at her to ask if the boy could be carried, but she dropped her gaze away from his eyes, seeming to falter before him even as she seemed ready to grow in strength. Both Morgoroth and Zuromor stepped forward in support of the Elf maiden, but it was Zuromor who spoke first. “The Lady is right,” he said. “We must not task the weaker members of the party.” Morgoroth almost looked surprised to have been cut off by the Man, but with his impassive and distant Elvish air it was hard to tell what was going on within the depths of those ageless eyes.

A silence fell upon the company as they looked about from one to the other. Some few looked to Grash, but they were far from the majority. “I believe that the decision has been made for us,” a voice said from the shadows. They turned and saw Aldor emerging from the darkness of the tunnel lying in the direction from which they had fled. “I have scouted up a bit and found another web blocking our escape that way.”

“Can it be cut?” demanded the fierce Dwarf, Dwali.

“I think not.”

“No,” Morgoroth’s voice came into the darkness, “not by any weapons that we here possess. The malice of she who wove them is greater than steel and iron.”

“Then there’s only one way to go,” concluded Aldor, who then looked at Grash and said “We will follow.”

Grash was a bit surprised by this, but as the others seemed to accept once more his leadership he saw no need to counter Aldor’s assumption. Seizing his fast dwindling torch in one hand he turned and trudged down the tunnel. Behind him, Morgoroth lifted the boy Jordo in his arms, while Dwali and Dorim between them supported Brór who seemed to have become a bit unsteady on his feet.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Her rage at the failure of her spawn to bring down the meat was boundless, and she hissed and spat to herself the most venomous curses she knew. Scuttling through the dark fissures and cracks, her great limbs creaking and her mighty body folding and squishing to conform to every jagged edge of rock, she moved through the eternal night of her realm to where she would spring her final trap. She had not thought that the entire company would fall in the tunnel, but she had thought that at least a few of them would be overcome or weakened, making her assault less risky. Be that as it may, she would come upon them as they were, for she needed meat.

A stab of white pain lanced up through her abdomen as the open wound on her underside caught the wall, and she let out a screech of surprised agony, so unused was she still to the sensation of pain. Hatred of all that lived and breathed flooded her mind so completely that everything else was gone. She would crush the meat with sting and fang and then feast upon their living flesh. Great gobs of spittle fell from her mouth and stained the rock beneath her.

She came to the small crack in the roof of the mighty cavern and squeezed her great bulk through it. Below her, the prey entered from the tunnel. She watched as they tried to take in the expanse of the cavern, but their pitiful eyes could not pierce her darkness sufficiently to see. They felt about the walls, finding her webs blocking every tunnel and crevice, denying all means of escape. She felt their fear rise to a fever pitch as they sensed her presence, and like small, terrified animals they grouped together in the middle of the room, seeking shelter and comfort in the face of their horror.

The time had come. Her hunger was so great that it could no longer be denied. Dropping quickly from the roof of the cavern, she moved toward the meat, her many eyes glinting in the dark with her ancient hatred and lust…

[Bêthberry]

Darash was stunned by the man's response. A chilling memory of unwanted touch had frozen her arm when he had grabbed her hand in the near-dark mirk of the tunnel and she had reacted instinctively with disdain and repudiation and disgust. Yet he had then bowed his head before her and withdrew. She felt warmth pulse back into her arm, the mended join in her bone throbbing as her skin and muscles thawed, the frigid, insensate reaction dissipating bit by bit. Once again Grash had surprised her. His unexpected response was completely at odds with her experience of these northern jackals. Instead of beating or taunting her, he had shown her deference. Yet he was their leopard, striking out ahead of the vultures for fresh possibility of freedom. But she had little time to reflect more upon the matter, for others were coming forth, needing help. The pigmy man called Brór demanded movement while the elf woman cautioned the need for help.

Then Lyshkya gently prodded Darash's side and nodded back towards the gourd with the small lumps of suverah. Darash looked over in time to see the smooth Gondorian called Aldor put his hand into the gourd and withdraw some. Instantly, she was alerted to something odd, for they no longer had need for the smoking stones to repell the vermin and he did not light it. Instead, he pocketed it and moved off, towards the sticky, sweating walls of the cavern. Darash looked around to advise Grash, but he was off talking with another of the male prisoners. She looked back at Lyshkya and shrugged. They both decided to watch this man.. Then she blew out the smoking cinders at the end of her sword and rolled the suverah in the dirt, ensuring it was dead, before she replaced it in the gourd, which she packed away with her bags. She was hungry but the smoke in the air was stunting her desire to eat, so she did not touch the other bags she had picked up in the cellar. And she was sweating in the heat of the underground rock and the stiff leather of her orc jerkin was sticking to her body.

The she and Lyshkya had shouldered their swords and marched forward with Grash. Once in the large cavern, their footsteps bounced off the rock and thudded off the taunt webbing which hemmed them in. This time, they were a group, the slower ones catching up with the scouts. But the sweat of their previous fear had barely dried when a second wave of terror came creeping upon their minds. Then, suddenly, a huge dark stench broke away from the cavern's ceiling and landed near them, nauseating them. Many eyes glinted at them in the darkness

[Novnarwen]

“I have scouted up a bit and found another web blocking our escape that way.”

This statement didn't get the reactions Rhând had pended on. He had expected that some would panic, even go and check it for themselves. Now, they made ready to go the other way, apparently the only way, out of the tunnel.

He saw the women stepping away from the gourd. Were they leaving it behind? The others were ready to go. He on the other hand, was more eager to get his hands on some of that suverah. What an advantage he would have if he managed to get a hold of it? It was tempting. He would be able to knock all of them out; meanwhile he went to get help from the outside to bring them back to Him. He grinned under the cloth covering his mouth. Looking around for someone watching, thinking they were all too busy trudging down the tunnel, he waited for an oppertunity to make his move. With his eyes, he followed them closely. First went Morgoroth, who seemed to be bothered lifting the silly and incompetent boy, Jordo, meanwhile the dwarves went after. He saw them walking after the torch Grash bore. Hesitating for one second, thinking about what the consequences would be if anybody spotted him, he realised at last how important this would be for the rest of the journey.

Tip-toeing, ever looking over his shoulder to see if somebody had stopped and was looking at him now, he grabbed the cloth covering his mouth and ripped it. Satisfied with the result, he bound one of the parts on his face again covering his airways. Looking at the other part of the cloth, he grabbed some of the suverah from the gourd and laid it in the cloth. He turned around. The women! They looked his way. As they noticed Rhând looking at them, they turned quickly around and walked on. Had they seen him? He wondered nervously, taking the cloth with the sulverah and hiding it in his boot. Shaking with anxiety, he ran as fast as he could after the others. If the women had spotted him, he would have to take care of them. Women weren't useful to Him anyway.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Her mouth and nose still covered with cloth and her eyes narrowed against the smoke, Raeis supposed she probably looked like one of the Haradrim, and felt a bitter smile twist her mouth. How strange - a Southron with fair skin and pointed ears! And the Light, if any still remains within me...

She caught the man on her left, Zurumor, looking at her and turned her head to return his gaze with her good right eye, eyebrows raised questioningly. He looked away immediately, looking down at the ground then up at the ceiling, as if anything was more interesting than the elf. Underneath the dark cloth covering her mouth, Raeis felt her mouth twist into that bitter smile again. Was she really so hideous that he couldn't look at her? She would have anything other than pity. Yet something of her face certainly seemed to fascinate him - a freakshow then, like a stunted pigmy, dancing for bronze coins and the amusement of others in some sleazy tavern...

The thought made her angry and she walked faster, moving out of step with the man as she looked away from him, brushing her short, scruffily cropped hair behind one ear, covering the side of her face with her hand. But as she did so, her foot stubbed against a crack in the ground - a deep welt in the dirt, an irregularity that made her stumble. Instantly, the man was at her side again, catching her arm as she staggered and steadying her. She looked up sharply at him, her eyes fierce as she glared at him...but in his green eyes, she saw nothing of pity or arrogance - only kindness and...was that fear? No, not fear, but something close - as if a wild animal caught in a sudden light, or a small child amazed by the twinkling of a jewel or bauble...Awe?

Awe...in the back of her mind, a nasty voice laughed as soon as Raeis thought of the word. Awe? You imagine he looks at you in awe, ugly elf? Awe, awe, awe...like the cawing of the carrion crows. Ugly elf, awe leads to awful - far more appropriate...

Raeis stood up straight, twitching her head slightly as if to discreetly dislodge the voices, knock them off-balance. Zurumor still had hold of her arm, and she stayed completely still, watching his hand until he noticed and removed it slowly. "Apologies, Lady - I...I was...w-watch your step," he finished awkwardly, looking away again. Raeis continued to regard him steadily, her eyes raising to his face, but this time he didn't look away.

"Thank you." Her voice was soft, and still harsh from abuse and disuse, but from the man's look of surprise, it was as if the Valar themselves had come down and spoken to him. Do Men even know of the Valar? Raeis found herself idly wondering and made a note that maybe she would ask this man, Zurumor.

Feeling eyes on her, she glanced to the side and saw Morgoroth. He looked away instantly, so quickly that Raeis was not sure she had not imagined his gaze, but at the same time she knew she was right. The male elf was a strange, silent being - quite like herself, she supposed. But was she as intimidating? - all the Men avoided the male elf, casting fearful glances at him...and at Raeis, she now realised. Was she really intimidating. I hope so, came the venemous reply of her tortured mind and she smiled as they turned into a massive cavern. But even as she did so, she heard a screech - a terrible sound of pain and shock, a noise that seemed to rip through the eardrums like the air itself was tearing. The others looked around, back the way they had come, for the tunnel made sound seem to come from no direction at all and all directions at once, but Raeis didn't follow them, staring forward the way they were going into the cavern that lay in front of them, a space so vast that it seemed to the eyes of those who had spent years within a few square feet, that the whole of Minas Tirith could fit inside it. The wind of the sudden movement of something vast ahead ruffled her hair, whipping it around her face and the others turned also, stepping back a few steps unsurely, hands on their blades, moving into a small group in the centre Zurumor glanced at Raeis as if she would know what was happening - although she knew that he knew as well as she did what had stirred.

"She has found us," she whispered simply, her eyes not moving.

As if in recognition, a creeping, screeking noise, like the laughing of a nightmare sounded surreptitiously from above...and the whole ceiling seemed to dislodge itself and scuttle towards them. Raeis seemed paralysed, unable to move...until the huge shape dropped from above as if it would land on them.

Released from her coma, the female elf screamed, yelling almost incoherently at the others to run. Grabbing hold of one of Zurumor's hands, she did exactly that, sprinting without thought back the way they had come as the nightmare beast landed - anything to get away from those myriad evil eyes and that terrible skreeking laughter, like the sound of every nightmare she had ever had...

[CaptainofDespair]

Whispers, whispers in the dark. A multitude of voices had sprung up in the shadowy pass of the Tunnel. Yet, only one heard the voices, the Dark Elf. As he made his light, graceful steps through the corridor, following the torchlight of Grash, he could feel the air brimming with these voices, the thoughts and words of the long dead, who now stood an unseen, ghostly guard within Shelob’s domain. They hailed from a time that had long passed, yet they spoke of the present, and of Her. The Elf stopped his procession, and he listened intently, hoping for some signal, even a dire omen, of what was to come. But the voices had stopped their whispering within the shadows, and blended into a horrid, piercing scream, one of pain, and of death. It was known then, that she was now near, and that Death’s Hand had come to claim its victims.

The horrid spidery child, last of Ungoliant, hid in the craggy ceiling of the Tunnel, peering down upon her victims. They moved slowly, through heavy gloom that she had carefully woven through her many centuries of inflicting a painless pain, and a nameless fear. Yet, she was not whole this day, for she was injured, and her eyes were flooded now and then with memorial pain, one in which she had lost her prey, and had been wounded in her hunt. Her bloated body slowly contracted, and expanded, squirming to fit the ceiling from which she hung. And now, she was prepared to strike, to finish the game that these intruders had started. She would be their end, and the songs of their lives, and the torment that she would inflict upon them, would remain with her forever, an intangible, yet amusing companion. And she would paint a gruesome motif of their blood upon the walls that adorned her inner chamber, a bitter reminder of what can happen to those who stumble upon her world.

As the company moved through the shadow-veiled pass, they were unaware she was silently waiting. And now, she sprung her trap, and she leapt down from the ceiling, and her game was now fearful. They noticed her not initially, but when they gazed upon her, they fled. Now began the last leg of the amusing game she had bred in her darkest, most inner sanctum of her mind. She would let them flee again, but this time, there would be no escape, and no weapons strong enough to wound her, as had been done by that tiniest of prey.

The Elf had been aware of her presence for sometime, as the voices had gathered about him, screaming and hissing their dreadful, sinister omen. And unlike the others, he was prepared. He had readied himself for her coming, and had begun weaving a plot of his own. And as the others fled around him, he strode quietly amid the chaos and disruption that had overtaken the rest of his company. He no longer feared death, but welcomed it, for he was dishonored, and now sought to regain what was lost to him. And so he calmly waited for Her to come to him, and then he would spring a trap of his own upon Her. It would be one so wicked and vile, that even She would not lay claw or jaw upon him. But still, he needed time to implement this plan, for his calculating nature required time for such a grand scheme. And so he withdrew, as the others were, but unlike them, he sought not the safety of company, but a distraction, one that would keep him alive until the time was right.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Raeis was amazing to Zuromor. So hard and cold yet brave, fiery, and enthralling. As they all walked along Zuromor kept thinking of the feeling of her skin. Even after all she had been through, she was still beautiful. But further on they all heard a gut-wretching scream. Raeis openly stated the obvious. She was upon them. Zuromor looked at her for assurance, but only saw what he had already known. He drew his blades and waited. But as the great mass looked upon them Raeis screamed and dragged Zuromor off with her. If the situation were different he would be extatic. He would defend her at all costs!

Onward they ran and it seemed an eternity, but twas in vain. They ran straight into a massive web. Raeis struggled to free herself as did Zuromor. It seemed as though their end was near. Looking deep into her eyes and courage, love, and strength flowed through him. The thought of such a fair creature being killed at the foul thing's feet......no he could not allow it. He pulled and twisted with all his new-found might and he suddenly fell hard to the ground. He leapt to his feet and together Raeis was freed. They both spun around and all that could be seen was Grash's light.....and a multitude of eyes twinkling as diamonds in the rough, directly in front of them.

[Amanaduial the archer]

There was no way out: the way they had come was blocked, and now Raeis realised it was not mere coincidence. The webs that blocked their way down the tunnel glistened delicately, the strands thick and generous, oozing gently and slowly like thick honey, tantalising to the elf's hungry mind and beautiful to her good eye - diamonds and jewels of every colour seemed to glisten in the dim light from where they had entered the tunnel, the light twisting and refracting inside the web prettily. So beautiful they were almost ugly.

As she stared at the webs, holding out a hand towards them tentatively but not touching them, a shiver ran through her as she realised how calculated it had been.

The spider is no mere animal or insect... She has intelligence on her side.
Aye, so do we.
We? What, a scattered group who are at daggers with each other already. They would not stop at killing each other - how do you think they can rally to kill the spider?
We can form allegiance.
An allegiance?! An allegiance, ugly elf, is that what you say? And when have dwarves and elves ever come together succesfully? And as for the men...

Raeis shook her head violently to dislodge the voice that she fought with inside her fractured mind. Once it had been her companion, her friend even - some company to stop her from going insane, a prescence that had arrived suddenly one day after weeks of loneliness near death, uncaring. It had saved her, and she had cultivated it's prescence. But now...she scowled, annoyed. It had become irritable and nasty in the past few days, especially since the escape. It didn't like having her free to talk to others - it was jealous. But why should she reassure it? She had others now, she didn't need some snappy voice in her mind, telling her what to do, insulting her...

Others, ugly elf? The voice was always there, lurking at the edge of her thoughts. Others to talk to, is that what you think? Others like the man beside you, you mean? You see how he sneaks looks at you. He thinks you awful, remember, ugly elf? You thought so yourself. Think he can replace me, abandon me for him?! He is just a Man.

Raeis scowled fiercely and shook her head again a few more times, turning around, refusing to answer the voice. It had a way of making utterly impregnable arguements - why, she even remembered thinking he had thought her awful. No, wait, that wasn't what she had thought...the elf strained her mind to recall it exactly, but failed.

"Lady?" The little, scared voice from her left provoked a glare from her destroyed eye and she saw the fragmented view of the man again. He is watching me again! Again! Has he no shame that he shows his pity and disdain so obviously! The thought upset her, although she wasn't sure why - she didn't want all this company so suddenly, all these people confusing her and turning her voice against her...

"Raeis, what about the....the Spider?" he asked, coming around to her front so that she could see him more clearly through her good eye. She looked at him in confusion for a moment, trying to work out what he was saying, before her good eye widened as she remembered. The spider...of course...she turned around quickly as a scream rent the air and she realised that she and Zurumor were alone at the end of the tunnel: the others were all in danger back there. A sudden flash reel of their faces ran through her mind and appealed to something more humane inside her, a part of her that she thought had iced over, and the tenderness that lay beneath the ice had died within her years ago when the world had turned it's back on her. But it was still there, still alive, and although she had not been with them long, the elf realised she knew these people too well - maybe they weren't much, this ragged group of weakened creatures from the depths of Mordor from every corner of Middle Earth, but they were all she had. The elf's jaw suddenly clenched fiercely in determination. They were all she had, and this time, no one would take what she had from her.

Turning to Zurumor, she withdrew her sword from where she had jammed it in the ragged piece of cloth that sufficed as a belt and gave him an unsure, fierce smile. The man seemed relieved she had returned from the vagueness that had held her and drew his own long knife - the knife she had given him. Nodding to him, she turned back down the tunnel and began to run back to hell.

As they came to the entrance of the cave, the elf dropped suddenly to a crouch against the wall, and behind her Zurumor did the same, so that they were merely a bulge in the wall, two ragged, lump-like shapes in the pitch black - boulders, for all means and purposes. As their smell would hopefully be masked by the others, it was as good a disguise as any in this place. But they were not the only ones doing it: on the other side of the tunnel, Raeis saw another two shapes crouched, noticing them only by the fact that one was shuddering, shaking silently in fear. But the other was utterly still and Raeis realised that it had noticed her as soon as she had it - their eyes met, and Raeis realised that it was the copper skinned woman, Darash. The woman was not like any Raeis had ever seen before, even in her captivity, but she instantly commanded respect: every inch a warrior, despite the injuries she bore, especially on her arms. Somehow they only served to make her more magnificent. What Raeis did not realise was that her view of Darash was probably similar to what the other Men had felt when they had seen her and Morgoroth: an awe and wonder at the unknown. But unlike the Men, Raeis felt no fear towards this Woman.

In a smooth movement, the woman unsheathed her sword with barely a sound, her black eyes still locked with Raeis's gold flecked blue ones. Raeis raised her sword as the woman did the same, and touched the point lightly to her forehead. The woman did the same, and Raeis felt something intangible formed between them.

"Are you ready?" she whispered to Zurumor. The man nodded, and as he did so, Raeis felt him take a deep breath, feeling the air whisper along her sparsely clad back, so close was he. She paused for a second, enjoying the moment of closeness to another being, feeling that finally she was not alone.

But you will be if the spider gets them, ugly elf, the sulky voice in her mind reminded her and she jolted back to the present.

"After three...." Holding up three fingers so that Darash would hopefully be able to see them, she held the woman's gaze again and tucked them down one after another. One...two...three!

Throwing herself to her feet and into a run, Zurumor, Darash and Lyshka doing the same at the exact same instant, Raeis gave a fierce yell and threw herself at the spider's side. As she got close, it turned it's huge head and Raeis saw the glitter of the multitude of beautiful eyes, shining with fierce ugliness and, without a thought, stabbed her sword with all her might towards those eyes...

[CaptainofDespair]

Only a dark mind as the Elf had could contrive such a malicious, and calculatingly sinister plan as he had. Wandering aside the slick, inescapable walls of the passage, he went unnoticed, as he had hoped. To an eye untrained in the ways of the Elves, one would have thought he was brooding over how to die, but this was not so. Deep within the cold crags of his mind, the Immortal conceived the final strands of his plan. But he was not alone to his thoughts, for those that were now dead spoke to him. They whispered faults of the past, those they had committed in their defense, and those they had seen fail. Yet, mere words were not enough for he who is ageless, and the ghosts that now haunted his mind began to project visions, visions of death, into his eyes. He saw not the omens of a death soon to come, but that of a most magnificent way of escape. The Elf smiled, his face contorted to a wry, evil smile. He snickered in the darkness, and he secretly laughed at his plan, as it began to unfold in his mind.

Soon, he began to murmur his dark, insidious plans to himself, but they were not so audible that any who stumbled upon him would here his near silent words that fell from his lips as if a spring had arisen upon his lips. “She will meet her end by her own devices,” the Elf muttered as he strolled along the walls which now appeared as if they had some ancient gloss painted upon them. But now, there came a reply to his rambling. “Yes, she shall, and we will be the guide.” Morgoroth was confounded, for now those that had spoken to him from their graves within the Tunnel, now responded to his plan. “She is intelligent, but she has one weakness she cannot hide, her Pride,” The voices began to hiss as they muttered this to the Elf. “Her pride will be her fall, it will,” muttered one voice. And soon another spoke up, uttering its dire words in a cold, raspy voice. “Aye, it will, and we will watch, and laugh at her faults and failures. And soon, she shall join us, and no longer be the Mistress of the Tunnel.” Upon these words, the voices began to laugh in unison, a dark, cold laugh, one weathered by time, and amplified by death.

The Elf was now content that the voices he heard were in fact those of the victims of Shelob, and not his own. He began to pace to and fro now, seeking the most perfect of spots of which to initiate his plan. His was distracted now, and he heard not of that around him, save for the vehement hisses and thrashings of Her. He heard her cries in the dark, and he gloated over what was soon to come. He knew the others would attempt to harm her, but success would be minimal, for she would not withdraw for long from any strings they brought to her. Even an the song of the arrow striking an eye would not suffice. And if she retained any weaknesses, she would protect them to her end. Nor did they have weapons strong enough to pierce her hide. She was an unstoppable behemoth, and would crush her enemies one way or another. Or that is what Shelob herself thought. The Elf knew better. For every creature, no matter how strong, has at least one weakness, and for some, it is more deadly than others.

All his plans were now in motion, and for the moment, they coincided with Her plans. He would let her force him to where she wanted them, and he would bait her into falling into his trap, and then, the fate of the Great Spider would be sealed. But he would need bait, and he thought of the perfect tantalizing treat for the spider. But he quickly struck back to his original course, and began to hunt for items he would need. The Elf began to collect the devices of his enemy, the broken strands of webbing that dangled from the ceiling. The webs glittered in the darkness, and seemed to sing, as chimes do in the wind. He took in this song, and it comforted him slightly, for they would soon sing a more beautiful song, The Hymn of Death. After he successfully pulled each of the strands he needed from their secluded position in the rafters of the high ceiling, he began a curious endeavor. He proceeded to weave the strands together, forming crude ropes of the immensely strong and durable web. In only a few brief moments, he had woven several of this web ropes, and soon put himself to the task of fusing them with the shaft of his bolts. But he did not expend all of this material on his feathered shafts. He saved a few for himself, as a precautionary measure, and he stored them out of sight, under neath his cloak, hooking them to his belt in tightly wound loops.

With his primitive, yet effective contraptions in place, and readied for use, he sat himself down upon a large rock, and waited for her coming. Those who were ahead of him, were either fighting Shelob for their lives, in a twisted and demented version of roulette, or they were already dead, and she was preparing them for the trip home, binding them in her webs for transport to a safe feasting area. In either case, she would soon be coming his way. Those behind him had come upon an immense, and seemingly unbreakable web. They were trapped as well, like rats in a maze, with only one way out, through Her. She would get them soon enough, as if it were a mere routine for her. And then there was the Elf, alone in his hide along the wall of the corridor. In the middle of it all he was, between a route blocked by an ensnaring invention of the company’s defeat, and the horrid beast herself. The eyes of Morgoroth soon began to dart between either ways of passage, and he smiled again, for he now knew exactly where Shelob would be most vulnerable. As so he left himself to his thoughts, and he began to converse with the voices, and they laughed together, for Shelob would not escape this plan wholly intact, and the mere thought of it gave them a dark amusement.

[Kransha]

Bror stood as silent and bewildered witness to a very sudden, and most unwelcome arrival as the mighty spider fell onto her newly found prey, seeking any living being out. Before the dwarves pressed on, at Bror’s signal with a ready and uplifted hand, the first deal was dealt, by the elf called Raeis as she plunged a primitive sword, pillaged from the tower, into the suddenly turned brunt of the spider’s head, her blade targeting and delving into her many glinting eyes. A vague but otherwise horrendous shriek burnt up the air and the legs of Shelob, all up and at the ready, swerved and fell on the elf and her companion, that man called Zurumor who had so earlier attempted to elicit Bror’s companionship, but received only the dwarf’s concealed bitterness in return. The legs fell swiftly, two right forelegs swiping mercilessly at Shelob’s assailants. The elf was knocked adeptly aside as she stabbed the beast, her sword cutting at one leg, but glancing off the plated musculature of the limb as if it were nothing. The elf ricocheted off towards the wall and remained there, possibly unconscious or merely recovering from the wounds received. The man, Zurumor, though, was not so lucky. As he drove his long knife through the crystalline eyes, he was heaved down beneath the spider who swept herself up over his fallen form, to crush or berate him unto his death.

The dwarf now in command had no wish, none at all, to save a man, elf, or otherwise under any circumstance, better to let old Shelob have her prey and use the given opportunity. But, the warrior’s soul beating against his chest forced him on, for now was the best chance to attack the spider, when she was thus distracted. And, deep within, behind that soul, the words he’d said to Zurumor remained. Was there any companionship, and bond between the two, as requested and beseeched? He supposed he would soon see. At the drop of a hand, and a lack of the stealth he had desired, Bror jumped and ran, galloping towards the spider with his comrades close behind. Onward they poured, the three of them all coming from different directions, but even the withered illusion of organization had vanished now as they headed towards the mistress of the dank tunnels. Bror was first, as his legs carried him more quickly then the other two, with more fervent fire and reverberating spring in his step. Soon enough, as Shelob prepared more blows against the man, Bror was able to whisk himself lithely beneath her, prepared for battle. In retrospect, it may not have been the best idea to abandon tactics altogether, considering what happened next.

Bror, shooting upward, practically leapt at the opportunity to strike as Shelob, shifting dangerously on her multiple legs and exposing a softer-looking underbelly. Unfortunately, the underbelly was encrusted by some unseen armor of the spider’s, shielding her might bulk, and Bror’s crude mace, bashing against the stony material, merely glanced and rolled off, causing Bror to stumble into the gravelly earth beneath Shelob. The spider nimbly spun above him, her great legs sliding across the ground of her tunnel and the foremost one colliding swiftly with Bror as he fell. The force of the thin but powerful limb impacting his form sent the armored dwarf careening backward madly. He landed, skidding across a stream of jagged crags until he halted on his back, panting and taking quick notice of the deep dent in the metal plate on his breast. The wind was forced furiously from him by the monster’s maddened blow, and Bror had to grope for air as he threw himself again onto his feet. He tried weakly to continue his passionate rush, but was halted by lack of breath and the lances of pain driven into him. His dully colored eyes turned upward to see Dorim make the next attack, and suddenly widened in horror.

Zurumor was free now of the spider’s grasp, rolled inadvertently to safety. But, the spider had her diminished eyes on new morsels, or victims, as it were, for as Dorim and Dwali came at her, she bore down on them immediately. Dwali was able to evade, though his shoulders and back were battered extremely and he was forced to retreat before his attack, defending himself from the many legs, but Dorim ran headfirst past the legs, towards the beast’s head. Turning from Dwali, Bror, and all distraction, she fell on him immediately, her legs striking each exposed side and her fang-filled jaws tearing open, many spiked tips of her limbs and thin protruding daggers from her head ripped into him, splitting his armor asunder and pushing him down, grievously injured. Inflamed by the sight, Bror was forward in a second, his mace discarded and his hands raised up as if to seek the spider’s blood with his fists. He ran and reached for his comrade as the spider picked the wounded husk up with her many legs to bear him off into the depth of her cave as a meal.

The dwarf, his tension released as a great weight but renewed as well, latched his grappling fingers onto Dorim’s armor as Shelob’s tendril-like legs seemed to envelope him. As the spider slid herself carefully back, Bror tugged forward on Dorim’s limp form, pulling with all his might, digits hooked around the various crevices of his kinsman’s armor. The spider, though, must’ve desired the injured dwarf for a belated meal, and fought to keep hold, her legs not in use stabbing rabidly at Bror as he attempted to wrestle Dorim from her grip. He could not release him, no matter how hard he tried, and could not eternally shrug off the assaults of Shelob as her legs slashed at him deftly while he struggled against her might. He did not care, though, if the spider slew him now, for if he fell it would be yet remembered by those who left the tunnel. If he would leave this dark passage, it would only be with his comrade, living or dead. Otherwise, he was prepared and steeled against the lethal venom that now ran, coursing hungrily through his veins and devouring the last inkling of his strength. Bror continued exerting all his Dwarven prowess, but the spider had nearly won.

Suddenly, piercing Bror’s concentration, a gleaming shaft of light surged past his head, leaving a residual whistle in his ear, and thudded noiselessly into the cesspool of glittering orbs embedded in Shelob’s head, her eyes. It was a blade, rimmed by a veiled aura that stabbed the darkness and the shroud carried by the spider. She emitted a hissing shriek from within, which jarred Bror’s thoughts. She reared back, seeming more annoyed than pained, but her provoked fury distracted her concentration as well, causing the hold of her segmented legs to loosen. Bror, who’d been welling up all his unused brawn for the purpose at hand, fell back with Dorim onto the hard stone, many jutting rocks spearing the mail on his back painfully. He ignored the new discomfort and rolled over as the spider, crying out in her wrath, crashed down onto the earth where he’d been. Hefting Dorim to his shoulder, Bror hurled himself aside and spun, gently pushing Dorim’s nearly bereft body to safety. His uninjured hand dipped down, his fist clenching over the rotten-wood hilt of one of his confiscated orcish axes. His arm surged forward and the axe soared forward over the small distance between he and the raging monster while she moved, leaping angrily across her lair. As her head turned to search for her elusive prey, the blade struck her with ease, near the mark the sword had found. At the same moment, as whatever luck lived on for the dwarves in this shadowy cavern would have it, Dwali, who’d been equally occupied by Shelob’s great legs, was able to loose his own blade into the beast, a smaller, more delicate ax in his grasp finding the same clump of sparkling eyes. As soon as this was done, Dwali, struck several times by the aimlessly flailing legs of Shelob, fell back and staggered to the tunnel’s wall, avoiding Shelob’s fiery wroth.

Roaring and screaming, a most repulsive sound, she backed up, one leg shifting to bat at the axes and bolt buried in her eyes. She had doubtless lost some, but could still see. Luckily, though, the wound infuriated enough to blind her from the actions of those around. Under the cover of her madness, Bror leapt down, wrapping his arm around his fallen comrade, and pulled himself and his companion to some safety in the shadows. She could probably see him still, but the niche he wormed his way into was small enough for her to dismiss his presence there…at least temporarily.

Now, in the shade of more damp outcroppings that were spread out overhead, Bror could see to Dorim and the source of his rescue. He looked warily upward, great care in his gaze, to see Zurumor breathing hard, knelt on the rocks far from the wailing spider, his hand and arm still raised. It had been his knife that pierced the eye so suddenly, his light borne around it. Bror’s mind knew not what to tell him, what thought to process, what feeling to report. He had saved a man, and been save in return, his friend had fallen, as had he, the spider was in retreat but yet on the move. He did not have time for these thoughts, though, for he truly had to look to his brother in arms, who was barely breathing now, blood coursing from his lips just as it was over Bror’s, both Dwarves ravaged. The dwarf beneath him was dying, injured in places to numerous to count and pained beyond reason. Try as he might, no knowledge in Bror’s mind was adequate to repair Dorim. All he could do was look emotionlessly at the other Dwarf.

The venom of the small and great spider was erupting inside him and he could do nothing about it. Dorim would not survive much longer, but both Dwarves were braced for death. But, Bror was determined to get out, or at least to a point where he could be sure Dorim would be taken from this place. If he was to die, he would die here and remain, but all else would at least see day’s light with unseeing eyes. Slowly he dragged his feet and Dorim away from the raging spider, towards the only human he could see with his blurred vision: Zurumor. But, there was still nothing in hi to drive him on, save the blasts of poisoned pain. His eyesight decayed, his flesh aflame, his head and heart pounding but feebly, he fell to his knees near the man and, with Dorim at his side, slumped onto the earth.

[CaptainofDespair]

Screams shattered the placid peace of that had enveloped the realm of the Elf. Horrid shrieking, and the clashes of a brutal, primitively fought battle for survival raged in the shadowy depths of the Tunnel. The acutely tuned ears of Morgoroth sensed them, as a spider senses a disturbance in a web. His mind shot forward, like a missile in flight, and he strained to see with his mind, what his eyes could not. He cocked his head to one side, his hair flowing down over his left ear, and he listened again. The cries had all but stopped, and it was eerily silent, much as the sea is before a great storm. His mind suddenly grew calm, and he nearly went limp, which would have been a painful fall from his perch atop his rock, but in the dark, it would only emanate a resounding thud. His breathing relaxed, and began a strange short of meditation, tuning himself to the Tunnel, with all its secret, almost mystical properties. And as quickly as it had started, it was finished, and his dull eyes flashed open, flickering in the shadows. He rose up from his rocky throne, and hopped down to the damp floor below. His eyes scanned around him for signs of danger, but he perceived none. His eyes darted from one end of the Tunnel to the other. Which way would he traverse, to his rear, to those who were trapped? Or should he march forward, to where his helpless and weakened comrades fought their dying battle? Without hesitating, he turned to himself around, and began his journey to where the dwarves now did battle wit the abomination that is Shelob.

The cavern was quite dark, even to his now well tuned eyes, but he continued to proceed, until at last, after a few short moments of regaining himself, he turned a sloping curve in the cavern wall, and came upon Her. But she did not notice him, for she now participated in a losing battle for the dwarves. Though they outnumbered her, it seemed as it was she who outnumbered them. She had already flung Raeis and the man Zurumor aside, as if they were but a rag-doll a child plays with in their youth. The dwarves were now all that remained of the combatants, and they were losing, horribly. One had already been taken down by the Mistress, and another fought to save him from her ever famished mouth and bottomless pit of a stomach. The Elf continued his silent watch from the shadows, as the struggle continued. Finally, the contest was broken, as blade struck the Great Spider, and she reeled back in pain, just long enough for the dwarf Bror to drag his companion to safety. The Great Spider retreated, but not for long, she waited a few moments, and thus returned to seek revenge, for she hungered evermore. But the pleasant, yet dark and calculating voice of the Elf rang out into the air. “Where do you think you’re going Milady. You and I have business to attend to first, before you get your meal.”

Morgoroth had not anticipated having to put his plan into action so soon, but he calculated it would be wise, and that it must be done to deliver the dwarves from harm, for even a few moments. And so, as the nasty Spider rose up, and prepared to strike down her remaining opponents, an arrow silently sped its way towards her, and struck her in the shimmering pools of her myriad of eyes. She again felt pain, and shrieked a most ungodly noise, one that chilled the blood and broke even the stoutest of hearts. But Morgoroth knew what had to be done, and he smiled in a cruel delight over what he was putting into motion. The voices he had listened to these past few hours, were now cackling wildly, and hissing at the Elf to bring the beast down, and send Her to Them. And so he drew forth the first of his many, specially adapted bolts, and prepared to release it into Shelob. He drew back the first, and the bowstring cracked, and he let fly the missile, with its thin white trailer tagging behind. His refined accuracy, even in the darkness, was near perfect, and the arrows drove itself into Shelob’s unprotected skin, between the knee joint in the rear most left leg. The Spider hissed, and she released fumes of hot air and gas into the air, hoping to stifle her Ageless enemy. Obviously she had not yet realized what exactly had been done to her, for her rear leg now had a string of glistening, white web attached to it. The Elf laughed at her plight, for his scheme was now in motion. He soon released his bolts thrice more, and the spider was struck each time, and now had four strands of her own web, and the four shafts of arrows embedded in her four rear legs. And the Elf had prepared to bring for the next stage of his operation. He stepped out from his shadowy corner, into a more properly lit arena, where the monstrosity of Shelob could best view him. She stood, a silent behemoth of death and destruction, staring at the darkened form of her attacker. But she made not a motion to attack, but rather studied him quickly, looking for a sign of weakness of what appeared to be a wholly new version of foe. And now came the time for his plan to unfold yet again. The Elf lifted up his hand, and revealed within it were for stands of glittering web, Shelob’s web. He smiled at his enemy, and drew his arms up, and the Great Spider looked at him in bewilderment. He summoned forth all the strength he had, and gathering it from every little crevice of his body, and pulled back on the steel-strong rope. Now Shelob understood his plan, but she could not stop it. Her rear legs were pulled forward, underneath of her, and she toppled like a tower which has a weak base. She fell onto her own legs, the ropes already having torn one completely from the socket, a clawless limb. The remaining three were either crushed under her massive girth, or twisted into malformed shape. The muscular armor could be heard cracking and splinter asunder. And the great beast shrieked, and writhed in pain. She rolled forth, flailing her remnant legs wildly about in the air. Now she lay upon her back, her body broken, but she was not yet defeated. With one leg now missing, and three others momentarily out of commission, she would need recovery time. The Elf laughed again at her plight, and he taunted her, but he had not time for such wayward acts. He made his way quickly to the others, and he stooped over them checking them for signs of life. The first he came upon Zurumor and Raeis, who had now begun to regain consciousness. With both on their feet, they took up the task of retrieving Bror, Dwali, and Dorim. Morgoroth looked upon each, and then spoke. “We cannot tarry, though she is wounded now, greater than ever, she can still hunt us. Come, follow me.” Zurumor and Raeis nodded in acceptance of this, and Bror, still dazed began to trudge along. Morgoroth used his remaining energy to heave Dorim’s limp body over his shoulder and carry him. Dwali was able to handle himself quite well still, and refused any aid from the Elf.

With the hideous, ever shrieking form of Shelob to their rear, the group set out to find the others, who had undoubtedly heard the sounds of the battle, and the renewed shrieking of the Spider. They slowly began to meander their way into the depths of the cavern, hoping to find their comrades in arms. None of them could think however, of what was to befall them, when a now brutally enraged Shelob would come back to finish the job, for the horrid cries of pain drowned out all.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash and Aldor scrambled about the edges of the cavern, desperate to find a way out, but every passage, every crack, had been sealed over with the stinging webs of their terrible foe. In the darkness behind they could hear the muted sounds of combat, mixed into a monstrous kind of harmony with the rough sliding of the beast’s body over the stones and the creak of her giant limbs. Grash whirled at the cry of agony and tried to pierce the eternal night of the realm, but all he could make out in the scattered lights of their now discarded torches were shadowy forms scurrying about beneath the ominous bulk of the monster. Grash saw one of the smaller shapes fall and the creature dove for it, but then a flurry of activity seemed to catch her up and Grash stared in amazement as the Elf stepped forward, brandishing his bow. It was madness! He would be crushed by the beast and there was no hope for him.

“Come on!” Aldor hissed in his ear. “Let us find a way out! We can come back and tell the others!” Grash nodded dumbly, but at the back of his mind he thought of the females Darash and Lyshka. They should find them first. He turned to the Man to explain when the cavern was filled with a sound of primordial agony and hatred. They whirled about, reaching with terrified hands to cover their ears in vain attempts to block out the piercing shriek. They stared in disbelieving awe as Shelob staggered back from the Elf, one of her legs now dangling from her body by no more than a strip of her plated shell. How he had accomplished it, they could not tell, but before they could put any more thought into it, they saw prostrate upon the floor of the cavern two forms – two forms that the beast was once again advancing, clearly intending to make of them her easy prey.

Grash stared in horror as she loomed over the Dwarves and in a flash it dawned upon him that it was he who was responsible for their deaths. He had freed them and brought them here, to serve as bait so that he could escape. If he had not led them, they might have been able to find some other path, and while he had no hope that they would have escaped Mordor, at least their deaths would have been of their own choosing and not his. He felt shame, then, but without being able to explain it. Instead, he raced toward them, little thinking what he could do to aid them, but determined to try.

Orcs used others in the way that he had tried to used these Dwarves. And if nothing else, Grash was determined to prove that he was no orc.

The monster had raised herself above the Dwarves, and was readying all her massive bulk to crush down upon them, when Grash reached their prostrate forms. The stench of the beast was overwhelming, choking him and bringing stinging tears to his eyes. He tried first to drag the Dwarves away, but there was no time, for she was about to strike. But then, as though by a stroke of unlooked for luck, Grash saw that she had been wounded in the belly. A small gash, no more than a hand’s width, had laid open her armoured underbelly, but from the steady trickle of ooze that came forth, he could tell that it was a deep wound. Before he had time even to think, Grash drew his sword and thrust it up at the wound. The steel easily passed through the gape into the tender flesh underneath, and twisting the sword about he sought to gut the monster. Again she screamed and threw herself away from her prey, landing on her remaining seven legs and preparing to spring. Grash stood his ground, knowing that hope was now lost.

A flurry of cries sounded and from the side of the cavern flew several forms, led by the copper-skinned might of the woman Darash. They attacked the monster’s legs, hacking at her with all their might. Who they were precisely he could not tell, and he did not have the time to watch any longer. Seizing Brór under the arms he dragged the Dwarf toward the side of the cavern, hoping to keep him from harm’s way there. Aldor appeared and bent to take Dorim but then he came to Grash’s aid. “No no!” Grash said, gasping at the weight of his burden. “Other Dwarf. Bring other Dwarf!”

Aldor shook his head. “He is dead,” he said quietly.

Rhând

Seeing the two dwarves lying on the cold ground, the young Haradrim swallowed. Grash had already headed over, and was now grabbing Brór by the arms and dragging him towards a safe corner in the cavern. Rhând went unwillingly, and fairly hesitant, to take the other. He took the dwarf's hands, eyes filled with disgust, immediately understanding that something was wrong. The petty little creature was covered in blood, and his pale face revealed his fate.

"You darned fool!" Frowning, Rhând looked at the dwarf shaking with anger. Again, it seemed like an impossible task to earn his freedom and again serve Him. Already, there was one man down. And realising that only one night hadn't passed since they had escaped, he sighed miserably. Was it possible to go on for days in this land without the whole lot of them getting killed? The thought of returning to Him with only two or three prisoners out of twelve in total, didn't sound very promising. On the other hand, would this dwarf really be missed? By the look of him, Rhând guessed that he was of no worth, but still it bothered him. "Breathe you disgraceful hound!" he muttered. It became clear to him, however, that he had more concerns. The dwarf was one thing, but he was dead and nothing could be done about it. Then another thing bothered him even more: the women. He would have to focus on them now. First priority, he thought. They knew he had taken suverah, and that he hadn't used it to overcome Shelob. Surely, they had to be suspicious when it came to his behaviour and especially why he didn't use it against the monster. He would have to take care of them as soon as they escaped the spider, before they told anyone else.

Rising from his position, he trudged over to Grash's side, eager to know what had become of Brór. "One more dead fool and my chances will be ruined," he said under his breath as he settled himself down with Grash.

"Bring other Dwarf!” Grash looked at Rhând, or Aldor as he knew him, and pointed at the other dwarf. Stupid twit, Rhând thought to himself, turning his attention to the body again.

With great effort he managed to press forwards that Dorim was dead. He tried to look into Grash's eyes, but it was hopelss.The whole thing, Rhând realised, was so ironic that he was just about to break into a great laughter. If it hadn't been for the cloth, which still was tied to his face, the other prisoner would have seen the gigantic smile of his.

[Himaran]

Rage. It was the only feeling enveloped Dwali's soul as the group moved away from the mammoth arachnid. Anger flowed through his pulsing veins, both at himself and the beast which had caused them so much fear and grief.

Dorim would die -- he was certain of that --and the young dwarf had not been able to stop it. I ran. Dorim attacked. Perhaps, if I had attacked as well, we would both be on two feet right now. It had all happened too fast. In his quick retreat, Dwali was unable to spot his companion's somewhat foolish charge. Adding to his distres was the intervention of the elves; it seemed as though Bror had made several aquaintinces during the battle. The half-even folk must have be-friended him, Dwali decided. Lovely. Now there will be three of them against me, and with Dorim gone... The dwarf tried not to contemplate the immediate future, but instead concentrate on putting one stout leg in front of the the other.

Turning to acess the situation, he found Aldor and Grash kneeling over the forms of the other two dwarves. Bror was unconcious, and Dorim was dead. The lifeless dwarf had saved Dwali's life earlier in the battle, and the horrible feeling of failing a companion entered his already tormented soul. And Bror, who had done so much for both of them, might be dead as well. No. It cannot end this way. "IT WILL NOT!" The others looked up from their work as the dwarf roared out to the enemy at the far end of the cavern. Grabbing Dorim's axe, he abruptly turned and headed back towards the place of the battle.

But then Grash was there, grasping him arm tightly. "No, Dwali. You can't just throw your life away -- Bror may yet survive. Now come, help us; he's in pretty bad shape." The dwarf wrenched away, and made as if to step forward. But then he stopped and dropped to his knees, weapon's clattering on the stone floor. It was as if the energy itself had drained out of him, and Dwali could only cry.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor had attacked the spider and shown the dwarves he stood WITH them and not agaisnt them. More importantly he had saved them. And now as the creature writhed in pain they all ran for safety. All but the dwarf. He who had given his life for his people...his friends. Zuromor cried as he ran. He had not known anyone so brave. The had ran only a short distance when Zuromor stopped and saw a small form crying on his knees. "Go! All of you....find a way out. She will not find you for as long as I can handle." The dwarf looked up at him and understood.

He understood that Zuromor was not sacrificing himself. He knew he might and probably would perish but he would give them time. Time to escape or formulate a plan. He went back to the others and Zuromor stood firm, his sword out at his side. "Come foul mistress! You shall not feed tonight, but my blade shall!" Zuromor ran directly at the huge mass in front of him.

She was still reeling from the previous engagement and Zuromor's words pierced her and brought forth newfound anger. Zuromor swiped at her wounded leg and passed beneath her great hulk. He ran to the far wall and slashed the damaged joint of one of her back legs. His blade cut through what barely held her leg together and She fell for one moment as she tried to regain her balance. Zuromor took this opprutunity and jumped up on her back, jamming his sword into her eyes and laid his body flat against her back and held his blade. He wrapped his legs on her as well as he could and hoped he could buy them some time.

[Himaran]

Dwali watched as Zuromor headed back towards the spider, sword in hand. He seemed as if one marching fearless toward death; not his death, but that of an enemy. And I will take part in its death. For Bror... and Dorim! The dwarf wiped his eyes and, ignoring the protests of Grash, readied his axe and followed the man. It would be his last part in this dreadful tale, most likely; but he was prepared to face that doom. Dwali's entire life had been a cascading waterfall of hatred and loss. At last, he could relieve himself of all the anger... and put it to good use. "Go on," he shouted to the others. "Get Bror out of here. He, if any of us, deserves to see the light on the other side of the mountains." With that, he gritted his teeth and ran.

The sight which soon met his bloodshot eyes was, for lack of a serious description, comical. Zuromor sat perched atop the great spider, as she reared and pranced around the cavern like a bucking steed. The man would, at regular intervals, stab or slash at the beast with his sword; which merely increased the speed of her already frantic movement. A look of surprise mingled with gratitude shown in the man's eyes when Dwali entered his view, and the dwarf wasted no time before calling out to him. "Khazad Ai Menu! For Dorim!" Mixing Khazad with the common tongue, he entered the fray; slashing at the virtually shreaded legs which appeared before him.

The dwarf's axe whirled in a frenzy, as if an intelligent creature. It struck at every moving thing, were it stomach, foor or leg. Dwali then made an agressive decision and dove underneath the arachnid, only to find a stinger hovering above him. It crashed to the ground seconds after he rolled, only to rise and fall again. The dwarf tumbled around in a sporatic patern, swinging at anything which presented itself while evading the possibility of being skewered. But then Dwali's moderate fortunes turned for the worse, as the hefty axe was knocked out of his hand.

Without thinking, the dwarf dove forward, accidentally grabbing one of Shelob's remaining legs. It would have been a surprisingly smart move, had he gripped tighter. Much to his dismay, Dwali found himself thrown across the room... only to crash on a small plateau. He stood slowly, seeing mostly exploding lights and darkness. But as his vision cleared, the dwarf could make out the form of the spider across the room; still reeling from Zuromor's constant assault. Stuck some thirty feet above the stone floor, he could only watch helplessly as the drama unfolded below...

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

As Zuromor battled the furious bucking giant, he caught sight of the dwarf. He held on for dear life and before long the dwarf could be seen soaring through the air. The Great Spider seemed to scream with delight as she ran as fast as she could after her rattled prey. She clambered up the side of the cave and rested what was left of her eyes on the tasty morsel. I have to do something!

Zuromor grabbed his blade and jumped on her head. The startled spider sreamed and reared up, trying to fling the man off her back. Zuromor slipped and began to fall. He slung his arm back and it loged in one of her remaining eyes. As she screamed in agony Zuromor was looking directly at her underbelly. There he saw a spot that oozed. He stared at it a moment and he saw no other alternative. Especially if he wanted to save his.....friend? The thought bewildered him but now was not the time.

He pulled out his blade and ran beneath her as she climbed up to get in position over the dwarf. Zuromor leaped through the air and jammed his blade up into the oozing wound. The spider reared up once again and Zuromor saw yet another oppritunity. He hacked on her back legs and she began to lose her balance. His friend looked around for any way to help and found a huge rock and hurled it at her chest. The beast fell backwards and laid on her back.

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry's post

The great, disgusting bulk of her body swayed back and forth as she attempted to dislodge Zuromor while warding off the feeble blows of the other attackers, who swarmed like mosquitoes. Her every move flung vile, reeking fluid from the wounds and cuts of her body, particularly from her belly. Grash had not succeeded in gutting her, but he had opened the wound wider and now not only her dark blood flowed but the putrid remains of her last, undigested dinner spewed forth. For once her stench was welcomed, for in the dark of the huge cavern, with the torches flung to the wide walls, it was the surest way of knowing where she was.

It had been Darash who had led the roaring attackers against her remaining legs, swords lifted high over their heads to ward off her swings at them, and daggers or other short swords at their waist, ready to plunge a second blow should they be lucky enough to win a first blow. With the floor now slippery with thick ooze, footing was difficult. Several times Darash stumbled as she attempted to hack at a leg or slash and each stumble nearly cost her her life, as Shelob's legs struck out, even knocking her to the ground once, the claw barely missing her head.

Stunned, Darash lay there, trying to determine which way to roll to avoid the roiling mass of spiny form which rocked around, the eyes glittering as Shelob focussed on each attacker seemingly in turn and simultaneously at the same time. Lyshkia was still afoot, slicing at the joint of one leg; she succeeded in severing at least tendons, for the leg suddenly became a flopping, useless drag upon the creature's movements. Darash rolled over finally, her senses returning. She motioned to Lyskia and the two of them coordinated an attack on two of the remaining legs, from opposite directions to confuse the beast. Taking a cue from Zuromor, Darash jumped on the leg and held fast, ignoring the pain of the spiny hairs which tore at her skin. She jabbed over and over again at the joint until she too severed tendon from muscle and that leg became a second dead weight. She hacked at the claw as a safeguard as Shelob's screams roared in her ears and she was spun around and flung off to the side. Breathless and panting she slunk against the wall to regain what air she could in her lungs and consider a new assault. She looked over at the dwarves and then at Grash and Aldor, on the opposite side of the monster and far away from her. What was the hyena planning? she wondered.

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Novnarwen's post - Rhând

He turned his attention to the battle. The Spider had in fact been much larger than he had first expected, but he admired her greatness. In his childhood, he had heard of Shelob's mother, Ungoliant. What a great creature it had been. Her disgraceful offspring, Shelob, was, in Rhând’s opinion, almost greater. Of course, this was only because he stood nearly face to face to Shelob, meanwhile he had only heard of her mother, Ungoliant.

Feeling both excited, and nervous, he grabbed his sword. Drawing it out of the sheath, he nodded at Grash, who still knelt by the petty dwarves, saying:" I'm ready, if she comes." A feeling of satisfaction made him giggle with delight. If this didn't make, at least, Grash certain of Rhând's devotion to the prisoners escape, what would? A man with bad intentions would not sacrifice himself in this way. However, knowing that Shelob was indeed busy with her other preys, some of the other prisoners, Rhând felt quite safe where he stood pretending to be brave. The dim light didn't allow him to get a proper look of what was going on. He heard cries of pain and of despair, but also eager cries which came from prisoners who were up for a good fight with the spider. Focusing, his gaze wandering around and at the same time listening eagerly to the battle, he finally spotted one of the women: Darash.

The woman was mainly trying to get to Shelob's legs. Rhând hoped she failed. For a minute or so, he even pictured Darash lying at the ground screaming with pain and horror when Shelob ended her life. One threat would be eliminated by this, he figured, and everything would again be simple, or at least simpler than how things were now. He didn't care much of what his Master would say now. If the women knew and were suspicious towards his behaviour, what else was there to do than kill them? It would only be easier for him if Shelob took care of Darash. His only remaining problem would be this Lyshkia, but he supposed it would be quite entertaining to end her life. Yes, Shelob could be very useful if only she could wipe Darash out of the game. Giggling, still following the battle, he crossed his fingers and hoped that his wish would come true.

Come on... Come on now... Almost, almost.. Shaking and trembling with excitement, feeling the tension in his body increase, he watched the woman stumble. For every step she took, she grew nearer and nearer death. How exciting, he thought to himself thrilled by how the situation seemed to develop. "Now! Come on!" he whispered seeing Darash being thrown to the ground. The climax had been reached; it was only for Shelob to end it. A few seconds passed, Darash lay on the ground and Shelob approached. Rhând waited impatiently for Darash to draw her last breath.

"Darn you Lyshkia!" His body seemed to explode. Seconds before his wish had been granted to him, this other fool of a woman had appeared. She was now fighting valiantly against the gigantic spider. Soon, Darash got to her feet as well, and together the two women aimed for the spider's legs. He cursed his bad luck. So near . . he thought being unsatisfied. He sighed.

Darash caught his eye, as he cursed for the second time. Was she expecting his aid, or had she seen him while he was waiting anxiously for Shelob to kill her?

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

A cry, a screeching howl unlike any sound Jeren had ever heard before, reverberated through the cavern. The pain of the beast twisted its way into Jeren's ears, then harshly hammered its way into his skull as if it meant to shatter the skulls of all who heard it. Upon seeing the great spider, Jeren had fled to the darkness, just out of sight while he watched the immediate reactions of the company. The affect of the large creature angered Jeren, and he wondered at his own fear. If I am to die, then I shall die, but it will be with courage. For if I die, I wish for it to be when I have tried my best and failed, not with half a heart and half my strength... Jeren thought this bitterly, drawing his rusted sword and straining through the dying notes of Shelob's cry.

Compelled to follow the Raeis, Zuromor, Darash, and Lyshka in their first charge on Shelob, Jeren only fell back and faltered when the spider let out a high-pitched squeal. We need to find a way out...there has to be some way...we cannot just let the spider have her way! The Southron thought madly, with panic about his features and impatience stringing on his last nerves.

Looking on as others fought the beast, Jeren felt a coward but thought like a hero. He wanted to advance, he wanted to stab the beast, he wanted to help...but his legs would not move him and his fear had paralyzed his limbs. Doubt coursed through his veins and distrust eminated off his skin, for while his mind had made a decision his body had chosen to ignore it. Why am I so afraid? Jeren wondered. He had led men into battle countless times, fought nameless enemies and guiseless fears. The Southron did not know what made this fear any different.

Because you know there is little hope...a side of Jeren answered that had not spoken before, the side that told him so often in the last day that there was no hope. No hope of escape, no hope of life, no hope of rescue...no hope. It seemed that no matter what the bravest of the company did, or the craziest of the company did, the great beast would not die and she would not give up until all of them were in her stomach. Every wound taken by the fighters, every death endured by the company had failed. The grand spider would not hearken to her own wounds, and death did not seem like a threat to her.

Another scream, and Jeren knew that hope had vanished and that faith had no place in the tunnel.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

She threw off her attackers, and screaming with rage and pain and the disbelief of her mortality, Shelob scuttled up the walls of the chamber beyond the stinging blows of her prey’s steel. Her wounds ran freely now, splattering the creatures that had dared defy her with their survival. Her beautiful eyes were almost all gone, but there were yet enough to see. Her crippled and useless limbs dragged behind her, catching upon the jagged rocks of the cavern and sending new waves of agony through her shattered body, adding more fuel to the fire of her vengeance. She reached the summit of the cave and whirled to face them, and as she did her rage was so great that it was as though she was young once more in the first years of the sun – before the coming of the Elves and terrible Men into her abodes in the mountains, before the young upstart Sauron had taken up the cause of his dark master. At the memory of that time a light was kindled in her eyes and they began to glow with a hideous green light, like the exhalation of decay from a rotting corpse, and the beings trapped in the cavern with her were frozen once more in the terror of their plight. For a time that defied reckoning they stood thus, frozen and staring upward at her greatness, unable to move, and unable to look away. Her mighty sides heaved with hunger, and she shifted her remaining limbs raising a clatter that echoed into the vast emptiness of her eternal night. The light of her eyes grew, and she seemed to swell into a shape vast and formless, and it was as though her agony and her horror were food to her will, repairing her hurts and filling her with a new strength. To now she had hunted for food, and had sought only to sting and still her prey – but now she cared not for sustenance. All she could see now were their shattered bones and savaged bodies. When she next moved it would not be for food, but for the utter obliteration of her foes. There were few in Middle-Earth in these days who could withstand her in her hunger…there were none who could resist her in her wrath.

The weapon that he held fell from Grash’s lifeless hand. His body and will were numb as he looked upon the monster. It was hopeless, all that they had done to her was as nothing. Dorim’s fall, Brór’s mighty and futile heroism, the mad courage of Zuromor, Dwali, Darash and all the rest…it would all pass into the darkness of her realm and never be remembered.

Then he heard a sound that was more terrible than any that had yet assailed his mind. A voice, ancient and worn, thin from disuse, but having lost none of its bitter sting for the ages spent in silence, slowly filled the cavern with its hateful pitch. “Silly stupid flies,” it said. “Why do you resist your doom? So much struggle and so much agony only to delay your destruction. Lay yourselves down before me, and I will dispatch you quickly. Prostrate yourselves and do your obeisance and I will put you into a sleep before I feast. If you do not,” and her voice rose in terror, so much that some among the party fell upon their knees or against the wall, gasping and choking as though her hate were thick dark waters in which they were drowning, “I will keep you alive as I feed. Long may I keep you so, and you can watch as I devour your entrails, and feast upon your very life’s blood. The last thing you see will be your heart as I throw it as a morsel for my spawn.” Focusing the poisonous malevolence of her will upon them all, she delivered the final terror. “And do not think that the torments of your body are the most that I shall do. They are the least! For as I destroy your limbs, I will feast upon your mind and your will. As the life drains from your frame, the light will fade from your self, until all that is left will be the hollow ghost that I will leave to howl out its agony in the cold and naked darkness until the unmaking of the world!”

As she was speaking they heard a terrible, familiar sound. From all the crevices and cracks in the walls, from out of all the passageways, there came wave upon wave of the smaller creatures that had beset them before Shelob’s attack. Thousands upon thousands of them poured into the cavern and clambered upon the walls until no rock was visible and the chamber was a living, pulsating mass of flesh and hair and fangs. “Now,” she said quietly, “who will kneel to me?”

There was a silence so complete that Grash fancied he could hear his own heart beating. There was no hope left, none at all. It had been for nothing: his escape, his attempt to find some way beyond the walls of the land of darkness. His dreams of freedom had been for nothing. But then someone moved beside him in the darkness. And then another. Slowly, the company stirred and moved about, and Grash knew that he was not alone: for the first time in his life, there were others there with him who shared his fate and his dreams, and who would not shy away and let him go singly into the night. He felt the others gain strength as they too realised this, and then, unbidden, he spoke, and it was as though some other will spoke through him. “No,” he croaked. “We not bow down to you, or any evil creature. We are free now, and if we die, we die free. Come!” he cried, and his voice gained in strength. “Come! Enough talk and threat. You come for us. You come! You come and see what strength we have! You come and we kill you!”

The cavern was filled with a terrible thin hissing that might have been laughter. “Foolish flies! You know not what you are doomed to! All the better. And may your spirits howl all the more miserably for your insolence.” The light in her eyes grew, and slowly her spawn began also to glow with the corpse-light. Gathering her legs under her, Shelob prepared to descend.

But she let out a sudden cry of dismay and surprise. The company looked and saw that she was trying vainly to bat one of her spawn away from the wound in her belly. Even as she struggled with that one, however, three more sprang upon her wounded legs, and then a dozen upon her shattered eyes. She spun about, sending streams of her blood about the chamber, but this only seemed to send the smaller creatures into a frenzy, for they swarmed toward her by the hundreds, and the thousands. In horror the company watched as they clamped onto her with their fangs, tearing into her flesh and ripping apart her armoured hide. Shelob’s shrieks filled the cavern, splitting the very stone and the company fell to their knees and sought to cover their ears with their hands. In vain she struggled against the swarm, for no matter how many she managed to crush of throw off of her, a hundred more would come upon her. The last of her legs was severed and with a cry she fell from the roof of the cavern and landed upon the stone with a sickening thud. The creatures covered her like boiling tar and as they did so, their glow increased until the entire cavern was filled with their hideous light. The company stood and watched in horrified fascination as she was devoured by her own brood. Piece by piece she was taken apart, and still she thrashed and screamed and struck out at her attackers.

It was Morgoroth who saved them from their trance. Seeing that the creatures would soon consume their dam and then turn their attention upon fresher meat, he cried out, “Come. We must flee this place!” He ran to the only passageway not filled with the beasts and began hacking at the strands of web with his blade. “Hurry! I cannot do this alone!”

As though they were waking from a terrible dream, the company rushed to his aid and began sawing and striking at the webs. It was hard work, for the webs were like steel, but their combined efforts were just enough to open one small rent in the wall of strands. One by one they clambered through. Dwali cried out, “We must not leave my kinsmen!” Following the Dwarf, Aldor, Darash and Grash returned for Dorim and Brór and bore them from the chamber.

They fled up the long passage, the sounds of Shelob’s torment fading into the distance. Finally, there came one last drawn out shriek that sent waves of darkness through their spirits, and then there was silence, and they heard nothing more.

On and on they ran, and ever their path went upward. The passage narrowed and lowered, until they could only go on hands and feet, and still it grew narrower, but still they pressed ahead, so desperate were they to leave the realm of the new departed monster. Eventually, they felt an air that moved and saw ahead a faint grey light. Renewed by the sight and feel, they rushed forward on their very bellies, until one by one they emerged from a narrow crack high upon a cliff face, and crowded onto a small ledge a few hundred feet above the bleak and featureless plains below. In the distance they could see the looming hulk of Mount Doom, and the fires of its fury lit the underside of the clouds that crowded in above their heads like a roof.

They had escaped Shelob’s Lair, but they had come back to the very margins of Mordor.

[alaklondewen]

Lyshka inhaled deeply. The dark and poisonous fumes of Mordor made her cough, but they were yet clearer than and provided a relief from the putrid air of the Spider’s tunnel. Trembling, she slumped to the ground, sliding along the grey wall of the mountain. Exhaustion overcame her body. She was limp, yet she still trembled from the horror of what her eyes beheld in that dark place. Rubbing her eyes gingerly, she tried to erase the horrifying scene from her mind.

Darash stepped over her and motioned to one of sacks the prisoners brought. “Fo-od.” Nodding and feeling the whole in her belly, Lyshka rose and helped the woman untie the sack. A day had surely passed since their entrance into that place, and this was the first the Easterling had thought of food. A long loaf of bread sat at the top of the sack, and Lyshka snatched it. Looking quickly from side to side, she was unsure if any of the others would fight for or try to steal her bread.

Keeping the loaf protected, close to her belly, Lyshka broke it in half and held out one half to Darash, who still looked through the sack. The Easterling glanced again quickly at the others, and then nudged Darash for her attention so she would accept the bread.

As Darash reached out, Lyshka caught sight of the woman’s injuries. Along the length of her arm, Darash was covered in blood. “Ak banash ka.” Lyshka spoke in her own tongue and could see confusion in the other woman’s face.

Taking hold of the Darash’s wrist, Lyshka gently pulled on her arm to convey she wished for Darash to follow. As they neared the shear wall, Lyshka shed her Orcish vest and placed her half of the loaf beneath it. The woman then pulled the bottom of her thin, torn dress up and placed it between her teeth. Tearing into the cloth, Lyshka ripped a long strip from around the bottom of the skirt and held it out, motioning to Darash’s wounds…”Ak banash ka.”

[Durelin]

A sticky, moist cloud glittered in front of his face, and he was half aware of it clinging to his skin. What lay beyond the cloud was misty, and this haze enveloped him in calmness. Jordo blinked, but the cloud did not go away. He was aware of pain, but mainly he felt a numbness that ached in knowledge of injury. But it was the pain of a separate body from his mind, which acknowledged pain, and put it into a simple feeling that the man recognized, and knew well. The cloud that physically surrounded him seemed to penetrate him mentally. His brain felt wrapped in a fogginess. But it its distorted way of thinking found a rather abstract thought somewhere. His mind had been so controlled by outer and inner forces, but in its current confusion, it found a kind of freedom. For the first time in his life, he made the connection between his mind and the pain he felt. He was musing in his mind, a broken one, one that did not have the same amount of defense against seemingly illogical thoughts. He heard and saw nothing but what was in his head.

Jordo stood still, afraid to move for the moment, in the Tunnel and all its unnaturalness. He shivered as a small droplet of some liquid fell in between his neck and shoulder blade. This seemingly shook his head into a more thorough consciousness. Noticing everyone around him gone, he ventured moving, and made his way toward a light that made the mist before his eyes glitter and shimmer. He felt strange to be finding beauty in that Tunnel, but he was not afraid. For a moment, thought a fleeting one, all his former fear was even forgotten. And the ability to fear did not seem such a simple one. Without fear weighing them down, he brought his arms up, and his hands went to his face. He felt tiny points adhere to his skin. Knowing this feeling, Jordo should have been afraid. The Tunnel was something to be feared, and this ‘mist’ before his face was the very essence of that tunnel. He tore it with a passionate disgust. Rather than a frightened squeak as the webbing was pulled off his face, he growled. A strange feeling, this was, but Jordo quickly decided that he liked it.

Upon emerging from that smoky world behind the web, the man was surprised to find the calmness he had felt was not secluded to that world. He realized that he was on a ledge, where everyone was gathered, and he was out of Her pit. The light that shown, a shock after his time spent in the supernatural darkness of the Tunnel, was welcomed with a smile. What he felt inside was such a relief, was so warming when compared to the fear he normally was a prisoner to, that smiling became a logical expression. He refused to close his eyes, no matter the pain the brightness – brightness when compared to the deep darkness of Shelob’s hole – of the light caused. He stared into the sky surrounding them, and his eyes wanted not to see the ash and flame as anything but a relief. But it seemed he was back, back to where they had began, back to where and when he was so afraid. He stared at the looming tower of Barad-Dûr until he heard speaking that distracted him. Only two voices could tear him away from such brilliance, and those were the elves’. Raeis was speaking. Was she speaking to Jordo? In a blur, he turned to look toward where the voice was coming from. At first the man thought he saw dark green eyes looking at him. Morgoroth sat with his cloak around him, and Jordo felt the immortal’s eyes upon him. He blinked, and still it seemed they looked at him, and he was forced to look away. He felt that old feeling, that cold emptiness, threaten to take over the new one that filled him with a certain warmth and comfort.

Turning away brought him to stare into another pair of eyes, these dark blue and kind, yet still the eyes of an immortal. He was able to hold this gaze for a moment. His mind having finally found something to focus on, he was able to hear what was being said.

“Jordo? How do you feel?” He lost the will to hold Raeis’s gaze. Looking down at his feet, the uneasiness built up again inside of him, scaring him to silence. But then that caring voice spoke again, seeming so very familiar. “Are you feeling well, Jordo?” He looked up once more into those eyes, he searched in them for the strength to speak. Why he searched in them, he did not know. But he knew he did not wish to search himself.

“Yes.” He found something in them. And in the smile that now played on Raeis’s face he saw just what the familiarity in the elf was. Her face of kindness and concern was his mother’s face. No more fear… What had his mother taught him to say? “Thank you,” he said smiling, expectant of some kind of reward. A smile was enough. The little boy was being good, and he felt good inside.

[CaptainofDespair]

The howling winds that blew this way and that upon the cliff face, chilled to the very bone. It was not that is a cold, harsh wind, but that it was the air of Gorgoroth, a choking caustic atmosphere. The Dark Tower loomed near, and it was fiery, disgustingly evil place. The land that surrounded the tower was seething with fire, and unholy rancor. Orc armies marched to and fro, preparing for some hideous machination of war that was to be unleashed. And were ever they went, marred earth was churned up from their iron shod feet, and it rose in great, desiccating clouds of scorched earth, and volcanic ash. And in the north of the choked and withered land, was that of Barad-dur, and the power of the Dark Lord. A great evil light, one of ancient evil, and renewed destruction, enveloped this region. And to its right, the explosive, near apocalyptic burst of fire from Orodruin painted the sky a hideous shade of red. .

It was this strange light that attracted the Elf’s wandering eyes. They had become accustomed to the ever-present darkness of the Tunnel, with its maw looming behind the group. But now, the eerie light projected a sense of want, and need, into the Immortal. He had heard stories from Men and Elves alike, early in his youth, of the Tower, and its hideous, yet oddly majestic ramparts, and he longed for it. Now, he gazed upon it, a twisted, malevolent structure rebuilt from the ungodly foundation of a menace long thought to be fallen.

Morgoroth now sat himself upon a ledge, his back to the winds that swirled around him. As the tortured souls that filled the wind rose and fell, so did the thought of the Elf. His mind drifted, from Morgul, to his present situation, upon this barren, vastly high precipice that dwelt over the Plain of Gorgoroth. How would this rap-tag group manage to make its way down such a steep cliff face? But he could not burden his mind in this way. Should he begin to bear these thoughts, his would sink into despair, and desperation. Should this occur, he would be lost, and he would die in the barren, ash-filled lands that hovered below.

Laying behind the Elf, was placed the body of Dorim Stormweaver, he who had fallen beneath the painful jaws and engorged body of Shelob. The dwarf’s body had gone stiff, and the poisons he had been injected with still lingered on his cold, pale lips. What was to become of the body? Should it be left for the spawn of the Tunnel to consume? Or would it be buried somewhere, in Mordor, or nearer to Dorim’s former residence? The Elf contemplated these questions, as he scanned the land which was the Black Lands. These questions would need to be answered, but not by the group, for only the dwarves themselves could decide upon the fate of their companion’s ridged body. And so Morgoroth concluded these thoughts, in that he would offer to bear the physical burden of Dorim’s body, so that it could be laid to rest somewhere more placid than the harsh terrain of Mordor.

Yet, the Elf had become weary, for his plight in the Tunnel, and the escape of the Tower, were enough to strain his body, and he was approaching exhaustion. He took notice that Bror had not quite recovered from his own wounds, and so the Immortal made the decision to rest himself. He raised his dangling legs up from over the side of the ledge, and swung them around, back onto the platform. Once he completed this, he set a torn cloak behind his head, and laid himself down, to drift into a rejuvenating rest within a trance.

[Kransha]

The eyelids of Bror Stormhand were more than heavy enough to resist being pried open involuntarily. The dwarf had to consciously force them open after he was already awake, seeking some focus in his blurred gaze. He could not see at first, since his eyes had become accustomed to the ominous dampness and shade of Shelob’s chambers, but soon the red-tinged sky sharpened his sight, as did the sharpened peaks of the mountains and crags high above him, shrouded by thick clouds. His arms, weak and trembling, managed to unfold beneath him, pushing him wearily up until he was sitting on the cold stone ground. He looked around, his chest heaving and beating against the inner wall of his plated armor.

He first caught sight of the thing nearest him and most forward in his sight, two figures lying on the earth. One figure, curled up tiredly, breathing and rolling about discontentedly. The other lay still, upon its back, and looked to him as cold as ice. The stiffened form was Dorim, the other was the resting figure of Morgoroth, the shadowy Elf. Bror’s eyelids sagged, and his pauldron-covered shoulders followed, drooping mournfully as he moved, knees dragged beneath and never getting to his feet, towards the dwarf and looked upon him when he reached the lifeless husk. His face was as pale as the moon blazoned upon a nightly sky of empty sable. His eyes, closed now, were colorless beneath their shielding lids and the vivacious light in him was gone, replaced by withered pallor. Bror looked upon him, still and bereft of life, and took the slain dwarf’s unfeeling hands in his own. He took them and laid them, crossed, upon Dorim’s armored chest. Then he slowly stood, looking down on Dorim, and bowed his head to the darkness around him.

An emotionless voice severed his thoughts. It came from behind him where Morgoroth lay. “Your friend is gone.” He said, coldly but understanding in him despite that. Bror turned as the Elf propped himself up carefully upon strong arms and looked to the dwarf out of his eyes shady corners. Bror’s head snapped sideways to see him, but spoke slowly and serenely in reply. “Yes, he is gone. He fell bravely, though, and is thought better of for that.” They locked eyes, their gazes intertwined only for a second in the passing of time, the cold eyes of an Elf and the same eyes in the skull of a dwarf meeting, but they pulled apart before words were again spoken, by the Elf this time.

“He will find some manner of peace wherever he dwells now.” Morgoroth said back gently, turning away again. He sat up, though he seemed to be seeking the tranquility of sleep, and stared up momentarily before turning his eyes downward towards the rough stones below him. Bror turned and looked down again at Dorim. He had at least seen Dorim taken from the tunnels of Shelob and could not impose him upon the rest of the company. He would have to lie here, escaped from the darkness of the spider’s chambers but still shrouded in the crimson-black fire and ash of Mordor. The Morgul Vale would serve aptly enough as a mound of burial for him. He knew not words in Elven, Khuzdul, or the tongues of men to call this mound, this burial plot he’d allotted. It was unworthy of noble Dorim, but it would have to serve. Years would serve too, to keep Dorim where he lay now. Under his breath, he spoke to the wind, not caring whether it heard him or not. “Aulë give you rest, Dorim Stoneweaver, and may you find in death all that you have sought in life.”

Once his reverie concluded itself, the wistful dwarf turned to his accidental comrade again. He walked towards him reluctantly and sat beside the elf, seeking the place in the sky where he looked. Now stars could be seen, no beauty shining, no sparkling brightness painted onto the darkness, dappling the night. Instead there was flame embedded in the smoke of shadows. The spouting fire of Amon Amarth spilled into the sky, the peaks of the Vale silhouetted evilly against them. It made Bror’s heart restless to look upon such wicked things, but his soul’s darkness could not be seen when he spoke next.

“I wished to thank you…for what you have done for me and my kin this day.”

The elf looked to him, slightly curious about the words that came so weakly from his Dwarven counterpart, but waved him off dismissively. “Think not on that.” Bror peered at him, his eyes deepening and his head rising to meet the height of the Elf. “I have not had to show my thanks to any man or beast in years, elf,” he said sternly, “and it is not without pain that I do this. My kinsman is slain, slain by the spider, and we have not cleared the darkness of her chambers. One of our dark company is dead, and more must follow, so I’ll make my peace with you before the spider’s venom makes my blood run cold like his. Elf…Morgoroth, never have I shown gratitude to an elf, but now I do. Take that token, for what it’s worth, and let me have my pride.”

“You misplace your gratitude, Bror Stormhand.” Morgoroth said at last, “I need none of that.”

Bror responded insistently. “I have nothing else to give save my allegiance and my thanks, which come not easily. Take them.” For a long minute, perhaps more or less time than the two beings thought had passed, there was silence, broken constantly by the far off crackling of sickly yellow daggers that rent the heavens without a care. Both ignored that, thinking on what they’d said. Morgoroth looked as contemplative and as much the brooding Elf as he had been throughout the journey from the Tower of Cirith Ungol, but he finally looked to Bror as a friend might, with kindness in his eyes. “I do not want your allegiance,” he said, pausing shortly after, “…But I’ll take your thanks.”

And, as uncommon as it was for such things to happen, Bror Stormhand smiled warmly, his sour face lightening even in the presence of his deceased brother in arms, for he’d sought and gained a comrade in Morgoroth, one he’d never hoped or expected or even dreamed of having. A gentle trickle of light reached suddenly into his inner darkness as he spoke again. “You have my allegiance whether you want it or not, as it is mine to give. If I live when we reach the hold of the enemy, you shall not fall before me. While warm blood runs in my veins, my mace will serve your will, friend.”

[Himaran]

The air was hot, and the choking darkness of Shelob's tunnel had been replaced by the ash-ridden air of the Morgul-Vale. Ripples of fire rose and fell in the distance, drawing wary glances from many among the company. Orodruin's bulk was partially visible over the Plains of Gorgoroth, a constant reminder of the threat they now faced. But to Dwali, their current predicament meant little compared to the death of his comrade. Dorim had stood beside him in the tunnels during that great battle, selfless and brave; true to his companion. Now, watching Grash and the others finish his burial, words could not describe the anguish of his inner soul.

Adding to his discomfort was the presence of Morgoroth, conversing with Bror nearby. Dwali knew that the elf had acted in his defense, and was at least partially responsible for his survival of the recent ordeal. Reluctantly, the dwarf had mentally come to terms with the warrior, although he maintained a front of resentment and disdain. Now, he decided, it was time to end that. With Dorim gone, he knew that rifts needed to be breached -- for in the next battle, there might not be anyone who risked their life to save his. Swallowing his native pride, the dwarf turned and walked towards his past nemisis.

As if on cue, Bror walked away, leaving Dwali the nail-biting decision of continuing with his confession. Aye, and that's Bror's mace... seems as if he's beat me to it. But there was nothing else to do. He approached the elf and spoke with as much dignity as he could muster; hoping that his dwarven comrade had already broken through the ice. "I too owe you an apology, Morgoroth. You acted bravely in the tunnels to defend myself and my countrymen, even though there has been nought but harsh words between us."

The elf looked up, as if preoccupied. "My, is this the same dwarf that was so hostile in the tower? They're are all the same, pleasant only if you happen to save them."

Dwali grimaced momentarily, but managed to hold his tongue. "I did not march over here to argue about which of our races is most stubborn and ignorant of the other. We have a long road ahead of us, and cannot afford to have primitive clan rivalries splitting us apart!" He spoke forcefully and with conviction, as if giving a rallying speech to a broken nation.

Morgoroth's eyes softened. "I never liked dwarves, especially those that saw elves in the same light. But you are right. I wish for no alliegence, with you or Bror. But you and your companion have proven that you have honor -- and there will be no further war between us." And Dwali had never felt so elated in his life.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash fell against the cliff-face and tried not to look at the terrible fiery mountain that dominated this dark land. Even at this distance the light of its anger lit the sides of the mountains and he even fancied he could feel the heat of it upon his tired brow. Beyond the dark mass of Mount Doom, upon the very edge of sight, lay the thick bank of clouds that forever obscured the Dark Tower, but Grash knew it was there. Once, when he had first been brought to this place from the south, he had been through the gates of that Tower, and though his sojourn there had been brief, the memory of it left a cold thrill of terror upon him still. He closed his own eyes as he felt the beating presence of the One Eye upon the land. His entire life had been dominated by the gaze of the Dark Lord, and there were times when he thought almost that he could see it: lidless and burning, its pupil a black pit into nothingness. But there was something about the presence of that Eye that was different now. Grash could not quite understand or believe it, but the gaze of the Dark Lord felt almost…bekrash…thwarted. He shook his head, uncomprehending.

When he once more had the strength to look about him at his companions his heart fell. Dorim lay dead, and Brór, though recovering, was clearly still suffering the ill effects of his trials. Darash bled from her arm, and Aldor’s face was beginning to become ashen, as though he were suffering from a prolonged illness. Of the rest there were no major injuries, but they were all of them exhausted and shaky with fear and hunger.

Hunger – at the thought of it, Grash’s stomach rumbled and his head went light. The steady rock of the mountain beneath his feet swirled and he stumbled, and would have fallen had not the Dwarf Dwali been nearby to catch him. Grash tried to smile and thank him, but the stout Dwarf merely shook off his action with a rough nod. “’Tis nothing, lad. You need rest, after what you’ve been through. I’m glad to be out of that place, though it looks likely we won’t be getting much further.”

Grash nodded, but did not reply. He did not have the energy yet to explain that there was another way – another, more dangerous way. He was not sure how the others would react to his explanation of the other road after having been led into Shelob’s Lair. At the time of their escape, the monster’s tunnel had seemed the better option, for he had thought that while some would not escape, most would. On the other road, they would either all escape or none would – he would have to share in the fate of the entire company. Before Shelob’s tunnel, such a path had seemed the height of danger, but he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had been wrong…

His eyes fell upon Dorim and it occurred to him that had he not made the decision to try the tunnel first, the Dwarf might still be alive. He did not feel guilt or shame, but the realisation that he had played a part in the death of another left him chilled in a manner that he was unused to. Moved by some instinct for which he had no name, Grash knelt at the side of the Dwarf and touched him lightly upon the chest. A language, long forgotten, spoke through his lips. “Ataro ato nwatalú,” he said quietly. “Kwanze.” He had heard the woman who cared for him after the death of his mother say these words once, over the body of another slave, but he did not know what they meant. Scraping up what small handful of dust and dirt was available he scattered it over the body.

Brór and Dwali looked on at this wordlessly and when he stood they seemed to regard him in a new light. Suddenly embarrassed, Grash turned away from the Dwarves and found himself confronted with Darash. She loomed above him, standing as close as she was, and so powerfully aware of her presence was he, that Grash noted the strong smell of her: sweat and exertion radiated from her body, but it was not unpleasant. There was the smell of strength upon her, and a regal air that awoke something long dormant in his spirit. She held up her hand and in it was a piece of bread. She offered it to him. Grash took it and gobbled it down eagerly, then ducked his head to the woman, thanking her for it. She nodded back to him curtly, then said. “Now, man, what do?”

Grash looked about guiltily, as though the woman had been reading his innermost thoughts, and looking at her now, it did not seem impossible that she could. He shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Not sure, maybe. Perhaps there is another way out of Mordor. We shall see.” The woman looked at him as though she would pursue the matter, but she let it drop, for now. Grash pointed to one of the food sacks. “Meat?” He thought he had seen something that looked like dried flesh in it. Darash nodded and together then went to the sack and opened it. This drew the attention of several of the others, who pressed in about them, and Grash was kept busy passing out the flesh. They sat like that in silence for a time, tearing at the tough meat and trying to choke it down despite its clearly rancid flavour. It was Aldor who broke the silence.

“Where are you from, originally I mean, Grash?”

The question shocked the slave, for he had never thought of himself as coming from anywhere. He pointed away to the south. “From the slave fields. Grew grain for orcs and evil men. It was warm there, warm and wet not like this place.”

“Here, how?” Darash asked, and once more she looked at him as though she would pierce his secrets.

Grash shrugged. “Killed an orc. Orc was hurting woman slave. I killed orc with pratak.”

“Pratak?” Aldor asked.

Grash searched in his mind for the right word in the Common Tongue but could not find it. Standing he undertook an elaborate and, had he known it, faintly ridiculous mime of a man at work in the fields. Those gathered about watched on in amused fascination. “Ah!” Zuromor cried, “a hoe. You mean a hoe.”

Grash nodded. “Yes, yes. Hoe. I killed orc with hoe.” He had no idea if Darash understood his words but she smiled at the idea of the slain orc in a way that was most unsettling.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

Zuromor stood, looking out towards Mount Doom. It's features shook him to the bone. It was terrifying, but exciting somehow. Shaking out of his reverie he saw the dwarves mourning over their comrade. "He fought bravely and I shall never forget him." He knelt down and prayed that if there were any Gods above that they would watch over him.

He did not know where they would go next but idle conversation seemed to raise everyone's morale. He had learned Grash's tale, but he was curious as to how everyone arrived. But one being entered his mind quickly and he could not remove her beautiful features from his mind.

"Raeis, how did you and your friend get here?" As he said the word friend he motioned to the other Elf.

[Novnarwen]

"Yes, yes. Hoe. I killed orc with hoe.”

Aldor, as everyone called him, listened to Grash tell the story about how he had killed an Orc with a hoe. Rhând frowned when hearing the end of it. Surely, orcs were cruel and certainly a disgusting race. But killing them, even though they were foul creatures, was not His will. Rhând felt utterly miserable as he felt his neck getting worse. After the recent events with the spider, he had to admit, even though doing nothing in particular when meeting Shelob, that he was exhausted.

He received a piece of meat from one of the women. Standing still, not moving a limb, watching how the red sky made him shiver with pleasure, he hesitated. The Haradrim was not stupid; he knew the women, more specifically Darash and Lyshka, knew his secret. What if they had poisoned the meat? Looking around, studying everyone for unusual twitches or grimaces, he waited for the others to eat first. If there was something wrong with the meat, he would know in few seconds.

"Not eat?" Grash asked suddenly, himself eating hurriedly. Rhând didn't say anything. Some of the others, too, turned to look at this man who denied the food that he had been given. Rhând didn’t offer them another look, as he set his teeth into the meat and chewed, realising how paranoid he had become. What on earth could they have poisoned the food with? They were not in possession of such things. He reproached himself for being such a twit, cursed, and prayed to Him that He would give his faithful servant strength to carry on. As he prayed, naturally under his breath so that no one could hear him or see what he was up to, he felt the pain from the bit on his neck grow. He felt his stomach turn, and his eyes getting all blurry. He couldn't see!

He blinked.

He blinked once more.

Grash was foggy, and so were the rest. He couldn't make the figures out clearly. He blinked again, now desperate. Had his Master made him blind when praying? Shaking his head, rising from his sitting position, he uttered a few words: "Will go ahead, and see. Come back soon," he said, as he put his arms out; being ready to feel his way forwards the cliff-side. No one questioned his sudden eagerness to explore around the Morgul Vale. He disappeared from their sight in a hurry, still not seeing much. What he couldn't understand, was that his eyes were wide open. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that they were half way closed, and what he could see was all blurry and foggy. In addition to this, he found it especially difficult to see anything when he knew nothing about its form. Meanwhile he could make out, just barely, the figures of the others, as he knew they were there; he couldn't at all make out how the country was. Mount Doom, which had been so clear minutes ago, had almost disappeared in the fog that had suddenly overcome him.

He found himself settling himself into a stone wall, dead scared of what was happening to him. A feeling of being helpless struck him. It felt like a dagger had been thrust into his chest, which he couldn't get out, and having troubles breathing, he bent his head down and cursed in a weak voice. Suddenly, his stomach turned and he vomited. Shaking, as he had barely eaten, and what he had eaten was coming up, he knew that if he didn't do anything with the others quickly, he would never survive to prove himself to Him. The sowllen neck of his was getting worse as well. He'd received a rat bite before this one, in the Tower of course, but it had not become swollen and it hadn't hurt in the least. Maybe the women could tend it? He could pretend that he fainted. They would surely know when they saw his swollen neck, that something was wrong. But was it wise of him to show such weakness, especially to these women who probably were suspicious towards him already? The women would think they had an advantage if he showed him his weakness. On the other hand, could he go on with this bit if it was dangerous?

He couldn't risk not making it when being so close. I'll deal with the women as soon as this is tended , he thought, finally decided that he would go for it. He would have to be weak for once, get the wound tended, and bring them down afterwards. Yes, there was no other option.

Hurriedly, he blinked twice in a row. His sight was improving, and it was not as foggy as it just had been. Rising, he noted to himself that it was getting worse again. When I rise, my sight gets poor, he thought, standing for a few moments still. His vision got better and better, and soon he could clearly make out his surroundings. Seconds, he stood only watching the great Mountain that stretched upwards in front of him. Filled with admiration of the power that lay within this land, he drew a long breath. He would not fail this, he promised himself he wouldn’t.

Walking slowly back, he figured how he was going to do it. The fall, itself, was going to hurt; but he would have to do it anyway, knowing that he was pending on someone to see his neck and being able to tend it properly. Rhând supposed that women usually knew how to tend things, and he would have to trust his instinct now. If women, more specifically; these women, couldn't do such thing, then what good could they do? Cursing, as he was fairly narrow-sighted when it came to women in general, he approached the others. Making himself ready, he hoped at least one of these stupid, arrogant, twits would help him. They looked at him questioningly as they notcied him, but he dropped dead and sank to the ground pretending that he had fainted.

[Bêthberry]

Darash sat back, watching the others chew the meat with a desperate resolve and numb hunger. Her arm no longer throbbed with stinging. She looked at Lyshkia with gratitude and then down at the banash. Sensation was returning to her fingers and her hand. She looked back at the woman, her golden face streaked with the marks of dried sweatlines through the coating of dust, and saw this time an ally. It felt good to be alone no longer. They had shared the bread in secret, away from the eyes of the other, as if in bond with each other.

Something had changed, too, with the death of the pygmy, Dorim. Escape from the prison no longer seemed a profound relief. It was instead the beginning of another journey, one which Darash now realised might not mean a return to home but to some other unknown place. She looked up at the sky, flaming red from the mountain on fire, and saw it for the first time as a sky she must learn, instead of as a sky which thwarted her.

Then she looked down at the dust and small rocks Grash had sprinkled over the body of this one, Do-rim. He had pleased her, this Grash. The man knew nglaga mic ta, the rightness of things, to show such respect before he ate. It was more than she had done. She rose, putting the meat aside, and collected as many rocks as her aching arm would allow her. she then laid them around the pygmy's body. "Kwanze," she said, as she laid each stone, looking at Grash, wondering where he had learnt the word she knew, and closing the circle of life which the pygmy--no, dwarf, the others called him--had given up. Lyshkia looked at her questioningly and Raeis stared without a comment, but Darash only nodded and silently mouthed the song of leaving spirit which her people sang for the dead.

It was just as she sat back that the strange one, the one whose skin and hair and eyes looked like other northern men but whose facial bones carried the high cruel haughtiness of men of Harad, fell. He did not move, barely breathing. She looked at him and then at Lyshkia and Raeis and Grash. She was no healer and would not touch him. Instead, she looked down at her arm and busied herself with rewinding the banash while looking through her eyelashes at what others were doing for Aldor. She did not want him dead, but she did not trust this strange falling. He had not been near the She-Spider and could not know her stings. Why was he falling?

"Yah longa ngu," she said to the others, pointing to Aldor, a warrior commanding action. "Hel-up man." She looked at the others and wondered who would know how to treat falling sickness.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"How did you and your friend get here?"

At first, Raeis thought the question must have been regarding Jordo - after all, she had taken a sort of motherly liking to the childlike being who looked young and acted younger. But as she followed Jordo's gesture to the shadowy being some way away, she looked back at him in surprise. "Morgoroth?"

Zuromor seemed equally confused by the tone of her voice. "Well, yes," he replied, less certainly.

Hai! 'You are an elf, therefore you must know all other elves', the Voice mocked Zuromor's voice nastily then made a harsh, resentful noise that made Raeis flinch inwardly. Ha! Did I not warn you of the ignorance of Men? Yet you would abandon me forthis?!

Raeis ignored Voice, resolutely refusing to listen to it's words against Zuromor. Still, it seemed that it may have been right - was she to be simply classified with Morgoroth because she was of the same species as him? Why, he was the age of her parents...probably...a vague, hazy half-idea of two elves, one with soft, loving grey eyes, dark hair, a gentle voice...and a sword, ornate and flashing as it was wielded by an older man, his grin dangerous and charismatic...

The recollections danced just out of Raeis's reach in her mind and she sighed. What she could remember was fleeting and illusive, nothing firm or strong any more - she knew as little about her parents as she did about any one of her companions.

Zuromor apparently mistook her melancholy sigh and the pause around it for something different however. "You...know him well?" he asked tentatively, picking his words with care. Raeis immediately picked up his possible alterior meaning and her ears pricked up righteously as she glanced sharply at him. The man held up his hands, his green eyes wide and innocent. "What? Oh...no! No, I didn't...sorry," he finished, his voice more subdued as he looked away from Raeis. The elf felt a blush start on her alabastor white cheeks and looked away too, embarassed that she had offended him. Or certainly something along those lines - she wasn't altogether sure. He was a very strange being...

Being is the right word. It's not like his feelings matter - he's little more than an animal. All men are. You know that from the Easterlings. Voice was sulky now, irritated and bitter at being shunned, but Raeis was suddenly struck by how harsh and angry her constant inward companion sounded. So unfriendly...she frowned inwardly at it, then turned back to the matters in hand. She cocked her head to one side like a sparrow and regarded him through her strange flecked eyes. He was unlike anything she had come upon before - dark, dark hair, that contrasted so strongly with those bright green eyes. She had never seen any s vivid, and their colour was brought to life even further by the man's animation, the way his eyes alighted so swiftly upon a subject, and his smile grew underneath them - unrestrained, open, friendly.

Green...As green as the light through the dappled leaves of Mirkwood where I used to play...

The thought was like an arrow through her mind, a sudden flash so vivid and real she could almost feel the warmth of the sun through the trees upon her now-scarred skin. And although the sun's light would never reach this place, and maybe she would never return in this life, the image brought with it...hope. The thought that there was something more than this void of darkness and fear that she had been living in alone for so long.

Hope.

She savoured the word in her mind. Maybe it was that revelation which gave her courage to do what she did next. Tentatively, she reached out one thin, pale arm and, with a touch as faint than a butterfly's sigh, touched his arm. The man jumped as if struck and she quickly pulled back her hand, her fingers clenching in a fist as she looked away again, muttering apologies as her pale skin darkened slightly in the half-light with a blush. But when she looked back a moment later, she saw that Zuromor had not walked off or laughed at her - he was merely watching her with those bright, dappled-leaf eyes, a strange expression on his face. Everything she had been about to say - about Morgoroth, how she didn't know him, had barely exchanged a few words with him - didn't really seem relevant any more - the conversation had moved on, without the inconvenience of words.

"Yah longa ngu."

The series of strange words brought Raeis back to the real place in which they sat and she turned around to see Darash rise, gesturing commandingly at the odd, shifty-looking man who seemed both Northman and Southron at once. The woman's brow creased very faintly for a moment as she summoned words they would understand and tried again, her tone just as commanding. "Hel-up man."

Rising in a fluid motion from where she knelt, Raeis made her way over to where the others were now collecting around Darash and the sick man. She didn't look around, but, after a second, she felt her new subject of curiosity follow.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Aldor’s collapse was left to the Men to handle. Darash and Lyshka kept, as usual, to themselves throughout that dark day, while the Dwarves and the Elf Morgoroth seemed to retreat into their clannish isolation once more, although without the same adamant shield of hostility that had surrounded them earlier.

Grash and Jeren leaned Aldor against the cliff-face, chafing at his wrists to drive away the cold of their high perch. It had been an odd faint, for while Aldor’s face was an ashen hue, it seemed a little enough matter. Only when he found the lump on the man’s throat did Grash begin to understand. He had an intimate acquaintance with the rats of Cirith Ungol and knew well how pestilential their bites could be. Aldor had clearly been infected by one of the vermin, and quite badly too if the colour of the fleshy mound were any indication. Grash probed it with his fingers, and felt it roll beneath the skin, hard as a stone. Aldor groaned and his eyes opened. Grash tried to comfort the man. “Rat bite. Poisoned. Must get poison out.” Aldor’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the slave hovering over him and his mouth framed a question, but he was silenced as he watched Grash draw his ragged orc blade and motion as though to slice open the pustule.

Aldor threw himself back against the wall. “No!” he cried, “I will be all right!”

Grash merely shook his head and indicated that Jeren should take hold of the frightened man. Aldor sought to shake them off, so Zuromor and even Jordo had to be compelled to hold him in place. The others looked on with either dispassion or curiosity as the men wrestled one of their own to the ground. As soon as Aldor was prostrate beneath the limbs of the other men, Grash carefully sliced open the swollen ball. A gush of yellow pus emerged, mingled with dark red blood, and most who watched looked away in revulsion. Grash, however, gently wiped the pus away from the wound with the ragged edge of his tunic. Aldor winced with each wipe but endured it. Finally, the discharge lessened and Jeren bound it with a clean bandage. They had been unable to get all the poison out, but Aldor was already looking a healthier colour.

The rest of that day passed into night, and the company sought the comfort of slumber. Grash lay apart from the rest and stared out across the land at the looming form of Mount Doom. No-one had yet spoken of what they would do next: whether from fear of what fate awaited them, or in despair of their situation Grash did not know. He turned over a thought in his mind, over and over again, far into the blackness of night, before he finally fell asleep just shortly before dawn…

When he awoke, the Dwarves were gone and the women were once more sharing a meal. Grash and the other Men got out some food and water and checked on Aldor. He was still asleep, but his breathing was regular and easy so they turned their attention back to the others. The Elves were once more keeping to themselves, although Zuromor and Jordo had both seemed to have fallen under their spell. When the two Dwarves returned they did not speak of where they had been, and nobody asked.

The day moved slowly through its various shades of grey, and while there was some talk, nobody raised the issue of how they were to escape from Mordor. Finally, as the Sun was once more setting behind the thick reek of clouds that shrouded the land, Morgoroth spoke of what was in all of their hearts. “We have rested here long enough, I think,” he said quietly, as though contemplating a break in a pleasant outing in the spring. “Where are we to go now? We cannot return to Shelob’s Lair. Even if we could find our way through once more, I doubt that Her spawn are yet satiated. From this ledge I can see a trail that leads to the bridge below, but from there what choices do we have? We could turn north and follow the road to return to our cells at Cirith Ungol, or perhaps we could scramble into the Morgai and be led countless leagues north or south along the skirts of the mountains, until we came to one of Sauron’s fortresses?”

“You forget two other roads,” growled Brór. “We could go east, knock at the door of Barad Dur and ask for safe passage from this land. Or west, along the Morgul Road.”

There was a silence once more. All roads seemed impossible. All but one. Grash had debated speaking of what he knew ever since they had escaped Shelob, for the road he knew was one that they would travel together – whether it led to freedom or death. “There is another road,” he said quietly. “Dark, dangerous; full of orcs, full of other things. But it is a way, maybe. Maybe a way out of this land.”

“Why did you not speak of this sooner?” demanded Morgoroth. “Why did we not seek this road before attempting to pass Shelob? No road, no matter how dangerous, could be worse than the one we have already travelled!”

Grash snarled slightly. “No road would take you from out of your cell. In your cell still, if I had not freed you. I took road I thought good. This other road, very hard. Only way to reach it is through Morgul Vale. Must take Morgul Road.”

“We know of that road already,” Brór said.

“No no,” Grash shook his head. “Not all the way. Not through Morgul city. We take Morgul Road for few miles only, maybe ten or twelve. Then there is a path. Narrow path. Goes up up up, high into mountains. Goes far south, above Morgul city, then down – down to green land beyond.”

“How do you know of this?” The Elf was suspicious still.

“I take it once. Once, when orcs need me to carry burden to other orcs, I go. I see the path. I see the green land that lies beyond the mountains.” Grash’s mind went back to the happy memory, and for a second he was lost amid the gentle breezes of distant Ithilien in spring time.

“‘Take a burden to other orcs’?” repeated Zuromor. “So there are orc strongholds on this path?”

“Yes. Many. But no other way. No other way but to Morgul City. You go that way. Knock on gates and ask to be let through. Screechers will have nice welcome for you, eh? Nice welcome…”

[CaptainofDespair]

With the fiery sky illuminating his haughty features, the Elf peered into the blood red sky, seeking answers to the enigmatic questions that played in his mind. His mind interrogated him, demanding appeasement. He could give it none, for his was confounded, and he perched himself against a disjointed wall, hoping for the solitude he most direly needed. His mind raced, unforgiving in its nature, and it incessantly craved the answers he could not give. Suddenly, Orodruin shook the very realm that harbored it, erupting in spectacular, red and orange bursts of flame and ash. And thus ended the enigmas that played through his mind. The fiery explosion from the mountain sent shockwaves, both physical, and psychological, through the Elf’s mind. His mind had its answer; traverse the Morgul Road at all costs. His eyes flashed a brilliant tint of orange, glazed over by the deepening discoloration of the sky, and he rose seamlessly from his position, as if he had been made of the stone itself, and had melted from it, to the ledge on which he now stood.

His eyes flashed again, scanning the remnant survivors of the Tunnel. His gaze quickly fell on Aldor, who had been overcome by a dreadful spell, or so it seemed. The Elf trusted the man not, and he had no intention to provide any aid to him. He continued his ever so silent vigil, watching the others aid the man. A dire, most evil thought crossed his mind, but he knew it well. His delicate elven features slowly moved, contorting to the muscles that pried his lips open, and he spoke aloud. “He is not worth the effort to save. He fought not against the Lady of Tunnel, but instead hid himself away, while those braver than he fell before Her onslaught. He is coward, and those who are, must fend for themselves.” A few of the others swivelled their heads in the direction of the Elf’s voice, seemingly caught off guard by his remarks. “If he does not recover soon, we must leave him behind, and let him meet his end alone.” On this, he turned his back, and gracefully returned to the haven of the rock wall, his billowing cloak flapping in the wind behind him. The others knew not what to make of his words, but they continued to struggle with the man, as he wriggled and writhed about.

Having escorted himself back to his quiet sanctum, he relaxed. He let his tensions flow out of his mind and body, to be absorbed by the already tense atmosphere. The air whipped and fluttered about, raining hot gusts upon his face. In contrast, the rocks that his back was positioned against were cold, and unfeeling, but the cold was welcome. He used this to his benefit, and he slipped into yet another trance, dreaming the dreams he had not had in many a year. He drifted from this sweltering desert of a land, and returned to Mirkwood, his home of old. The darkness of his mind lifted momentarily, as he dreamt of the beauty of the forest, and the hanging branches, covered in vine and moss, that he had played under as a youth. His heart was relieved at these memories of old, and he felt renewed, and invigorated. And as quickly as he had entered the trance, he woke from it, to the fires and ash of Mordor. But he cared not of his current plight, for he knew what awaited him when he returned home, to Mirkwood.

Now that he was refreshed, in both body and mind, he rose once more, and left the seclusion and safety of his niche in the mountain side, in an attempt to mingle once more with those he had shared this journey with, thus far. He slowly took his steps closer to the rest of the group, cautious of them, for he did not trust the greater majority. As he wormed his way about, ever so elegantly, he spied the man Zurumor, entranced with Raeis, as she whispered her voice to him. “A fool he is. No elf would be seen with such a miserable creature as these slaves and easterners,” he thought to himself. He quickly averted his gaze so as not to witness the horrendous ogling that the man was committing, which disgusted him entirely. He continued to make his way around, glancing at the different races that were gathered about, and wondering thoughts on the individuals of the groups. “These mortals have no life-spans that amount to anything, yet they are rash and bold, and seemingly seek death.” His memory again shifted, and he stood motionless, almost stone-still, remembering his time he spent studying the Easterlings. “I must watch them carefully, these awkward Men.”

[Kransha]

Silently Brór paced, slowly at first, but soon faster. The dwarf was deep in contemplation, thoughts whirling, untamed, in his enclosed mind. Dorim was dead, the Spider was gone in her dark and horrible caves, but they were not free. Mordor was still there, death, darkness, and doom with it, waiting to devour them. It was a hopeless situation, entirely and completely. There was nothing more, nothing more than darkness and orcs, waiting at every turn. It was dark, too dark. No companionship or petty friendship would matter now. He would be loyal to Morgoroth, but what could that do for either of them? Nothing, that was the answer, nothing. There was pain under orc blades, pain in many forms, and then death. The feeling of nothingness and pain made him snap suddenly, made his settled mind twist again. His cynicism, thought dead, returned to him in an unfeeling flash, a bolt that surged up his form, filling him with new anger at Dorim’s death. He looked around, not around the deathly darkness of Mordor that leeched the hope from his heart, but inside himself, searching frantically for a sliver of hope.

There was no hope to be found in men. Zurumor had not saved him, and his companionship had been all but useless. All the men, even Grash, were of no use to him outside of their presence. Only Morgoroth held his trust, and the elf was more of shadow than of a substance which he could bond with. The Elves were, as always, isolated in their blasted conglomerate, unified, but disunited with the outside, with the others, save for Zurumor and Raeis. The sight of them, despite being an irrelevant fact, disgusted the Dwarf. He had to overcome great barriers to feel even minor ties of friendship with an Elf, so a simply manufactured bond of something near love made him protest violently, even if only to himself. The adoration and looks of idolatry that Zurumor bore to his Elven compatriot made Brór more and more a cynic. Segregated they had been and segregated they were now, even if they had found alliances. Brór felt himself darken, his soul, his heart, and his mind, one after the other, for he had no light without hope. All he cared for or needed was escape from this foul place. His legs moving of their own accord and his brain creating all manner of ridiculous speeches he could make for the singular purpose of self-satiation, he marched sternly and angrily over to Grash, who sat, contemplating.

“Grash,” he began sharply, his voice biting as he spoke, filled with a brimming shadow that seemed ready to overflow. “we know what we must do. Let us go now, before more time is wasted.” Grash looked up at him, his eyes tranquilly half-closed, and steadily shook his head before shooting back his usual blunt reply. By now, Brór, who’s temper was set on a hair-trigger, was irked greatly by the man’s seeming ineptitude at the Common Tongue, though it was not truly ineptitude. The bluntness, the curt concision of Grash’s speech was most irritating. “No.” the man said, the monosyllabic word a perfect example of his lack of lingual panache, “Wait for night. Not be seen by orcs.”

“Nonsense.” Brór snapped back suddenly, a maneuver which would’ve taken most men off guard with ease, but did not faze the wretched former-prisoner, “There’s no sun here for us to been by anyway. We should go now so we can die sooner.” Grash looked up at him again from where he sat, his own form only a head lower than the standing dwarf, his eyes keen, but not shrewd or cunning. “You want to die, dwarf?” he asked dimly.

Brór wanted to shoot back his response quickly, but his brain almost forced him into accidentally saying ‘Yes’ which would’ve made him look foolish. He had to stutter and stumble momentarily before he found his gruff voice and an adequate retort. “No…But I’m probably going to, just like you and everyone else here.” Grash waved his hand dismissively and eased himself back down, whatever tension he’d held relaxing swiftly. Bror grimaced and did not comply with the gesture’s informal request.

“Better not to die. Go at night.” Said Grash.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s better not to,” Brór said, louder and angrier now, his eyes narrowed and ablaze in his skull, beneath the dappled shadows of his unkempt hair, “it’s not our decision. We’ve already lost one to the spider, many of our company are injured, one afflicted by sickness, and it is indeed a miracle any of us got out of those forsaken tunnels alive!” He was breathing harder, as Grash took notice dully, and his chest was furiously heaving. “We don’t have any miracles left to get past the forces of Mordor!”

“No need of miracles, dwarf.”

“Then what will get us past all these orc strongholds?” He roared, alerting the few people nearby to what he was saying. “Or are you lying?” He was clearly near a point of explosion, and, luckily, the man called Zurumor was near enough to prevent anything further than words, though he might regret it. He moved over quickly, raising an open palm and trying to steady the dwarf, who was trembling with rage. “Settle down, Brór.” He said concernedly, “Grash has no reason to lie to us. Not here, not now.”

Brór glared at the man with a monstrous darkness in his gaze and grabbed Zurumor’s hand as it extended to steady him, thrusting it away forcefully. “Go back and pine for your blasted elf.” He cried, “Let us go and those who do not wish to go shall not.” At this, Raeis, who had been hovering behind Zurumor, perked up angrily, but did not respond. She had already had a minor confrontation with the dwarf, and this experience was probably souring her opinion of him even further. “Go alone and die,” Grash said, now with the hint of an animal’s snarl in his throat as he spoke, “go together and have chance. You say you want to live. Do you lie?”

“I am not lying!” The dwarf roared again, “I want to live and you want to live and all of us do, but all we’ve got is a band of mannish barbarians and stinking elves and-”

“Men are not barbarians!” Zurumor interrupted harshly, his face twisting into a frown, which seemed strange on the lad’s face. Zurumor might no be the most optimistic of people, but this darkness that Bror was carrying with him affected him poorly. Brór growled back in his throat, a self-satisfied smile, more foul than fair, took the place his grimace held. “Don’t you know, lad?” he said loudly, his finger jerking accusingly at Lyshka, Darash and Jeren, in sequence, where they sat or stood around the makeshift camp, not caring whether they heard or noticed him or not, though they probably did, “Their kind are in the thrall of Sauron. They are wicked, like the spider who killed my kinsman, like the orcs that stole the years of our lives!”

“No more talk,” Grash said, an air of some command arising in him as he stood, head and shoulders above the dwarf, “Go get ready for night, then we leave. No more talk.”

Dejected, but not admitting defeat, Brór turned and stalked away before Grash said any more, his breath steadied. He saw Dwali, standing, half-agape, awaiting his return near where the two of them had been. Dwali looked as if he might speak, perhaps in consolation or with concern, but Brór ignored him, turning away and setting himself down against the scraggly rock face, sitting on an upraised outcropping of the ledge. Slowly, he closed his eyes, letting hope seep from him, leaving only pale illusions to flit about inconsequentially, and blackness, endless blackness.

[Bêthberry]

"No more talk," said Grash firmly.

Darash and Lyshkia had been watching silently from their side of the ledge as the men argued with the dwarf. They whispered back and forth, neither one trusting anyone strongly, but both worried that the incessant bickering would harm their chances of getting out. It was pointless to argue the way the men were, regardless of which race they came from.

"You know way?" Darash asked Lyshkia.

Lyshkia shook her head no. The memories were too far back of when she had been brought here. Darash's eyes darted around the ledge. "I don't know the way. Can't read the stars well enough. But Grash, he says he knows."

"He knew tunnel and that meant the Spider."

Darash nodded. "But who else spoke up , with idea? None. Grash, has long eyes, sees far."

Lyshkia was quiet for a time but then finally nodded her assent. Darash looked at her, and then rose, calmly but of a swift and sure movement which besoke her resolve and her decision. She strode into the group, her height an easy forearm above that of the remaining dwarves. The men were not used to their women so tall and magestic. The elves were not used to another race who moved with a grace and poise which belonged to them. Everyone stared at her with wary eyes. Bròr had retreated and others moved about uneasily.

Darash glared at the angry pygmy.

"Do-rim shown honour. Words to walk with him, stone to stone. And still you argue?

Bròr watched her through lazy, half-closed eyes but said nothing. She looked around at the others who were wavering, unsure of the right decision to follow Grash or not and leary of waiting longer to move.

"Green land. Grash has seen. Anyone else?"

She looked around, searching each face intensely, even that of the pale man Aldor with the falling sickness, whose face now looked better after Grash had lanced the bite. None dared speak up. Her eyes flashed, and Darash took a short, sharp breath, breathing in the smell of her own courage on her skin.

"We die. Always die. Everything die. Monster die. Orcs die. No escape." Darash was weighing the lives of the group, thinking that if death was inevitable, why walk away from it? Better to die valiantly than to die slowly. Yet no sense in taking useless risks.

"Night fights with us. Clothes us in surprise. Darkest time best." She looked around at others, wondering if any would challenge her. They seemed balanced on an edge, wanting to hear her say more before they responded. She decided not to wait, but to finish her thoughts.

"Grash takes us. No other way. The road he travelled." She put her hand on the knife on her belt and with her other hand, the one Lyshkia had swaddled, she held out her small stolen orcish blade to Grash. She looked him straight in the eye and then at the knife.

[Himaran]

"Aye, we follow Grash. He led us out of the tunnels! Not Bror! Not I! It was him! And we don't need anymore bickering amongst ourselves." Everyone turned, staring at Dwali was sullen eyes. He could not believe it - the company seemed to be collapsing in on itself... and his previous companion was not helping the matter. For all his talk to Morgoroth about alliegence and honor, Bror had only mad the matter more precarious. And Dwali was sick of all of it.

"Don't you see, laddies? If we don't fight together, what chance have we? None!" All the anger was pouring out, an undending river of misery and sorrow. But despite the rage, Dwali wanted nothing more than to cry. How could they all be so complacent and indecisive, so arrogant and proud, so... He was little different; just hours earlier the dwarf would have hardly cared if the elves had fallen prey to the venom of Shelob, or even Grash for that matter. It was as if years of blindness had given way to clear vision, which he desperately wished to share with those around him. But how could they see it too, after barely surviving the living hell of Cirith Ungol. It seemed that only the dwarf who had been the most hostile and angry, the most irrational and confrontational, was able to comprehend the foolishness of their quarrels. Was it he alone that had been moved by the limp form of Dorim being carried from the cave? Darash seemed rational, but what of the others?

The uncomfortable silence was broken by Grash, waving his hands nervously. "Enough! Our personal problems aside, we need to move on. Let's pack up our things and prepared to leave this accursed land." But the issue was not resolved, and hopelessness decended upon the dwarf. This fued will never end.

[Novnarwen]

The Haradrim, who went under the alias Aldor, lay half asleep. The pain gave him shivers, by every second passing however; he was getting better and better. Grinning to himself, he couldn't help thinking about how convenient this had been for him. Grash and Jeren had, by helping Rhând when he had supposedly fainted, secured their own faiths, which would lead to Him. And whatever He chose for them, Rhând knew that they, in the end, would not be particularly thankful.

“He is not worth the effort to save. He fought not against the Lady of Tunnel, but instead hid himself away, while those braver than he fell before Her onslaught. He is coward, and those who are, must fend for themselves.”

The voice of the male elf interrupted him as he was just about to enter another world, far away from the world he now lingered. He realised at once that it was indeed this Morogoth who was speaking. I should have killed him in the tunnel when I had the chance, Rhând thought angrily to himself. The first thought that hit him was that he should do exactly that; throwing himself at the elf and end his life, but he retrained himself. His own stupidity, he realised, could not in any way take control of him. Not now, when he was so close of reaching his goal. Still lying at the ground, eyes shut, pretending that he was sleeping, he listened to the others.

It didn't take long, however, before sleep took him. It came over him as a thick blanket, suffocating him and forcing him to let go of his earthy thoughts.

It's so close . . . I bite my lip, feeling a drop of blood filling my mouth with a most satisfying taste. I go further on, trudging, in my filthy and ripped clothes. Getting ever nearer, still biting my lips, I start to shake with delight. The power draws me, ever closer. There is light just ahead, a light filled with magnificent colours, which evolve in splendour in the sky! Soon, I am there, my feet aching, my heart beating and my soul yearning . . . I cannot go on. It's too far away, yet it is close . . . There is a wall, a black gate. I see it, ever clearer. Just earlier, it was like a big shadow, stretching towards me, wanting to catch me while I walked. But it is a gate; I see it now. The earth is shaking, trembling as if dozens of feet are treading the path, which leads to this Land's entrance. I approach it. A face, with eyes as big as shields, and a grin so evil and peculiar, stares downwards. I see it, but do not move a limb. I cannot move a limb! I shake my head. I cannot withdraw now. I must try. With this thought in mind, I am suddenly filled with new courage, and I knock at the door, the Gate. The sound of my sophisticated knocks ring in my ears, like hundred of bells; making me dizzy. Why does He not open, or at least not the person who possesses that gigantic face? I wonder. I still don't move, only set my ear to the Gate to listen. No sound. Has He left me? Desperately, I try to find excuses for why the Gate isn't opened to me. I want to call, "Here I am! Your faithful servant has finally returned to you." My ear is still glued to the black cold wall, but there is no sound and I daren't utter a single word. The sound of feet still reaches me though, and I turn my attention to this instead. Slowly, I walk towards it. My feet are still aching, and without knowing the reason of this new sudden fear, I feel that a certain pressure is laid upon me. I gaze upwards, trying to find the sun in the sky, but there is none. Is it night still, or is it morning? I run hither and thither, but I don't know where I came from. I loose my balance, and fall to the ground. There, straight ahead, coming towards me, a banner is held. I recognize it instantly. The sounds from the soldiers' armours make me rise hurriedly. I do not see what is being dropped to the ground at that point, but when the army is getting nearer, within sight; they can see me, and I them. Sudeenly, a yellow smoke arises before me. I cannot see; my eyelids have dropped down and I cannot breathe; my lungs are filled. I fall to the ground, the yellow smoke surrounding me, as the army approach me. Few words, I manage to utter, before everything is so dark that not a single ray of light can reach me: "I have a gift to Him . . ."

Bathed in sweat, muttering still "I have a gift for Him", Rhând opened his eyes wide. It was a dream, he assured himself. He looked around at the others, not knowing whether he had talked in his sleep, but they were all busy listening to one of the grim faced dwarves to pay attention to him.

"Let's pack up our things and prepared to leave this accursed land." Rhând heard one say. Assuming that the others had talked about what they were to do, judging by the unusual heavy atmosphere, Rhând thought it best to keep silent and still. Reproaching himself for falling asleep, he closed his eyes again, but reminded himself that he could not afford to talk in his sleep when his dreams were so focused on returning to Him. While lying there, he thought it all through. The Gate had been so real, and so had his approach. Why he wasn't let in, still bothered him. What if he faced the same problems in real life as in his dream? No, no, no, it was foolish to think that way. Having escaped prisoners as a personal gift to Him, would be returned by trust. He frowned. The army that was approaching was clearly a Haradrim army. The banner was at least. Why had he not thought of it before? Rhând knew many were in the army. Now, he supposed, since there were such dark times, probably almost everyone he knew had joined Him to show how faithful they were. This thought, compared to the memory of the yellow smoke, which had overcome him, lightened him up. And as the conversation between the others was silenced, Rhând thought it an excellent moment to wake up.

[alaklondewen]

"Enough! Our personal problems aside, we need to move on. Let's pack up our things and prepared to leave this accursed land."

Yes. Lyshka agreed. The Dwarf men had their says; now it was time for them to follow Grash again. Whether Grash was trustworthy, the woman knew not, but he had seen the green land and knew the way. Lyshka closed her eyes momentarily and tried to remember the southern plains where her family lived. Faces filled her mind…large, laughing men. Evil laughter came from their wide mouths, and their slanted eyes glared at her. She tried to push them away, but she was too weak. Their faces were all she could see.

Opening her eyes, Lyshka glanced around the makeshift camp and quickly rose. Her limbs felt heavy and her back ached. Having refused to sleep during the night, her body worked against her. She raised her long arms above her head and stretched before she bent to gather the few supplies she and Darash kept to themselves. Her general movement inspired a few of the others to follow her suit.

Soon, the motley group, though grumbling, were packed and began their careful decent from the safety of the small cliff. A few loose stones along the rock wall’s surface caught Lyshka’s eye, and she knelt to gather three smooth stones that she placed in the pocket of her vest. Their weight pulled at her clothing, but she readjusted her belt and stepped back into pace with the others, moving quickly to match the stride of Darash.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Throughout the night the company worked its way along the narrow path that lead downward once more into Mordor. They headed more or less south, with the blank wall of the cliff face to their right and an appalling drop into blackness at their left. At times the path was no more than a thin ledge, and they would creep along it with their backs pressed against the stone of the mountains. It was an arduous journey and it took them many hours to cover the few miles to the Morgul Vale.

Grash could not keep the strange events of the previous evening from his mind. The mood of the company had gone through some kind of fundamental shift, the full nature of which eluded him. He was beginning to realise that life and freedom were more complicated than he had perhaps guessed. His life, brutal though it was, had been easy. There was never any doubt of what to do, or whom to hate. He had known with the certainty of despair that none could be trusted but himself, that faith in others was foolish and friendship a dangerous dream. And yet he had seen people forge unions this night – some stable, others not so much – and he had been offered an odd form of friendship himself. His hand went once more to the blade that Darash had given him, and he fingered the hilt thoughtfully. He wondered if she too, somewhere in the dark behind him, was toying with the dagger that he had exchanged for hers in token of acceptance and alliance.

Of all the strangest chances of this night, it seemed that he had been accepted as the company’s guide, perhaps – in their own motley fashion – as their leader. Grash’s callow mind was unable to follow fully the ominous subtleties of his position, but he knew instinctively that such leadership, based as it was on convenience and practicality, was dangerously temporary. Were he to fail them once more, he could all too easily be dismissed by the company.

As the sky in the east began to lighten they came finally to the bottom of the path and found themselves on the road from the Tower. To their left it rose up and up, back to their prison where it lay hidden behind the shoulders of the mountains. To their right, the road went slowly down for a few hundred feet and joined the Morgul Road. Even looking upon that path caused Grash’s skin to crawl, but there was no other way. The company creeped along the edge of the road, pressing themselves into the shadows on its western side as though willing themselves into invisibility. Grash could feel the distant pressure of the Eye upon the land about him, as though the Dark Lord were watching the Morgul Vale for something. He pushed that thought from his mind.


They achieved the crossroad and paused. The road to Mount Doom and , beyond it, Barad Dur, crossed the Morgai here and disappeared into the early morning darkness. They turned from that sight and looked instead upon an equally terrible one. The road rose slowly into the Vale, headed for the high pass that led down to the Dead City and, beyond it, to the West. There came from the Vale a chill wind carrying with it the smell of dead things, and the feel of it upon their cheeks sent trembles of terror along all their limbs. There was some murmuring and shuffling from some members of the company, and Grash feared that some might argue to turn back or aside to find another path, but no-one spoke. Grash turned to them.

“Follow road. Follow road to highest point, there, at peak of valley, between dark mountains. Then, take small path to the south. Up up up we go, high up to top of mountain on that side, then down again.” He paused, considering, then rushed ahead once more. “But first, must pass Dark Lord’s Stones.”

“What?” It was Aldor who spoke first. “What do you mean the ‘Dark Lord’s Stones’?”

Grash pointed into the inky darkness and their eyes followed his hand up the road. Not far along the road, standing upon either side of it, were two large, featureless stones, carved into smoothly rounded columns that rose no more than twice the height of a man. That stood upon each side of the road, like gateposts, and yet now that the company looked upon them, their blood ran chill. In ages past they had been set there by the Men of Gondor, as a ward and warning to the forces of Mordor not to stray upon the road and thence to Minas Ithil, as the Dead City had once been called. But when the city had been taken by the Nine and the road brought under the dominion of Sauron, the stones had been twisted and subjected to his will. Using the power of the One, Sauron had set upon the stones the memory of his own will, and all who passed between them felt that. For all the armies and spies and slaves whom the Dark Lord sent forth from his land, the stones were a last reminder of their servitude, and it set upon them the imprint of their Master.

The company looked upon the stones with loathing, but there was no other way. Pulling their courage about them, they moved onto the Morgul Road and advanced.