Land of Darkness Discussion Thread - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:26 PM

Fordim Hedgethistle invites you to play in his RPG:

Land of Darkness

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Basic Storyline:

Nine prisoners in the dungeons of the Tower of Cirith Ungol are suddenly freed when the orcs who guard them mysteriously slay one another in a bloody and savage brawl. After freeing themselves from their cells, they must band together to find a way out of Mordor before they are recaptured. Starved and tortured by their keepers, naked but for their prison rags, no provisions and unarmed, this motley collection of strangers must find some way to overcome their own torments and their suspicions of each other if they are to survive.

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:28 PM

Players will need to be familiar with the following section of Appendix B during which time this RPG occurs:

~*~

Quote:

March 3019

14th - Samwise finds Frodo in the Tower. Minas Tirith is besieged. The Rohirrim led by the Wild Men come to the Grey Wood.

15th - In the early hours the Witch-king breaks the Gates of the City. Denethor burns himself on a pyre. The horns of the Rohirrim are heard at cockcrow. Battle of the Pelennor. Théoden is slain. Aragorn raises the standard of Arwen. Frodo and Samwise escape and begin their journey north along the Morgai. Battle under the trees in Mirkwood; Thranduil repels the forces of Dol Guldur. Second assault on Lórien.

16th - Debate of the commanders. Frodo from the Morgai looks out over the camp to Mount Doom.

17th - Battle of Dale. King Brand and King Dáin Ironfoot fall. Many Dwarves and Men take refuge in Erebor and are besieged. Shagrat brings Frodo's cloak, mail-shirt, and sword to Barad-dûr.

18th - The Host of the West marches from Minas Tirith. Frodo comes in sight of the Isenmouthe; he is over-taken by Orcs on the road from Durthang to Udûn.

19th - The Host comes to Morgul-vale. Frodo and Samwise escape and begin their journey along the road to the Barad-dûr.

22nd - The dreadful nightfall. Frodo and Samwise leave the road and turn south to Mount Doom. Third assault on Lórien.

23rd - The Host passes out of Ithilien. Aragorn dismisses the faint-hearted. Frodo and Samwise cast away their arms and gear.

24th - Frodo and Samwise make their last journey to the feet of Mount Doom. The Host camps in the Desolation of the Morannon.

25th - The Host is surrounded on the Slag-hills. Frodo and Samwise reach the Sammath Naur. Gollum seizes the Ring and falls in the Cracks of Doom. Downfall of Barad-dûr and passing of Sauron.

~ from: The Return of the King; “Appendix B”; ‘The Great Years section – March of 3019’; J.R.R. Tolkien

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:29 PM

The purpose of the story is to: Escape Mordor

This means we will know the story is over when: The escapees make it to the Crossroads in Ithilien and encounter the small army left there by the King Elessar in his northward march against the Morannon.
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Starting Location: The dungeons of the Tower of Cirith Ungol

Likely destination: The Crossroads in Ithilien

Here are a couple of maps you can use for reference:

Here and Here 2

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:30 PM

Timeframes: March 14th to March 25th during the War of the Ring

The storyline itself or plot covers 11 days.

This game requires a time commitment of three months (12 weeks) from me, the game owner and from the major players.

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:37 PM

DEDICATED CHARACTERS

1.) Amanaduial the archer - Silvan Elf

2.) Alaklondewen – Easterling

3.) Kransha – Dwarf

4.) Durelin - Man

5.) Bêthberry - Southron

6.) Aylwen – Southron

7.) Fordim Hedgethistle - Man

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:38 PM

Amanaduial the archer – Silvan Elf

NAME: Raeis (Ray-iss)

AGE: No idea really. Over two hundred, that much she knows.

RACE: Elf (Silvan)

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: None, but she fights like a demon with her bare hands, feet, elbows... Also, anything she can pick up. She is, or at least, she was skilled with a range of swords, and is fairly good at using a bow, or a sling.

APPEARANCE: Once, Raeis was a beauty among her people, but that was long ago. Her good looks remain though, in part – her face is high-boned, the structure belying her low birth, and her hair is fine and light brown, flecked generously with gold. Her eyes are dark blue, flecked with lighter blues and white. Her hair is not the wavy, golden abundance it was once though – it was cut short when she was first taken prisoner: having stolen a dagger from one of her guards, she had hacked it off from right close to her scalp. It has grown since then, though, has had plenty of time to do so: it now comes unevenly to approximately just below her ears, but is dirty and unkempt from lack of care. Her skin was always pale, a fine almost alabaster-white, but this is even more accentuated now from lack of sunlight. But despite the lines of pain that are now more obvious on her face, the right side of her face is still beautiful, despite the dark bruise that currently adorns her high-cheek area…but the left is a different matter. A long, thin scar runs all the way down her left side of her face from an inch above her broken eyebrow to her jawbone, crossing her eye and forcing it closed, a vicious, sharp burn made from a heated blade that was pressed against her face. It mars her beauty totally, but she cares little anymore – what does it matter when no one will see it? She stands at about 5 ft 9 and is lean – her muscles have not deteriorated entirely, but beyond them there is virtually nothing else. She is painfully thin and scars, both old and new, cross her body along with bruises, the most obvious the long thin ones that crisscross her back and a long cut running from collarbone to navel. She wears a thin, ragged shirt, the sleeves torn off for practical purposes to leave her arms bare, and a sort of short, ragged skirt.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: In the years since the elf has been imprisoned, Raeis has stopped caring about many things; her appearance for one thing, for what good is it to mourn for her lost beauty when the only ones who will see it are her monstrous captors? In a way, she almost revels in it sometimes, for the ugliness of one side of her face, marring her pureness, puts them off some of their vile sport. She almost managed to block out the physical pain and humiliation which she endures so often, for she has suffered so much that the only respite she gets is to know that she will give them no satisfaction by seeing her pain. But she has not stopped caring about everything. One thing always remains on her mind: escape. It is a wild dream, and one that she barely believes in, but which she wishes for so fervently with every inch of her body and mind that has become something that she would do simply to achieve it, to spite her captors, to cause them some of the beatings she has endured for letting her escape. If she could get out of this cell, she would die spitefully happy – she is past wanting to do much else but feel the sun on her face once more. Indeed, maybe the cell has actually driven her mad: the elf had no-one to talk to for weeks on end quite often, and her own voice was all that stopped her from going entirely insane. That and her thoughts and memories, or what might be memories: she gets confused as to what has actually happened and what is real or not. Reality is, for Raeis, an illusion – if her life in Mirkwood was reality, then this existence cannot possibly be real, but if this life is truly happening, how could she ever have missed the fact it was happening when in Mirkwood? The thoughts and questions as to what is real and what isn’t torment the elf in her silent prison. She is withdrawn and vicious, violent whenever anyone comes too near her (for the only ones that come close are those who want to hurt her) and fights like a cornered wildcat with no regard for herself, only wishing to hurt and deter her opponent. But although the innocent, idealistic persona that she once possessed is obviously destroyed, behind her half-mad, wild exterior there is still probably the softer, gentler being that once lived in Mirkwood, quick to argue, quicker to laugh, ready to love. But what is love now? Is that also an illusion…?

HISTORY: Raeis was born to a hardworking but lowly family Mirkwood, some way from the palace. She lived with her family and worked hard and honestly, carving and sewing with her mother and selling the items they made with her father and two brothers. But she always yearned for something more, sure there must be more to life, and so when she was nearly two hundred she went to work in the palace, with illusions of becoming a fine courtier, close to the king, a loyal advisor to him and friend to the princes… However, such fantasies were soon put straight when she became a maid in the palace. Once again, it was honest hard work, decently paid and not overly hard, but it still left the idealistic young elf to dream about more. But she endured it, gaining promotion and working hard to keep her place and to keep sending the money to her mother. After she had worked there for a few years, her courtship began with another elf who worked in the palace, a chamberlain by the name of Caromanieth (although Raeis cannot even remember her full name, she both cherishes and curses his, burned on her memory with love and regret). He was as idealistic and gentle as she, a dreamer with his head in the clouds but, like her, his feet still on the ground.

But one day, on a sudden whim, the pair decided to search for adventure themselves. It was painfully clear that it was not coming to them, and they both yearned for the ‘more’ that they thought they knew must exist. Within a few days, they were ready to do, eloping together away from Mirkwood and from everything about the old life that they had known, heading South.

But things beyond their control, beyond the control of any, were not stirring further South, and when the pair came to the plains of Rohan, after a few months of happy, blissful, carefree travelling, their life was suddenly shattered. Warg riders. The orcs killed Caromanieth and, in a way, they stole Raeis’s life as well – by taking her prisoner they destroyed everything she had ever and would ever have. Elves were valuable, and they took her back to Mordor in the hope of reward.

Raeis never told them her real name, or her family details – stubborn to the last, she endured many different types of inquisitional torture as they attempted to find out whether they could use the elf-woman as currency, blackmail. Raeis had always been taught to be loyal and faithful, and so she didn’t say a word to help them. All they ever found out from her was the shortened version of her name: Raeis. It was the last word Caromanieth had cried out before he died. ”Raeis, run! Get away, for the sake of…run, Raeis...” Eventually they grew tired of trying to find information from her, but they were not yet tired of her – they kept her alive as a…toy. Something to do. And so her torture continued, both physical and emotional, all sorts of abuse whenever the guards wanted something to do, something to occupy themselves. She fought back, always fought back, at the start anyway…but as she lost track of days and went without company or sunlight for so long, tortured by the thought that her family must think her a callous deserter, she was nearly driven mad, alone and isolated both literally and in her mind…

~*~

Amanaduial’s post

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

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

But something in the cell responded.

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

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

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

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

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

“Help…” she whispered.

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:39 PM

alaklondewen – Easterling

NAME: Lyshka (LEESH – ka)

AGE: She knows she is close to twenty years, but whether she has passed the mark yet or not, she is unsure.

RACE: Easterling

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Lyshka has no possessions whatsoever.

APPEARANCE: Lyshka’s long face is framed by short, thick, uneven black hair that one of the men she had worked alongside chopped with a crude knife in return for a blow she administered to his gut after he touched her inappropriately. Her small, dark-brown eyes peer over a short pointed nose with a visible scar across the bridge. Her lips are full and firmly pressed together. Lyshka wears a stern expression and has not smiled since she was a small child.

Lyshka is tall for her gender and her frame is so thin from starvation combined with hard labor that her dark skin appears to be simply stretched over her bones. The filthy, torn rags that cover her body do not hide her flesh and provide no protection from the elements.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lyshka is tough, but she’s had to be. She’s had to protect herself in the fields of Mordor, and she sports several scars as trophies to her grit. Once there had been the spirit of a loving and beautiful little girl deep inside her heart, but now she was hardened, cold, and eroded.

Every person Lyshka trusted in her life betrayed her and she eventually pushed the pain so far down that she was numb. Numb is how she remained. She trusts no one, especially men for they have done nothing but use her.

HISTORY: Lyshka came from a family that lived with a group of wayfarers that traveled in the southern lands of Middle Earth. Her mother was distant and emotionally detached, and her father made his living through thievery and gambling. One night her father made a bad bet to some Southron soldiers on their way to Mordor. Not being able to pay the men and facing death or torture because of it, Lyshka’s father gave them his little girl to pay his debt. Lyshka was only five years old at the time.

The soldiers abused her and took her to Mordor where she was made to work in the fields in the south. As she grew she gained more attention from men, not only guards but those that worked and housed beside her. She had to learn to fight to protect herself from their advances, although she still lost occasionally to them, especially when they would gang up and several would attack her.

One evening as she made her way back to the stall where she slept, a guard waited for her and as she passed him, he attacked her. Caught off guard, Lyshka tried to fight back but he was too big, too strong. They had struggled for several minutes, when her eyes and hands found his short dagger. Before he knew what was happening, Lyshka stabbed the guard several times until she could push his limp body from hers.

The Orc guards that found her considered killing her on the spot, which in truth she would not have minded, but instead, they decided to send her to Cirith Ungol where she would wait until her turn came to be fed to the beast in the mountains.

~*~

alaklondewen’s post

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

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

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

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

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:41 PM

Kransha – Dwarf

NAME: Brór Stormhand

AGE: 103

RACE: Dwarf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: At the moment, nothing, but he fancies himself very good with his fists.

APPEARANCE: Brór has narrow, brown eyes almost hidden between a bulky brow and thick eyebrows. His skin is rough and darkened tan from time spent in the sweltering outdoors, but that only serves to augment his already dark composure. He has a long, bristly black beard, speckled with the first strands of misplaced grey, unkempt hair of the same color which has grown long, reaching to his shoulders now, and a stony face, seemingly capable of only a few expressions. He is relatively sinewy, just as most dwarves are, sturdily built and stands with his head high, even in his current state, reaching a height impressive to some dwarves, roughly five feet and one inch off the ground, but it still not very imposing to higher-headed folk. He wears nothing but an extensive layering of multicolored, tattered rags shoddily slapped together.

PERSONALITY: Once a very jovial, merry, and talkative dwarf, imprisonment somewhat subdued his common nature. Like most dwarves, but more so than some and less so than others, he is stubborn and prideful whenever he gets the chance to be. Despite his irksome obstinacy, Brór is always staunchly loyal when he finds something to be loyal to. He is secretive about what he knows, but tries to discuss as much as he can about the old times with other dwarf prisoners, though he rarely gets a chance to so away from the watchful eyes of orcish captors. When set on a cause, he follows it through to the end, but will sometimes take dreary hiatuses from any goal, especially during his imprisonment in the Tower of Cirith Ungol. He is quick-tempered at times, and does not take insult or scorn lightly, with his fiery temperament and strength to back him up. Bror sometimes acts before thinking, but has done this much less since the date of his arrival at Cirith Ungol.

HISTORY: Brór was born in year 2916 of the Third Age, among the ranks of Durin’s Folk in exile, lorded over by their exiled king, Thorin Oakenshield. He was too young and inexperienced to fight very much, or very well, when the dwarves reclaimed Erebor, but soon became one of the many revered dwarven warriors in the halls of Erebor. He trained himself in the ways of war beside his brethren at the Lonely Mountain.

In 2989, Brór followed Balin from Erebor with a troop of dwarves to retake Khazad-dum. On the route south, a raid by goblins, barely a skirmish, resulted in the capture of Bror and several of his brethren, much to their chagrin. The few dwarf prisoners were taken at first to less well-guarded orcish camps and made to work for them, Since the goblins were an unorganized band, relying on brutality to keep order, one of Brór’s close friends who’d been captured as well began devising a plan, which he indoctrinated the rest of the dwarves and prisoners in the camp into. The prisoners rebelled but the orcs proved more powerful than before and quelled the uprising. All the ringleaders, including Brór’s companion, were brutally tortured and slain in cold blood by the orc forces, but the others were spared. Bror, determined to die with just as much honor as his friend, attempted to rally another uprising shortly after, but it was quelled with more ease.

Realizing Brór’s purpose, the orcs decided it would be best not to kill him. Instead, he and the last dwarves in the camp were taken to the dungeons of Cirith Ungol, where he was again imprisoned. Before his first month, almost all of his brethren had succumbed to the strain of life in the tower. There were not many dwarves in the dungeons, and Brór did not seek to make friends with the men and elves. The dwarf hoped eternally that he could do something so vile that it would provoke the orcs to give him to spider that lurked in the pass nearby, thinking optimistically that he might take the beast with him, but his captors never did. He spent most of his time not working for his captors trying to keep his knowledge of Khuzdul, the tongue of the dwarves, sharp in his mind, as he began to forget as years passed. He spent 19 years in Cirith Ungol, and developed two goals, each an alternative to the other. He resolved to either die fighting the orcs, or somehow manage to escape…

~*~

Kransha’s post

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

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

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

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

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

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:43 PM

Durelin – slave of Mordor

NAME: Jordo

AGE: Older than 20

Race: Man of Gondor

GENDER: Male

APPEARANCE: Relatively short and stocky with dark hair and eyes, pale skin and a few freckles around his small nose. He has thick limbs, strong, muscular arms and legs from years of exerting work. His body has adapted to the lifestyle that has been forced upon him. His skin has grown rough and hard, his feet to the greatest extent, resembling those of a hobbit. His hair has been unkempt for too long, and has grown very coarse, but it remains curly and untamed through all abuses. It never grows far past his shoulders, though it has only been cut twice in his life. He is not allowed much in terms of clothing, but even orcs understand the dignity in covering certain parts of the body, thanks to their very few humane attributes. A basic body tunic composed of an unknown material is all that is allowed, and it is considered to be enough. The slaves are actually quite happy with such a small amount of clothing, as the heat from ever burning fires surrounds them as they work, though there is no sunlight. At night, or whenever they sleep, it is fiery and sunless as well, of course. It is always night in Mordor.

PERSONALITY/HISTORY: Born a slave, Jordo knows nothing but fear and obedience. He has lived as all but an animal. His mother tried to nurture the seeds of humanity within him to growth until her death several years ago. He has been told of how humans live and how they should be free, but it is hard for him to believe in even the existence of a human world. There has never been any proof of this, other than the stories his mother would tell. And he never had understood why she told them if they made her so sad.

After years of watching his mother in pain, too proud to cry out until the pain made her forget anything but, Jordo has determined that he must obey. He knows of some of this pain himself, though he refuses to believe that any of it reached the greatness of what his mother withstood. After watching his mother die in the hands of his masters, Jordo is afraid of pain above all else. And the greatest pain, he believes, is found in death. He knows; he has felt it, hasn’t he?

His name even reflects this situation, at least the name he relates with himself. His full name has been lost in the small capacity of his mind and memory. Most of his memories revolve around his mother, and ‘Jordo’ was what his mother had always called him. It is an abbreviation of his real name, but he is not aware of this. He is aware of very little, and even his speech is limited, mainly just because he is out of practice. Since the death of his mother, he has had little contact with real human. She had been one of the strongest of the past generation of slaves, the generation that had known freedom, and many had fallen under an orc sword, whip, or hand, never to rise again, before her. Jordo sees little but orcs and creatures such as himself, and that little is made up of monsters much worse than his taskmasters, as these terrors are taskmaster to them.

Jordo has come to understand that he is there to serve, to do as he is told, and he has made it impossible for himself to disobey. Luckily, though he does not see it as lucky, his mother has done enough to keep disobedience as a thought in his mind. He has ignored this thought for years now, though, and it has begun to fade from being at all a temptation. Jordo has even begun to think of rewards, the few and pitiful ones that are given to those who serve well. But the desire for these ‘treats’ always brings guilt upon him, as the memories of his mother tell him that this is wrong. Jordo has begun to be unsure of what exactly is wrong much less what is right. Truly, he has never been able to – much less had the chance to – seize either concept as truth.

~*~

Durelin’s post

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What you mean, mama? Mama?”

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

“You let them hurt you, mama!”

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

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

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

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:44 PM

Bethberry – slave of Mordor

Race: Southron (from Far, Far Harad)

Gender: Female

Weapon: None but her wits and her training as a protector of her tribe. If she can find one on a dead orc, a bow, but with now crippled arms she might not be able to use it.

Appearance: Her real name is know only to herself, Kashtia Ma’at-Ka-Re. She was called by the orcs in the rudeness of their tongue, Ghâsh’naga but has been renamed by Grash.

She is not emaciated, for the slaves of her labour were fed decently and, even, pampered for a time by other slaves and she would swim daily, obsessively, for long hours, in the perfumed baths available to her once her forearms healed, broken early in her captivity in the malignancy and cruelty of her captors as a means of restricting her resistance. She has a supple and shapely musculature which speak to her past life of athletic prowess, but her arms have mended poorly. Her skin is a burnished, dusky caramel underlaid with rippling shades of dark tea but it is marred by bluish-grey blotches of extensive bruising. Eyes of glowing topaz look out on upon a world with a proud self-possession which suggests the very opposite of vulnerability: an impenetrability despite the abuse she has faced. Indeed, they complement the handsomeness and regal dignity of her facial bone features. Her hair is the colour of dark pools of water at their deepest depth and her earlobes are torn in two, where earrings were brutally ripped from her ears. She is tall for a woman, at least as tall as Grash if not taller and a proud, effortless carriage can still be detected in her movements. However, in her demeanour can be seen a deliberate effort to neglect and even besmirch the features of her beauty: her intricately braided hair is unkempt; the dirt of the cell cakes her legs and feet; her nails are filthy. Her feet bare, she wears a ragged, faded shift of once ornate and splendid colour and pattern, with ripped sleeves and torn edges, as if its tearing was a desecration of her culture and tribe. She wears it nonetheless with a solemn pride.

Personality and History: She was a fiercely independent protector of an ancient tribe in the distant reaches of Far Harad. Her tribe she calls the Amazigh and, if she would speak of it, she is of the city of Makhubela. She is in fact a figure from old mythologies, an Amazon warrior. She is a woman who has known no inferiority or inequality. She has the self-sufficiency of a matriarchal warrior and has developed during her captivity great disgust for the men of northern cultures, and, indeed, for what she sees as the depravity of northern cultures. She rarely speaks, for who would know her language, and she despises the Black Speech which has surrounded her; she reacts with a strangely calm, stoic passivity which in fact represents a profound indifference to her captors and their power over her. She would move swiftly at the opportunity of escape, not simply from the Tower, but from the entire region, to make her way back to her tribe, but the different star patterns of the more northern sky perplex her and she has yet to learn their ways.

She was captured over a year ago by a roving band of marauders from Umbar who had attacked her village seeking treasure and slaves for barter with Mordor, where her unusual form of beauty and status fed the curiosity and contempt of the men of Mordor towards the cultures they wished to colonise and enslave. Her studied indifference and the blemishing of her prime beauty through abuse and neglect and assault has ultimately led her captors to tire of her and so she was sent to the Tower to become a feast for the monster. She has languished in her cell, watching curiously the relative freedom of Grash and listening closely to the patterns of events in the Tower for any signs of how she can escape.

~*~

Bêthberry’s post

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

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

~ ~ ~

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

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

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

~ ~ ~

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

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

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

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:46 PM

Aylwen Dreamsong – male Southron

Name: Jeren

Age: around 25

Race: Southron of Khand/Harad

Gender: Male

Weapons: All his weapons were confiscated when he was caught and brought to the tower, which angered Jeren almost as much as being captured in the first place. However, Jeren knows well how to use the bow and a set of arrows, and has a fair hand with any set of daggers set before him. While he never had extensive training with any kind of blade longer than a dagger, Jeren would rather use a broadsword or rapier than go into a fray empty handed. But this silly thinking is what got him caught in the first place, so Jeren is hesitant to ever use a long sword again.

Appearance: Strong and athletic, Jeren has the warrior build of his people. His dark mahogany curls frizz easily, falling just into his eyes and right below his ears. Stony grey eyes sit just about proud cheekbones and a determined, set jaw. He rarely smiles, and at most times there will be a contemplative look upon his brown-tan face. He wears a light tunic with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shirt has tattered since arriving at the tower, as have the hems of his brown breeches. He used to have a pair of nice, black leather boots, but they were taken upon arrival and deemed as a ‘nice find’ by the guards. Without his shoes, his tribal tattoos are visible all along the outer side of his calves.

Personality: Jeren’s appearance mirrors his persona. He will be strong for others, and will rally others to bring them to the best of their abilities. He is always up for the challenge of being a leader. He will never show outward weakness to others, and tries his best and hardest to hide all inward weaknesses, though he has yet to perfect the latter endeavor. While Jeren will always motivate and be determined for other people, Jeren has a hard time fighting for himself. Jeren feels like if he has no one to disappoint but himself, he does not try as hard. However, when he has people depending on him Jeren rises to the occasion, never wanting to let anyone down. Jeren’s most intense fears are disappointing others and being a failure to them.

History: Jeren comes from a strong warrior clan that roams the borders of Khand, Near Harad, and Mordor. While not a leader of his clan, Jeren led many fighting expeditions in his time of freedom. During the years of the war, Jeren worked as a strategic captain and led some of his and other clans’ best warriors on reconnaissance work, indirectly for the purposes in Sauron’s fight for leadership of Middle Earth. Jeren and his troop traveled as far west as Dol Amroth and as far north as Rhovanion and Rhun working for the forces of Mordor.

On one expedition to the areas near Mirkwood, three of Jeren’s men were caught by the light-footed elven kind. Interrogations revealed plans for an attack on the border of Mirkwood, and plans went awry for the battalions fighting under Sauron as their enemies had been informed and could prepare for battle. After learning of the lost men, the leader of Sauron’s forces at Mirkwood blamed Jeren for the mishap and loss. Jeren was stripped of his title as captain and taken back as a prisoner of Mordor and branded a traitor of their cause.

~*~

Aylwen Dreamsong’s post:

Alone.

Jeren had never been so alone in his life.

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

Alone.

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

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

Alone.

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

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

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

“I am Grash…follow me!”

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:49 PM

Fordim Hedgethistle – Game Owner

NAME: Grash

AGE: He’s not sure: somewhere in his mid-twenties.

RACE: Men

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: None but his wits (and whatever he can pick up from the corpses of the Tower)

APPEARANCE: Grash is lean to the point of emaciation but sinewy and tough like an old tree that has grown where none thought one could survive. His skin is dark tan from years spent in the sun labouring in Sauron’s fields in the south of Mordor. His hair is black and curly like an Easterling, but his eyes are blue, testimony to the mixed heritage of the slaves who fuel the machine of war in the land of Darkness. He is of average height and physically unprepossessing, but he can be extremely dangerous when cornered or threatened. He never smiles, and it is possible that he has never laughed in his life. By the same token, crying and expressions of sadness or pain are impossible to imagine upon his countenance. He is dressed only in a pair of ragged trousers and a patched shirt through the many holes of which his naked body is clearly visible.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Grash has been a slave his whole life and knows nothing of the outside world. Due to the brutality and the hopelessness of his life he has become fiercely independent, with a will of iron that frequently hurts himself more than it does others. He trusts absolutely nobody, convinced that the world is run by the same rules that have governed his existence from birth. To Grash, life is brutal, short, dirty and bestial; the only way to find meaning in this world is to force it oneself.

HISTORY: Grash was born sometime in the winter just over twenty years ago. He never knew his mother as she died soon after his birth, hard at work – as they always were – in the huge cornfields on the shores of the Sea of Nûrnen. He has spent his entire life in slave compound seventy-two, every day suffering beneath the lash and scorn of the orcs who drive them to and from their labours. In the early days of his manhood, he attempted to make friends amongst the other slaves, but they died so quickly, or were sent to other farms or to dig in the mines, that he gave that up. Grash withdrew into himself ever more, cutting off all possible contact with other people and cultivating the cold and stone-hearted spirit of the hopeless slave that he very nearly became for ever.

One hot day two years ago, however, he watched – as he had a thousand times before – as the orcs who guarded them turned on one of the other slaves. She had been too slow in bringing something, or too quick in walking away, and now four of the monsters were beating her with their whips. To this day Grash could not say what it was about such a familiar sight that made him act, but act he did. Seizing his scythe he ran at the orcs and before they could subdue him he slew two and mortally wounded a third.

He was taken and whipped, then bound in cruel ropes and made to walk all the way to the Tower of Cirith Ungol where he was made to slave in the dungeons for the orcs. Each day he is told that he will be sent into the tunnels to be fed to the monster that dwells there, but he is past caring. A constant stream of prisoners comes from Barad Dûr and passes through the cells that Grash cleans, on their way to the monster’s lair – and all that Grash can do is wish for the day that he too will find solace in death.

~*~

FIRST POST FOR GAME

Fordim Hedgethistle‘s post

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

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

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

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

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

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:53 PM

CHARACTERS: NO FURTHER PLAYERS NEEDED

Six of the race of Men, male or female: (No Dunedain Rangers - as they would certainly never have let themselves be taken alive by the forces of Sauron; it would be nice to have Southrons and Easterlings, or slaves of Mordor in these roles.

1 Southron – Aylwen Dreamsong – Dedicated Player/see above
1 Easterling – alaklondewen - Dedicated Player/see above
1 Southron - Bethberry - Dedicated Player/see above
1 slave of Mordor – Durelin - Dedicated Player/see above

----------------------------------

2 slaves of Mordor – male or female – POSITIONS FILLED

~*~

Two Elves, male or female: (‘Low ranking’ Silvan Elves only - any from among the Noldor or nobility would be far too useful for Sauron to simply cast aside as a treat for Shelob)

1 Silvan Elf – Amanaduial the archer - Dedicated Player/see above

----------------------------------

1 Silvan Elf – male or female – POSITION FILLED

~*~

Three Dwarves, male

1 Dwarf – Kransha - Dedicated Player/see above

----------------------------------

2 male Dwarves – POSITIONS FILLED

__________________________________
__________________________________

Character types which would not belong: Any not listed above

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:53 PM

FIRST POSTS MUST BE SUBMITTED WITH YOUR CHARACTER DESCRIPTION

All character descriptions not accompanied by a First Post will be returned to their writers.

Players will NOT be chosen because they submitted their character earlier than the other players. The Game Owner, Fordim, will read each post and character bio and then make the choice for players accordingly.

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:54 PM

Please use this form for creating your character to post on the discussion thread.

It is a requirement that all potential game players will either have posted in one of the RPG Inns (preferably in The Green Dragon) or have played in an RPG on the Barrow Downs.

Those who have not played before in a Barrow Downs' RPG will be given preference. Final preference, though, will be at the discretion of the Game Owner.
_______________________________________

Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES/NO - Which one?

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in?

List them, please:

Please note you may play in only 2 (TWO) Shire games at one time. (The Green Dragon Inn DOES NOT count as a game for this.)

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? – YES/NO – Which one?

_______________________________________

For your character please include:

NAME:

AGE:

RACE:

GENDER:

WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armor only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.):

APPEARANCE:

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only):

HISTORY:

__________________________________

First post:

PLEASE NOTE:

First posts should take place in your character's cell as he or she listens to the sounds of battle and then is freed by Grash. Your character can reflect on what brought him or her to this sorry pass, think about his or her confinement or dream about his or her past.

----------------------------------

Character Descriptions without a First Post attached will be sent back to the writer. They may be submitted again, once there is a First Post to go with them.

piosenniel · 06-21-2004, 12:54 PM

Characters Needed:

1.) 2 slaves of Mordor – race of Men - male or female (No Dunedain Rangers - as they would certainly never have let themselves be taken alive by the forces of Sauron; it would be nice to have Southrons and Easterlings, or slaves of Mordor in these roles.) ALL POSITIONS FILLED

~*~

2.) 1 Silvan Elf - male or female - POSITION FILLED

~*~

3.) 2 Dwarves - male ALL POSITIONS FILLED

piosenniel · 06-25-2004, 11:03 AM

POSTED FOR:

Sarin Mithrilanger - (internet access problems)

1) I have never played an RPG at the Barrow Downs.

2)I am not currently involved in any RPG's.

3) Yes, I have posted in The Green Dragon Inn.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Name: Zuromor- Slave of Mordor

Age: Around 20

Race: Man

Gender: Male

Weapons: None at the moment, though after being in Mordor and constantly fighting for survival he has learned to use his body and wits as weapons.

Appearance: A tall man with hair black as the night itself and green eyes. His quick smile and helping hands for other slaves give a kind air to his person. He is well built; his body made hard by the harsh conditions in the slave camps. The rugged labor in Mordor has made him muscular, although the scarce food has left him whipcord thin. Sometimes, the constant hunger makes him feel close to death. His body is covered with old scars and new wounds from the beatings he receives almost daily from the slave handlers. His hair is unkempt - matted and very dirty. His beard is scraggly and filthy, also. His tunic is barely more than a ragged shirt. He has no breeches, only a worn loincloth. His feet are bare.

Personality/History: Born into slavery, bred in the very bowels of the deepest and darkest hells, Zuromor knows only the dark, bleak existence he has in Mordor. His time as a slave has been filled with daily difficulty and despair. He has often dreamt of places he has heard about from the other captured slaves - green hills and beautiful lands that must exist somewhere beyond this wretched world. For his entire life he has been beaten by orcs and tortured – and often just so the orcs would have some entertainment. Soon after he began to mature he began to exercise in his cell as often as he could. He knew the orcs would only torture him until their sick desires and disgusting pleasures became indulged by another sad and pathetic life-form. So he trained in case he would ever be able to kill at least one orc before they slaughtered him. In the end, he vowed, they would not get their pleasures so easily from him.

As if battling for his survival were not enough, he has fallen into thoughts of death - grabbing an orc’s spear through his bars and robbing them of their wishes to beat him and then tearing into his very flesh by killing himself. But he knew his death would mean nothing to him unless he could spill orc blood first.

He waited patiently for that chance.

----------------------------------

Sarin Mithrilanger’s post

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

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

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

Fordim Hedgethistle · 06-25-2004, 02:34 PM

Welcome aboard Sarin! I very much like your character's grim determination to take at least one orc with him before he goes -- perhaps, if he's lucky, he'll get the chance to do something very like that before the end of the game

Game Note -- I have been PMed by two people already about the remaining Dwarf position, so for the time being we should consider that part taken (I have yet to receive bios/posts from those players, though).

So that leaves just the Elf position to fill.

Amanaduial the archer · 06-25-2004, 03:38 PM

Hey all,

Wonderful, an excellently dark game. I'm just sticking my head in to say I am here, etc.

- Aman

Novnarwen · 06-25-2004, 04:16 PM

Hi! This looks like a very nice game. I would like to apply for the Slave of Mordor. I see now that someone has already applied for the position, but as I had already written half the bio and post, I'll post anyway. (Fordim, I tried PMing you, but I going soon so I will post it here.)

Character Description Form: Applying for the Slave of Mordor

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES/NO - Which one?

Yes. I have played in the following: Hunt for the Dragon, Corsairs and Corsets, Breelanders All!, Flight from Rohan and Setting Sails for Valinor.

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in?

List them, please: I’m currently in Defense of the Poros and Search for Rhûn.
_______________________________________

For your character please include:

NAME: Rhând (Raaaan)

AGE: 26

RACE: Southron (Haradrim)

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: None at the moment, but his own cleverness. He used to have quite a collection of knives though, which he was very proud of.

APPEARANCE: His mother was a Gondorian. She was held imprisoned in Near Harad. At the time she was freed, she had nowhere to go as she didn’t know where she came from. She had been a prisoner for many years, but found comfort in a hurried marriage with a tired Haradrim soldier. Their son, Rhând inherited quite a few of the Gondorian features, but was of mind a Haradrim.
- Rhând has dark blond hair. Before he was taken to the Tower as a prisoner, it was short, and neatly cut. Now on the other hand, it's quite long and knitted into a pony-tail. His eyes are brown. The spirit he used to have is lost, but somewhere in there, there is spirit and hatred enough to shine through when the time comes. The months in the Tower has made him weary. Dark rings around his eyes make him look dangerous and grim. In the centre of his grim face, his nose is situated. It is big, and the tip points upwards. It looks crooked, as if belonged to an old man. To tell you the truth, it looks broken; a proof that he has been beaten many a time. Other bruises in his face are also visible, but most he has on his body. When being a free man, serving as a spy and a devoted servant of Sauron, he could afford proper clothes. You see, his jobs paid well. It is quite different now, as he is wearing nothing but filthy rags.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Rhând is clever, humorous and outgoing. Yet he is ignorant, quick to anger, forgetful and quite arrogant.
- Sometimes Rhând is too clever for his own good. He can actually seem quite dumb, because he is so ignorant about so many things. Blame the parents I say, but Rhând would rather not talk about his parents. He has quite a few bad memories, and would not like to share those with any outside his 'inner circle'. The inner circle, which he often talks about either when sleepwalking or when angry, is an unknown mystery. No one, who knows him, understands it. However, Rhând is yet likeable, even though his many flaws. His humour makes people laugh, even though much of his humour is at others' expense. Due to the fact that Rhând can easily bond with people, which has been an extremely good tool over the years, he has difficulties keeping friends. Quite a few times he is bored when being accompanied by the same people over a long period of time. This makes him restless, and arrogant in some ways. Rhând couldn't care less about other's people's wellbeing. This, I would say, is a result of his poor childhood. Rhând found himself too ignored, too little loved, and some of this made him the way he is today.

HISTORY: Born and raised in Near Harad, by the River Harnen. He lived great parts of his childhood with his mother, as his father was constantly gone on raids or whatever it was he was doing. His father came along now and then though, but brought always new women with him. By this, naturally, Rhând felt ignored, but he got used to this way of living. His mother was busy working. Often she was away for days, but brought money, and food at the table as she came home. Nevertheless, Rhând grew used to his empty existence, but started at the age of sixteen to search for something more. As a child, just in his teens, he was an easy prey for the older ones. They took advantage of him, making him do the dirty jobs they didn’t want. Soon however, he found himself going upwards in the "ranks", amongst the part criminal young men. He was clever and in that way useful. Mostly, Rhând stole information and spied, and delivered it eagerly to Sauron’s loyal servants. In this way, he also became known as a traitor of the free men. But as most Haradrim supported Sauron, he was fairly respected amongst his kind. It was only amongst Gondorians and such, he later discovered, that they were quite keen on catching him.

Anyway, “business” went quite well for a while. Information was an easy thing to steal, as it only had to be stored one place; in his head, but not hidden. Rhând even enjoyed giving all the info he got from Gondorians and etc. as they, who had spoken so openly to Rhând, had not the faintest idea that Rhând was passing on the info to their enemy. You see, Rhând had one advantage as also previously mentioned. He didn’t look very much like a Southron. His skin was not so dark as the most of his kind. Therefore, one could believe that he was from the south-western part of Gondor, and in that way he could easily either imitate a Gondorian ambassador to get info or just be there; right place at the right time with his ear well cleaned. For a long time this worked quite well, and Sauron’s loyal servants were happy to greet him whenever he came with new info for example about the Gondorian army's positions and their future plans. But what Rhând didn’t realise, was that a Gondorian ambassador had recognised him on two occasions. Naturally, this caused suspicions, and the ambassador’s suspicions were confirmed as a fellow ambassador suspected the same. As a result of this, Rhând was set up. The Gondorian ambassadors arranged a meeting, of where they pretended that they were seriously discussing tactics. They agreed upon something Rhând cannot quite remember (see under personality: forgetful

). However, he can remember that the info he passed on to Sauron's allies was completely wrong and could have led to a disastrous, maybe fatal, outcome. So that was when Rhând was taken by Sauron’s faithful servants and interrogated. As Rhând had passed false information, he was naturally suspected of being in the lead with the Gondorians; therefore, a traitor.

Trying to explain himself that someone had probably set him up, he was brutally tormented and forced to tell a lie, about how he really worked for Gondor. Being too precious to kill in that case, he was sent to the Tower of Cirith Ungol, of where he has been a prisoner for the last thirteen months.
__________________________________

Novnarwen's post:

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

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

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

"OUCH!!!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Anyone there?"

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

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

*****

That was it. I'm happy to edit if there is anything.

Cheers,
Nova

The Perky Ent · 06-25-2004, 04:33 PM

Hello everyone! Today, I will be applying for the position of the jailed dwarf. So, without any further delay, here is Dorim, my dwarf. BTW, good luck Himaran. Now I only wait for your post

Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG before? Yes Which?
Last Hope for Moria
Last Ride of the Heir

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in?
1
List them, please:
Last Ride of the Heir

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? – YES – Which one? Both

_______________________________________

For your character please include:

NAME: Dorim Stonehewer

AGE: 55

RACE: Dwarf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Currently nothing. However, he needs very few weapons, as his fists are deadly when provoked.

APPEARANCE: Dorim is relatively tall for his race, and has the muscle to back it up. His eyes were once a bright blue, but are now dark and bloodshot. His face is very rough and filled with scratches. He has a large scar ranging from the right side of his brow to the bottom of his cheek. Dorim is clothed in tattered rags, sleeves stopping at the shoulders. Dorim’s bulging muscles are a site, as they always seemed to be flexed. His baldhead has many patches of black on it, and his brown, unclean beard droops down to his chest. His complexion is very dark and unclean, as he is deprived of sanitation. Dorim also has another scar running the length of his left arm. His fit to bust shoulders are a site, as they seem to pop out of his shoulders. Without a smile, Dorim’s face is relatively neutral, giving very little emotion if any. His tattered pants are unevenly ripped at his knees, making his legs and feet even dirtier than his head. Dorim’s body is filled with millions of bruises, scratches, cuts, and blisters, as he doesn’t take very good care of himself and walks barefoot. Although not poise, his posture is very strait and rock like.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Originally a jolly, naive, merry dwarf, it seems that 15 years of imprisonment have broken his spirit. All humor that was in his body is drained, and Dorim’s compassion for others is as soft as the tip of a sword. Like a stereotypical dwarf, his priorities are strictly about himself. Gaining much experience from 15 years of imprisonment, Dorim has learned many things about the Dark Powers of Mordor and their allies. This, in turn, has given him a fearless personality, thinking no force of Mordor or beyond can make him quiver. Dorim’s hatred of Sauron and all his minions are as pure and powerful as the light of the two trees. Sarcasm no longer enjoys him. He now uses his energy for one thing. Revenge. Dorim is incredibly strong, stronger than the average dwarf, yet this is not something that deserves recording. His multiple labors have given him bulging muscles, especially on his arms. Unlike his former personality, Dorim is no longer full of himself. He knows there are far better things to waste time on. Dorim’s only “weakness” is mercy. A lack of it. Imprisonment has made him so stone hard, there is little left of him for mercy. It would take a display of monumentous proportions to make Dorim show mercy. And when it comes to servants of Sauron, mercy is not a word.

HISTORY: Dorim was born in 2964 of the Third Age under the Lonely Mountain. His parents weren’t very rich, and did little to help Dorim’s future. Born in a time of peace for Erebor, Dorim quietly lived there, making a living as the owner of a tavern, making many friends. He became very wealthy, and was soon one of the most popular places to go around Erebor. His parents, however, died soon after his success, seeing their son amount to something they never achieved.

In 3004, when Dorim was twenty, he decided to see the world. He asked his friend Doram to watch over his business while he was gone. Dorim’s original plan was to hike up to the Grey Mountains, then travel down the Anduin, and come back up the same way. He visited Minas Tirith and made numerous amounts of friends. He was almost convinced to live there. Staying for a long time, he learned much of the world. The only thing that stopped Dorim from moving was a message. Dorim was shocked to find out that Doram had lost a large wager and lost Dorim’s tavern. Furious, Dorim quickly continued on his trip, so he could try to save his business. Returning on his journey, Dorim traveled along the Anduin until he reached the Bay of Belfalas. At the beach, Dorim took a flask and filled it with sand. Then he started his journey northward.

As Dorim started back up, he traveled on the eastern side of the river. Moving upward he traveled the wild, and then got on the Harad Road, walking along it for many miles. One day, while walking, a large group of Haradrim was marching south and found Dorim. Dorim fought bravely, but was overcome. In the fight, he lost all his weapons, lying helpless as the Haradrim surrounded him. Without another weapon, he threw his flask of sand at one of the Haradrim. The impact was so strong it knocked him out. Dorim then took a shard of glass and killed the man. Enraged, another Haradrim took his sword and knocked out Dorim. In the process, he face was brutally cut, giving Dorim his scar on the right side of his face.

When Dorim awoke, he found himself in bound, being carried by a group of Haradrim. Apparently, they decided not to kill him and take him prisoner in Harad. There, Dorim was left to rot in a cell, without any care. There, in his cell, Dorim hardened. His soul was crushed, and it seemed his very essence was taken from him. Dorim was nothing but an empty shell. There, he only took in things he heard from the Haradrim guarding his cell. This filled him with a newer, stronger spirit. Although not filled with evil from the Haradrim, he was filled with the strength of their tolerance for goodness. By ten years, Dorim was a rock solid, hard-core fighter.

Then, after ten years, Sauron summoned the group of Haradrim holding Dorim captive. They traveled up to Mordor, taking Dorim with him. There, they decided to enslave the dwarf in Cirith Ungol, along with other prisoners. There, he was tortured, where he got his scar on his arm. After brutal torturing, he was sent to a cell in the Tower. Five years later, his opportune moment has come. The gates of freedom have been opened.
__________________________________

The Perky Ent's post:

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

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

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

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

Fordim Hedgethistle · 06-25-2004, 06:53 PM

Yipes -- it's all happening so fast!

Novnarwen -- Your post is truly amazing, but I have already accepted Sarin Mithrilanger's submission for the Slave of Mordor. But do not despair, for I am becoming something of an expert at this whole two people, one role thing, as I already have two people vying for the lone Dwarf position.

Pio -- Would it be possible to accept both Sarin and Nova as Slaves of Mordor (in effect adding a slot to the game), as well as accepting both Himaran and The Perky Ent as Dwarves, and eliminating the second Elf role?

Aman -- As my confirmed Elf would this be acceptable to you? Your character would be rather isolated, surrounded by Slaves, Southrons, and Dwarves, but that might be interesting for you, mightn't it?

Until I get this sorted round with Pio and the abovementioned folk, I'm going to declare the recruitment for the game temporarily suspended.

My apologies for the rather haphazard way in which this is proceeding, but I hate saying no to people who want to play in the game, and it is my first time out as a Game Owner (love the sound of that: G.O. Fordim).

Kransha · 06-25-2004, 07:05 PM

G'day, bonjour, hola, strasvitye, and all that. Like Aman, just popping my head in here on this game, which is really shaping up (I dunno what you did, Fordim, but this is drawing more players than most games, which have to eliminate positions rather than add).

Well, t'looks like I might have 2 dwarves rather than 1 at my side. Perky, I definately like your character. Dorim shares a lot of core traits with my own, Bror. Good luck, and to Himaran, who's post is, rather obviously, unavailable for my viewing. Fine job, to all ye who have entered this veritable Land of Darkness (alright, when I say that it just sounds plain silly).

Amanaduial the archer · 06-26-2004, 08:14 AM

Quote:

love the sound of that: G.O. Fordim).

Careful, 'G.O', you'll have difficulty fitting through doors soon if your head gets any bigger

Hmm, as to having no other elves...I actually would rather prefer it if there was one other elf, but if you prefer having none, then fine - you're the owner.

Fordim Hedgethistle · 06-26-2004, 09:21 AM

Hmmm. . .so that's why all my hats are so tight these days

Aman, ask and ye shall receive: unless Pio objects, I will now reverse direction again (I'm beginning to get quite dizzy) and declare the thread once more OPEN for recruiting, but ONLY for a Silvan Elf to keep Aman company.

I will leave this Elf slot open until Tuesday afternoon, at which point I will put the posts in order, write a new post to set the action after everyone's been released from their cells and send it all off to Pio; with any luck at all we will have the game underway very soon after that.

Thank you all for bearing with me.

Amanaduial the archer · 06-26-2004, 01:35 PM

Thank you very much, Master Hedgethistle *bows*

Himaran · 06-26-2004, 05:02 PM

Hi everyone,

I finished my bio but I didn't have time to get my first post done. I will post both here tomorrow.

Himaran

CaptainofDespair · 06-26-2004, 06:07 PM

CaptainofDespair

Character Description Form: Applying for Silvan Elf Position

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES/NO - Which one? No

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? None

List them, please:

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? – YES/NO – Which one? Yes. The Green Dragon Inn.

_______________________________________

For your character please include:

NAME: Morgoroth Aranur

AGE: 1,567

RACE: Silvan Elf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Since his captivity, Morgoroth has wielded no weapon, save for his bare hands.

APPEARANCE: Morgoroth is not the fairest of elves. He had long made a recluse of himself, staying far from his brethren in Mirkwood. His hair is dark, nearly black, and the atmosphere of Mordor has not helped its once glorious sheen. Since his confinement, he has left himself go in that respect. But nevertheless, he is still an elf, tall and lean. But due to the fact that he is more reclusive than the rest of his kind, he has had to fend more for himself, and thus he is slightly more muscular. His face bears sign of his travels, and of his captivity. He bears a small scar behind the left ear, a blow from an orc scimitar, and he has a small gash above his right eyebrow.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Morgoroth is one of many strengths, and many weaknesses. He is a strong elf, both in body and mind. He has not let his physical prowess deteriorate due to his imprisionment, and most certainly not his mind. He often makes excerises out of nothing, in primitive attempts to keep his body fit. He reminisces of the days of old, singing softly of the battles with Morgoth, and keeping the lore of the day fresh in his mind. High and noble he is, and seeks to stay a path of righteousness, preparing to do his part against the evils of Middle-Earth. He will do anything for the cause of freedom, even if it means his own death.

But for all his strength, he is flawed. His belief that the cause of all that is good must be upheld, makes him extremely impetuous. Through this, he ends up thrusting himself into situations he cannot use his blade to free himself from. He is also a merciful soul. Should an enemy repent their hateful ways before his blade can fall on their necks, he will free them, and give them safe passage. Even in his dungeon cell, this has not changed. Though he knows the Orcs must die, any evil Man who he comes across that repents, will be given freedom.

HISTORY: Morgoroth was born on a beautiful spring morning in T.A 1452 in Mirkwood. His mother gave him the name Morgoroth due to the darkness of the hair upon his head. She could see from the moment he was born, that he would become a warrior. The fire in his eyes, even at that moment, was burning brighter in him even more than that of his father, who had died fighting alongside the Last Alliance in the Siege of Barad-dur.

For years Morgoroth was seen as a distant child. He kept to himself around other children, and he seemed along interested in the machinations of war. He spent much of his time around the Elders of the Halls. He would sit patiently for hours, listening to them discuss the past, and present. It was here he learned of the evils of Gorthaur the Cruel. He wondered why one so great, would turn to such ways, and he continued to inquire more about his evil.

As he grew older, Morgoroth seemed to become more and more reclusive. He no longer went out, save for those dire times when his presence was required on the borders, defending Mirkwood from the Necromancer of Dol Guldur. Instead, he would sit for hours, studying the history of his people, and learning more of Sauron.

Finally, one autumn morn, at the age of 719 he left the home of his mother, and armed only with the blade of his father, he struck out to find his place in the world. He traveled through many differently lands in the East. During his travels, he encountered many folk, both good and evil. From these peoples, he learned much of the happenings in the world at large.

He was fascinated by the Easterling peoples, but seeing that many shunned him, he sought to live a distant life from them, but still close enough to study their ways. And so for two centuries, he lived as a nomad, wandering from region to region, studying the people he encountered.

But now, a change had come over these people whom he had spent so much time amongst. They became more war-like, more savage. Morgoroth quickly learned that Sauron had arisen again, and was using the Easterlings as part of his war machine. He detested this, and he despised Sauron. And so he left his wandering life, and journeyed to the Ash Mountains on the Northern Border of Mordor. Upon viewing that which was the Black Lands, he could not perceive why any would choose such a location as their homeland. The atmosphere itslef was a bane on him. It hung over him like a heavy fog. For a time, he could barely manage to breath in the clouded, volcanic air of Mordor. And so he thought it wise to rest himself, so that his journey back home to Mirkwood would be made easier. He moved little during the day, and went out only at night to hunt for any prey he could find. It was on one of these expeditions that he was captured. Seeing as he was an elf, the Orcs knew better than to kill him. So, they took him to Cirith Gorgor. He remained confined there for a brief time, until word from Barad-dur came that he was to be taken to Cirith Ungol. And there he was taken, and held as a prisoner for 18 long years.

__________________________________

CaptainofDespair's post:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Himaran · 06-27-2004, 09:14 AM

Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES
Which ones? The Hobbit’s Gift, The Road to Erebor, Quest for the Ainereg, Sailing Away, The Summons, In the Shadow of the Star, Flight from Rohan, Resettling the Lost Kingdom, The Ambassador’s Son, Search for Rhun.

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? One. Search for Rhun finishes in two days, but Resettling the Lost Kingdom is not quite done.

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? –
YES, both.

_______________________________________

For your character please include:

NAME: Dwali - he cannot remember his last name.

AGE: 43, young for a dwarf.

RACE: Dwarf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Dwali carried only a steel axe with him on his travels, but it was taken from him after his capture. Although he lacks experience in hand to hand combat, he is deadly with a knife; and after stealing one from a guard (who was slightly too close to the cell door) Dwali hid it in his cell. Perhaps it will eventually come to good use.

APPEARANCE:

Dwali is of average height for a dwarf and fairly thin. His eyes, once a piercing green hue, have slow decayed into a dark grey; which now display nothing but emptiness and sorrow. Numerous scars cover his strong frame, as he underwent particularly painful torture after he refused to give information to his captors. His hands, always slightly out of proportion with the rest of his body, now look anything but normal on his skinny wrists. Although several years of travelling had rewarded him with a muscular body, the young dwarfs appendages have lost their luster from lack of food and exercise. Dwali's clothing is better than most in the prison, as he has been their a shorter time. His brown tunic and pants have several tears, but are far from tattered rags.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

Hate is all that Dwali has known for his entire existance. The day that he returned to his camp as a child and found the mangled bodies of his two parents, a seething passion was woken in his heart; one of rage and anger. The dwarf is still young, and his emotions flunctuate; sometimes he can be quiet and thoughtful immediately before flying into a loud tirade while attacking animals and even trees with his weapon. He does not understand suffering or death, nor does he even know who he hates. The dwarf wants revenge to the point that it has become a general mindset in his life; one not directed at any single being. Spending three years in a dungeon has somewhat improved his behavior, and calmed him to the a point near sanity, but his new personality is one of sarcasm and pessimism. He believes that his and every other being's death is imminent, causing him to be virtually fearless of darkness and death.

HISTORY:

Dwali devoted five years of his life to hunting down the orc band which destroyed his family, and became a skillful tracker and warrior in the process. But after savagely killing every member of the orcish party and retrieving his parent's few stolen possessions, he did not find the rest his inner soul so longed for. The dwarf became a drifter and a wanderer, without knowledge of his relatives or of current events. Nor did he care about such things; for in his mind the act of loving something was but a weakness. Thus it was that Dwali continued south; and he past though many lands over many years. Eventualy he came to Gondor, but
decided to avoid it and instead passed through Ithilien. It was there, on the eastern edge of that great forest, that he was captured by a scouting party from Morder. All the dwarf can remember after that fateful day is darkness. The all-encompasing blackness of stone, dungeons, and death.

__________________________________

Himaran's post

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

And reality... is darkness. And death.

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

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

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

_____________________

Hope this works! And thanks for being patient.

Himaran

The Perky Ent · 06-27-2004, 09:35 AM

Fordim - I fixed the small problem. Hope it helps. If I need to fix it more, say the word.

piosenniel · 06-27-2004, 09:38 AM

CHARACTERS/PLAYERS:

Slave of Mordor - Fordim Hedgethistle
Slave of Mordor – Durelin
Slave of Mordor – Sarin Mithrilanger
Slave of Mordor – Novnarwen
Southron – Aylwen Dreamsong
Southron - Bethberry
Easterling – alaklondewen

~*~

Silvan Elf – Amanaduial the archer
Silvan Elf - CaptainofDespair

~*~

Dwarf – Kransha
Dwarf – The Perky Ent
Dwarf – Himaran

piosenniel · 06-27-2004, 09:39 AM

NO FURTHER PLAYERS NEEDED

Fordim, the Game Owner, will be looking over the last bios/posts for any edits needed.

Thanks, everyone, for your consideration and patience.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fordim

Once youv've sorted through all your posts and gotten the edits you want from the players - can you please arrange a list for them, in order by PLAYER NAME, - then I'll get them up on the game and open it for you.

Please just put your list and your next post here on the DT - it's easier that way for me.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

Fordim Hedgethistle · 06-27-2004, 09:09 PM

Thank you all for getting the game off to such a good start with those wonderful posts. I was hoping that this would be a character-driven story and it looks like it will be. There are some very interesting dynamics at play here already.

Oh, I should say formally, I suppose, that CaptainofDespair's bio and post is accepted for play. Also, welcome to the Downs CoD.

I will get right on the ordering of posts and the first-post-after-everyone's-been-freed and have that by early tomorrow morning (EDT), so we can look forward to starting the game within 24 hours (if I understand from Pio how this works). Just so you all know how it will begin:

Grash will explain to everyone that the orcs have killed each other, but that the front gate is barred by the Silent Watchers, so they're going to have to risk the Tunnel. . . (insert foreboding music here). But before we plunge into that, our characters will poke about the Tower a bit and gather what weapons, armour and provisions they can. Grash will suggest that the group break up into smaller parties to speed along the search, so start thinking now about who your character would want to band/bond with from the outset. (I would suggest that it would make psychological sense for the races to band together at this point: Elves, Dwarves and Men; although, perhaps gender would be a bigger factor? However you want to work it all is fine with me.)

Once more, thank you all for your interest in playing this game, and for the great posts. I'm really looking forward to this (just in case you can't tell). There are a couple of treats in store for us that will, I hope, make it an enjoyable experience.

Fordim Hedgethistle · 06-28-2004, 09:51 AM

Pio, could you put up the first posts in the following order:

Fordim Hedgethistle
Bêthberry
Amanaduial the Archer
Alaklondewen
Durelin
Aylwen
Sarin Mithrilanger
Novnarwen
The Perky Ent
Kransha
CaptainofDespair
Himaran

And after these, could you include the following post:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Novnarwen · 06-28-2004, 09:58 AM

Hi!

Thanks for accpeting my character.

I'm really looking forwards to this game. It looks great!

Short note: Pio, I have done some few edits in my post. So the one which is up now, is the one which should be in the game. Thanks!

Cheers,
Nova

(Yes, I can delete this one afterwards...)

piosenniel · 06-28-2004, 10:19 AM

The Game is now open for play!

Have fun!

~*~ Pio

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From Fordim:

Quote:

Grash will explain to everyone that the orcs have killed each other, but that the front gate is barred by the Silent Watchers, so they're going to have to risk the Tunnel. . . (insert foreboding music here).

But before we plunge into that, our characters will poke about the Tower a bit and gather what weapons, armour and provisions they can.

Grash will suggest that the group break up into smaller parties to speed along the search, so start thinking now about who your character would want to band/bond with from the outset. (I would suggest that it would make psychological sense for the races to band together at this point: Elves, Dwarves and Men; although, perhaps gender would be a bigger factor? However you want to work it all is fine with me.)

Amanaduial the archer · 06-28-2004, 02:12 PM

I have posted on the game thread. CaptainofDespair - I have somewhat attached myself to your character (a little) in this post and used him to some extent: if this alright with you? If I have misrepresented him or you are not happy with this, let me know

Fordim Hedgethistle · 06-28-2004, 02:16 PM

More notes from your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man (get it? get it? leading you all into Shelob's Lair. . .

)

I've just read through all the posts once more and noted that the issue of language is going to be a bit tricky -- who can speak what language, etc. We should all be fairly attentive to that in our opening posts on the game thread: who can speak which langauges etc.

CaptainofDespair · 06-28-2004, 02:28 PM

Aye, it's alright. I have no qualms about anyone using my character in minor ways.

The Perky Ent · 06-28-2004, 04:38 PM

Awesome! This is soo kewl!

I'll get a post up ASAP!

06-21-2004, 12:26 PM	#1
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Land of Darkness Discussion Thread Fordim Hedgethistle invites you to play in his RPG: Land of Darkness __________________________________ Basic Storyline: Nine prisoners in the dungeons of the Tower of Cirith Ungol are suddenly freed when the orcs who guard them mysteriously slay one another in a bloody and savage brawl. After freeing themselves from their cells, they must band together to find a way out of Mordor before they are recaptured. Starved and tortured by their keepers, naked but for their prison rags, no provisions and unarmed, this motley collection of strangers must find some way to overcome their own torments and their suspicions of each other if they are to survive.

06-21-2004, 12:29 PM	#3
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	The purpose of the story is to: Escape Mordor This means we will know the story is over when: The escapees make it to the Crossroads in Ithilien and encounter the small army left there by the King Elessar in his northward march against the Morannon. __________________________________ Starting Location: The dungeons of the Tower of Cirith Ungol Likely destination: The Crossroads in Ithilien Here are a couple of maps you can use for reference: Here and Here 2 Last edited by piosenniel; 06-24-2004 at 04:58 PM.

06-21-2004, 12:53 PM	#13
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	CHARACTERS: NO FURTHER PLAYERS NEEDED Six of the race of Men, male or female: (No Dunedain Rangers - as they would certainly never have let themselves be taken alive by the forces of Sauron; it would be nice to have Southrons and Easterlings, or slaves of Mordor in these roles. 1 Southron – Aylwen Dreamsong – Dedicated Player/see above 1 Easterling – alaklondewen - Dedicated Player/see above 1 Southron - Bethberry - Dedicated Player/see above 1 slave of Mordor – Durelin - Dedicated Player/see above ---------------------------------- 2 slaves of Mordor – male or female – POSITIONS FILLED ~~ Two Elves, male or female:* (‘Low ranking’ Silvan Elves only - any from among the Noldor or nobility would be far too useful for Sauron to simply cast aside as a treat for Shelob) 1 Silvan Elf – Amanaduial the archer - Dedicated Player/see above ---------------------------------- 1 Silvan Elf – male or female – POSITION FILLED ~~ Three Dwarves, male* 1 Dwarf – Kransha - Dedicated Player/see above ---------------------------------- 2 male Dwarves – POSITIONS FILLED __________________________________ __________________________________ Character types which would not belong: Any not listed above Last edited by piosenniel; 06-26-2004 at 06:29 PM.

06-21-2004, 12:53 PM	#14
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	FIRST POSTS MUST BE SUBMITTED WITH YOUR CHARACTER DESCRIPTION All character descriptions not accompanied by a First Post will be returned to their writers. Players will NOT be chosen because they submitted their character earlier than the other players. The Game Owner, Fordim, will read each post and character bio and then make the choice for players accordingly. Last edited by piosenniel; 06-21-2004 at 01:08 PM.

06-21-2004, 12:54 PM	#15
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Please use this form for creating your character to post on the discussion thread. It is a requirement that all potential game players will either have posted in one of the RPG Inns (preferably in The Green Dragon) or have played in an RPG on the Barrow Downs. Those who have not played before in a Barrow Downs' RPG will be given preference. Final preference, though, will be at the discretion of the Game Owner. _______________________________________ Character Description Form: 1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES/NO - Which one? *2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently* involved in? List them, please: Please note you may play in only 2 (TWO) Shire games at one time. (The Green Dragon Inn DOES NOT count as a game for this.) 3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? – YES/NO – Which one? _______________________________________ For your character please include:** NAME: AGE: RACE: GENDER: WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armor only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.): APPEARANCE: PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only): HISTORY: __________________________________ First post: PLEASE NOTE: First posts should take place in your character's cell as he or she listens to the sounds of battle and then is freed by Grash. Your character can reflect on what brought him or her to this sorry pass, think about his or her confinement or dream about his or her past. ---------------------------------- Character Descriptions without a First Post attached will be sent back to the writer. They may be submitted again, once there is a First Post to go with them. Last edited by piosenniel; 06-21-2004 at 01:09 PM.

06-21-2004, 12:30 PM	#4
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Timeframes: March 14th to March 25th during the War of the Ring The storyline itself or plot covers 11 days. This game requires a time commitment of three months (12 weeks) from me, the game owner and from the major players.

06-21-2004, 12:37 PM	#5
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	DEDICATED CHARACTERS 1.) Amanaduial the archer - Silvan Elf 2.) Alaklondewen – Easterling 3.) Kransha – Dwarf 4.) Durelin - Man 5.) Bêthberry - Southron 6.) Aylwen – Southron 7.) Fordim Hedgethistle - Man

06-21-2004, 12:38 PM	#6
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Amanaduial the archer – Silvan Elf NAME: Raeis (Ray-iss) AGE: No idea really. Over two hundred, that much she knows. RACE: Elf (Silvan) GENDER: Female WEAPONS: None, but she fights like a demon with her bare hands, feet, elbows... Also, anything she can pick up. She is, or at least, she was skilled with a range of swords, and is fairly good at using a bow, or a sling. APPEARANCE: Once, Raeis was a beauty among her people, but that was long ago. Her good looks remain though, in part – her face is high-boned, the structure belying her low birth, and her hair is fine and light brown, flecked generously with gold. Her eyes are dark blue, flecked with lighter blues and white. Her hair is not the wavy, golden abundance it was once though – it was cut short when she was first taken prisoner: having stolen a dagger from one of her guards, she had hacked it off from right close to her scalp. It has grown since then, though, has had plenty of time to do so: it now comes unevenly to approximately just below her ears, but is dirty and unkempt from lack of care. Her skin was always pale, a fine almost alabaster-white, but this is even more accentuated now from lack of sunlight. But despite the lines of pain that are now more obvious on her face, the right side of her face is still beautiful, despite the dark bruise that currently adorns her high-cheek area…but the left is a different matter. A long, thin scar runs all the way down her left side of her face from an inch above her broken eyebrow to her jawbone, crossing her eye and forcing it closed, a vicious, sharp burn made from a heated blade that was pressed against her face. It mars her beauty totally, but she cares little anymore – what does it matter when no one will see it? She stands at about 5 ft 9 and is lean – her muscles have not deteriorated entirely, but beyond them there is virtually nothing else. She is painfully thin and scars, both old and new, cross her body along with bruises, the most obvious the long thin ones that crisscross her back and a long cut running from collarbone to navel. She wears a thin, ragged shirt, the sleeves torn off for practical purposes to leave her arms bare, and a sort of short, ragged skirt. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: In the years since the elf has been imprisoned, Raeis has stopped caring about many things; her appearance for one thing, for what good is it to mourn for her lost beauty when the only ones who will see it are her monstrous captors? In a way, she almost revels in it sometimes, for the ugliness of one side of her face, marring her pureness, puts them off some of their vile sport. She almost managed to block out the physical pain and humiliation which she endures so often, for she has suffered so much that the only respite she gets is to know that she will give them no satisfaction by seeing her pain. But she has not stopped caring about everything. One thing always remains on her mind: escape. It is a wild dream, and one that she barely believes in, but which she wishes for so fervently with every inch of her body and mind that has become something that she would do simply to achieve it, to spite her captors, to cause them some of the beatings she has endured for letting her escape. If she could get out of this cell, she would die spitefully happy – she is past wanting to do much else but feel the sun on her face once more. Indeed, maybe the cell has actually driven her mad: the elf had no-one to talk to for weeks on end quite often, and her own voice was all that stopped her from going entirely insane. That and her thoughts and memories, or what might be memories: she gets confused as to what has actually happened and what is real or not. Reality is, for Raeis, an illusion – if her life in Mirkwood was reality, then this existence cannot possibly be real, but if this life is truly happening, how could she ever have missed the fact it was happening when in Mirkwood? The thoughts and questions as to what is real and what isn’t torment the elf in her silent prison. She is withdrawn and vicious, violent whenever anyone comes too near her (for the only ones that come close are those who want to hurt her) and fights like a cornered wildcat with no regard for herself, only wishing to hurt and deter her opponent. But although the innocent, idealistic persona that she once possessed is obviously destroyed, behind her half-mad, wild exterior there is still probably the softer, gentler being that once lived in Mirkwood, quick to argue, quicker to laugh, ready to love. But what is love now? Is that also an illusion…? HISTORY: Raeis was born to a hardworking but lowly family Mirkwood, some way from the palace. She lived with her family and worked hard and honestly, carving and sewing with her mother and selling the items they made with her father and two brothers. But she always yearned for something more, sure there must be more to life, and so when she was nearly two hundred she went to work in the palace, with illusions of becoming a fine courtier, close to the king, a loyal advisor to him and friend to the princes… However, such fantasies were soon put straight when she became a maid in the palace. Once again, it was honest hard work, decently paid and not overly hard, but it still left the idealistic young elf to dream about more. But she endured it, gaining promotion and working hard to keep her place and to keep sending the money to her mother. After she had worked there for a few years, her courtship began with another elf who worked in the palace, a chamberlain by the name of Caromanieth (although Raeis cannot even remember her full name, she both cherishes and curses his, burned on her memory with love and regret). He was as idealistic and gentle as she, a dreamer with his head in the clouds but, like her, his feet still on the ground. But one day, on a sudden whim, the pair decided to search for adventure themselves. It was painfully clear that it was not coming to them, and they both yearned for the ‘more’ that they thought they knew must exist. Within a few days, they were ready to do, eloping together away from Mirkwood and from everything about the old life that they had known, heading South. But things beyond their control, beyond the control of any, were not stirring further South, and when the pair came to the plains of Rohan, after a few months of happy, blissful, carefree travelling, their life was suddenly shattered. Warg riders. The orcs killed Caromanieth and, in a way, they stole Raeis’s life as well – by taking her prisoner they destroyed everything she had ever and would ever have. Elves were valuable, and they took her back to Mordor in the hope of reward. Raeis never told them her real name, or her family details – stubborn to the last, she endured many different types of inquisitional torture as they attempted to find out whether they could use the elf-woman as currency, blackmail. Raeis had always been taught to be loyal and faithful, and so she didn’t say a word to help them. All they ever found out from her was the shortened version of her name: Raeis. It was the last word Caromanieth had cried out before he died. ”Raeis, run! Get away, for the sake of…run, Raeis...” Eventually they grew tired of trying to find information from her, but they were not yet tired of her – they kept her alive as a…toy. Something to do. And so her torture continued, both physical and emotional, all sorts of abuse whenever the guards wanted something to do, something to occupy themselves. She fought back, always fought back, at the start anyway…but as she lost track of days and went without company or sunlight for so long, tortured by the thought that her family must think her a callous deserter, she was nearly driven mad, alone and isolated both literally and in her mind… ~~ Amanaduial’s post* Deep down beneath the tower, in the depths that did not even feel the natural wind through it’s corridors or the run on its hard stone floors, a lone prisoner waited in a cell. Waited, I say, but then, waiting implies hope, and this prisoner has barely any of that left. A lone strand, barely anything at all, remained in her broken and disjointed mind, but it is all she is surviving on. At the back of the dark cell lay what resembled like a pile of rags, tattered and torn, strewn in a loose pile as if shaken then discarded by some larger-than-life dog. But if you look closer, avoiding the dank smell of rot and blood, both dried and fresh, you would see a body underneath these rags. Another clank from above and the body does not move, and neither does it respond to the drawn-out, agonised scream which is suddenly cut short which floats from high above. The being is barely recognisable now, it’s skin mottled, bruised and torn, it’s limbs broken and disjointed, but one thing is sure. Whatever it once was, the being is dead. But something in the cell responded. Near the door, in the darkest, gloomiest corner, something stirred, a brief, sudden movement as a limb spasms and a gasp sounded quietly. One blue eye, old before it’s time, snapped open, and Raeis looked around, her gaze quick and darting. As another rattle, closer this time, sounded from above, and the sound of a man’s voice calls, the elf tried suddenly to move towards the door, but is pulled short suddenly by the ropes binding her wrists above her head to a loop of metal hammered into the wall. Raeis gasped again, painfully struggling once more against the ropes, her legs kicking frantically from the rough stone wall, heedless of the scrapes across her bare ankles, as her nightmare began to come real once more – the nightmare that someone was coming closer and she couldn’t do anything to defend herself. Maybe it was a nightmare…her detached mind drifted through the thought and she ceased for a moment. Another clank sounded and the elf made up her mind. She was surer than she had been of anything in the past few torturous years – this time, it was real. And despite every instinct that she had developed in that time, she was going to have to do the one thing everything in her mind screamed against. “H…help.” Her cry was feeble, coming from a throat unused to calling, but, bracing herself, she tried again. “Help…help!” Suspended by her wrists against the wall, her feet about half an inch off the floor, Raeis twisted around the try to see out of the barred slot in the door. The young elf woman had been tied in this position for several hours, and she guessed it was probably morning: the guards had taken the correct number of watches for it to be a few hours from dawn, not that that meant anything down here. But where was the next? The last monster had gone sometime when Raeis was asleep, and another had not yet come – the always rested their spears in one of the holes into the cell, poking the spear through as if to tease her, knowing that she would gladly take it, throw herself upon it…even if just to see if this existence was real. But this hour…it seemed to have stretched forever. Hearing another clank, Raeis twisted again, the ropes biting into her wrists once more and opening up new wounds, but in her desperation she only spared them a moment, biting her lip. “Help! Please I…” she trailed off, breathing heavily as she writhed furiously, attempting to get out of the ropes although she knew they were done up tight. It was just another form of torturing the elf, to hang her like this. The other rope, which wound around her neck before passing through the loop above with the one tying her wrists, pulled tight every time she struggled, choking her and making breathing and calling hard. Against all sense, she continued to struggle, coughing and choking against the noose as she called, until eventually she saw a shadow cross the door’s slot. For a moment, she thought the dark figure was an orc, another guard, but as it paused and looked in, she saw bright, blue eyes gleaming in what little light was cast from a guttering lamp. Giving another sharp, dry cough, her throat feeling as though someone had taken a saw to it, she twisted her fingers once more, feebly this time, against the ropes, and looked into the man’s eyes with her one, dark blue one. “Help…” she whispered.

06-21-2004, 12:39 PM	#7
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	alaklondewen – Easterling NAME: Lyshka (LEESH – ka) AGE: She knows she is close to twenty years, but whether she has passed the mark yet or not, she is unsure. RACE: Easterling GENDER: Female WEAPONS: Lyshka has no possessions whatsoever. APPEARANCE: Lyshka’s long face is framed by short, thick, uneven black hair that one of the men she had worked alongside chopped with a crude knife in return for a blow she administered to his gut after he touched her inappropriately. Her small, dark-brown eyes peer over a short pointed nose with a visible scar across the bridge. Her lips are full and firmly pressed together. Lyshka wears a stern expression and has not smiled since she was a small child. Lyshka is tall for her gender and her frame is so thin from starvation combined with hard labor that her dark skin appears to be simply stretched over her bones. The filthy, torn rags that cover her body do not hide her flesh and provide no protection from the elements. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lyshka is tough, but she’s had to be. She’s had to protect herself in the fields of Mordor, and she sports several scars as trophies to her grit. Once there had been the spirit of a loving and beautiful little girl deep inside her heart, but now she was hardened, cold, and eroded. Every person Lyshka trusted in her life betrayed her and she eventually pushed the pain so far down that she was numb. Numb is how she remained. She trusts no one, especially men for they have done nothing but use her. HISTORY: Lyshka came from a family that lived with a group of wayfarers that traveled in the southern lands of Middle Earth. Her mother was distant and emotionally detached, and her father made his living through thievery and gambling. One night her father made a bad bet to some Southron soldiers on their way to Mordor. Not being able to pay the men and facing death or torture because of it, Lyshka’s father gave them his little girl to pay his debt. Lyshka was only five years old at the time. The soldiers abused her and took her to Mordor where she was made to work in the fields in the south. As she grew she gained more attention from men, not only guards but those that worked and housed beside her. She had to learn to fight to protect herself from their advances, although she still lost occasionally to them, especially when they would gang up and several would attack her. One evening as she made her way back to the stall where she slept, a guard waited for her and as she passed him, he attacked her. Caught off guard, Lyshka tried to fight back but he was too big, too strong. They had struggled for several minutes, when her eyes and hands found his short dagger. Before he knew what was happening, Lyshka stabbed the guard several times until she could push his limp body from hers. The Orc guards that found her considered killing her on the spot, which in truth she would not have minded, but instead, they decided to send her to Cirith Ungol where she would wait until her turn came to be fed to the beast in the mountains. ~~ alaklondewen’s post* Lyshka had heard the commotion in the tower, but paid it no heed. Her cell was dark with shadows and the floor was cold as she sat against the wall with her long legs tucked beneath her chin. Her eyes stared blankly into the darkness as her mind simply worked to pass the time quickly so her body would not feel the pain of hunger. Then, her ears began to pick up on a sound that was unexpected…the jingling of keys and the swinging of the iron doors. The prisoners around her called out and the first sounds of joy she had heard in many years flooded the dungeon. Lyshka slowly pushed herself up with her hands and crept to the door. She peaked through the window, but kept herself hidden in the shadows. A young man was freeing the other prisoners. One cell at a time he inserted the key, turned it, and let the door fall open. Lyshka watched as he made his way one by one to her cell door. She stepped backward. Only her face was not consumed by the darkness. The man stepped forward, and she heard the shift of the lock. Still, she would not allow hope to rise in her, and she touched the door and studied the young man’s face with suspicion. Sensing her movement, he met her gaze with dull blue eyes, and then he turned from her and continued his task. Lyshka held her breath as the door slowly opened. She knew nothing of freedom and taking a step toward it was one of the most terrifying actions she ever made.

06-21-2004, 12:41 PM	#8
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Kransha – Dwarf NAME: Brór Stormhand AGE: 103 RACE: Dwarf GENDER: Male WEAPONS: At the moment, nothing, but he fancies himself very good with his fists. APPEARANCE: Brór has narrow, brown eyes almost hidden between a bulky brow and thick eyebrows. His skin is rough and darkened tan from time spent in the sweltering outdoors, but that only serves to augment his already dark composure. He has a long, bristly black beard, speckled with the first strands of misplaced grey, unkempt hair of the same color which has grown long, reaching to his shoulders now, and a stony face, seemingly capable of only a few expressions. He is relatively sinewy, just as most dwarves are, sturdily built and stands with his head high, even in his current state, reaching a height impressive to some dwarves, roughly five feet and one inch off the ground, but it still not very imposing to higher-headed folk. He wears nothing but an extensive layering of multicolored, tattered rags shoddily slapped together. PERSONALITY: Once a very jovial, merry, and talkative dwarf, imprisonment somewhat subdued his common nature. Like most dwarves, but more so than some and less so than others, he is stubborn and prideful whenever he gets the chance to be. Despite his irksome obstinacy, Brór is always staunchly loyal when he finds something to be loyal to. He is secretive about what he knows, but tries to discuss as much as he can about the old times with other dwarf prisoners, though he rarely gets a chance to so away from the watchful eyes of orcish captors. When set on a cause, he follows it through to the end, but will sometimes take dreary hiatuses from any goal, especially during his imprisonment in the Tower of Cirith Ungol. He is quick-tempered at times, and does not take insult or scorn lightly, with his fiery temperament and strength to back him up. Bror sometimes acts before thinking, but has done this much less since the date of his arrival at Cirith Ungol. HISTORY: Brór was born in year 2916 of the Third Age, among the ranks of Durin’s Folk in exile, lorded over by their exiled king, Thorin Oakenshield. He was too young and inexperienced to fight very much, or very well, when the dwarves reclaimed Erebor, but soon became one of the many revered dwarven warriors in the halls of Erebor. He trained himself in the ways of war beside his brethren at the Lonely Mountain. In 2989, Brór followed Balin from Erebor with a troop of dwarves to retake Khazad-dum. On the route south, a raid by goblins, barely a skirmish, resulted in the capture of Bror and several of his brethren, much to their chagrin. The few dwarf prisoners were taken at first to less well-guarded orcish camps and made to work for them, Since the goblins were an unorganized band, relying on brutality to keep order, one of Brór’s close friends who’d been captured as well began devising a plan, which he indoctrinated the rest of the dwarves and prisoners in the camp into. The prisoners rebelled but the orcs proved more powerful than before and quelled the uprising. All the ringleaders, including Brór’s companion, were brutally tortured and slain in cold blood by the orc forces, but the others were spared. Bror, determined to die with just as much honor as his friend, attempted to rally another uprising shortly after, but it was quelled with more ease. Realizing Brór’s purpose, the orcs decided it would be best not to kill him. Instead, he and the last dwarves in the camp were taken to the dungeons of Cirith Ungol, where he was again imprisoned. Before his first month, almost all of his brethren had succumbed to the strain of life in the tower. There were not many dwarves in the dungeons, and Brór did not seek to make friends with the men and elves. The dwarf hoped eternally that he could do something so vile that it would provoke the orcs to give him to spider that lurked in the pass nearby, thinking optimistically that he might take the beast with him, but his captors never did. He spent most of his time not working for his captors trying to keep his knowledge of Khuzdul, the tongue of the dwarves, sharp in his mind, as he began to forget as years passed. He spent 19 years in Cirith Ungol, and developed two goals, each an alternative to the other. He resolved to either die fighting the orcs, or somehow manage to escape… ~~ Kransha’s post* Bror sat, as he always did, leaning in cold and solemn silence against the rough-rocked wall of his cell, the back of his thick skull pounding, a resonating beat thumping like a drum in the back of his head as he sat, his eyes firmly shut with heavy eyelids sealed as if they were sewn together. There was very little light to let in, but the checkered shadows around him let in slim plumes of light whenever they were absent, though Bror had discovered that this was mostly a silhouette drama fabricated by his own mind, which was gnawed at daily by the insect of tedium. Even though that invisible spider was not as lethal as the monstrous being who skulked through the jagged rocks of the pass of Cirith Ungol, its omnipresence in Bror was just as painful. ‘Baruk Khazâd. Khazâd aimênu.’ He chanted slowly in his head, hearing the melodious thunder of the dwarven battle-cry pounding incessantly in his ears, the blast of it increasing as the dragging moments passed, roared by a hundred of his folk at least, a chorus that lingered in the blank corridors just before his eyes, beneath his nose, under his beard, and out of his reach. He breathed deep, the beard hair around his mouth blowing about as a sail would in a calm sea breeze. His eyes beginning to open, his ears quivered sensitively, listening to the murderous, raucous cries that rained down on him from the levels of the tower above. There were sounds, not that there ever weren’t, but these sounds held a strange feeling in them that wafted like smoke through the rusted bars of Brór’s cell. He lips parted as he began mouthing the words inaudibly to himself, thinking even in his tongue, although he feared he would never need the language again. He knew that no one else in Cirith Ungol knew the words he spoke of save the other few dwarves, and he had long considered attempting to teach it to the other prisoners, just so he would not be alone in the knowledge, but it was a miserably foolish thought and his secretive nature would not allow him even to speak it aloud, coupled with threats from the orcs, who didn’t appreciate their prisoners saying things that they couldn’t understand. One dwarf had made that mistake and paid a most terrible price, but sights such as that no longer haunted Bror. He managed to shift from his position, inching his way forward through the dank cell that contained him. His eyes widened weakly, his furrowed brow easing up as he looked through the bars and peered out, circumspect, observing his surroundings which he was so familiar with. Sounds of vicious mayhem had been rattling and clanging above him for a long time now, but those sounds had drifted away, out of his hearing, and he suspected that whatever struggle had occurred, it was now over. Suddenly, his keen eyes flitted to a figure scurrying down the damp hallway, busying himself with the unlocking of cells. At first, Bror could not fathom what was going on, as he ceased thinking in Khuzdul and reverted involuntarily back to the tongue so oft used in Cirith Ungol, being the only one that all races within new and were fluent in. Was it possible? Were the prisoners being freed? Was this some sort of mass feeding session for the spider in the pass? He considered as quickly as he could, his dulled mind sharpening upon the whetstone of spontaneity in the span of an instant. He stepped back from the icy bars, half in shock and half in a pooling mixture of horror and glee, as the man, a black-haired being, lean and with the same look as many human prisoners, but with an odd glint in his eye, unlocked his cell door and hurried off as the barred object that had held Bror in this forsaken place for 19 years swung open, limp and useless, as if it were nothing. Staggering with a weight that had never been before, and another weight removed, Bror walked out, through the threshold, and into the hall.

06-21-2004, 12:43 PM	#9
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Durelin – slave of Mordor NAME: Jordo AGE: Older than 20 Race: Man of Gondor GENDER: Male APPEARANCE: Relatively short and stocky with dark hair and eyes, pale skin and a few freckles around his small nose. He has thick limbs, strong, muscular arms and legs from years of exerting work. His body has adapted to the lifestyle that has been forced upon him. His skin has grown rough and hard, his feet to the greatest extent, resembling those of a hobbit. His hair has been unkempt for too long, and has grown very coarse, but it remains curly and untamed through all abuses. It never grows far past his shoulders, though it has only been cut twice in his life. He is not allowed much in terms of clothing, but even orcs understand the dignity in covering certain parts of the body, thanks to their very few humane attributes. A basic body tunic composed of an unknown material is all that is allowed, and it is considered to be enough. The slaves are actually quite happy with such a small amount of clothing, as the heat from ever burning fires surrounds them as they work, though there is no sunlight. At night, or whenever they sleep, it is fiery and sunless as well, of course. It is always night in Mordor. PERSONALITY/HISTORY: Born a slave, Jordo knows nothing but fear and obedience. He has lived as all but an animal. His mother tried to nurture the seeds of humanity within him to growth until her death several years ago. He has been told of how humans live and how they should be free, but it is hard for him to believe in even the existence of a human world. There has never been any proof of this, other than the stories his mother would tell. And he never had understood why she told them if they made her so sad. After years of watching his mother in pain, too proud to cry out until the pain made her forget anything but, Jordo has determined that he must obey. He knows of some of this pain himself, though he refuses to believe that any of it reached the greatness of what his mother withstood. After watching his mother die in the hands of his masters, Jordo is afraid of pain above all else. And the greatest pain, he believes, is found in death. He knows; he has felt it, hasn’t he? His name even reflects this situation, at least the name he relates with himself. His full name has been lost in the small capacity of his mind and memory. Most of his memories revolve around his mother, and ‘Jordo’ was what his mother had always called him. It is an abbreviation of his real name, but he is not aware of this. He is aware of very little, and even his speech is limited, mainly just because he is out of practice. Since the death of his mother, he has had little contact with real human. She had been one of the strongest of the past generation of slaves, the generation that had known freedom, and many had fallen under an orc sword, whip, or hand, never to rise again, before her. Jordo sees little but orcs and creatures such as himself, and that little is made up of monsters much worse than his taskmasters, as these terrors are taskmaster to them. Jordo has come to understand that he is there to serve, to do as he is told, and he has made it impossible for himself to disobey. Luckily, though he does not see it as lucky, his mother has done enough to keep disobedience as a thought in his mind. He has ignored this thought for years now, though, and it has begun to fade from being at all a temptation. Jordo has even begun to think of rewards, the few and pitiful ones that are given to those who serve well. But the desire for these ‘treats’ always brings guilt upon him, as the memories of his mother tell him that this is wrong. Jordo has begun to be unsure of what exactly is wrong much less what is right. Truly, he has never been able to – much less had the chance to – seize either concept as truth. ~~ Durelin’s post* Another scream reverberated in his head, and it shook his mind, thus shaking his entire body in a convulsive shiver. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he had no trouble recognizing that sound of pain, and who felt that pain. It was sad that he knew his mother’s scream just as well as he did her loving voice, but he did not understand this. Jordo knew he felt something, and it was so very uncomfortable. This was painful, in some way – he thought he understood ‘pain’ – but he wondered why he felt pain. Pain was a punishment, and he had been good. Jordo remained curled up on the ground, listening to the screams for several moments, until a hand touched him softly on the arm. It was cold and rough, blistered and bony, but it still sent warmth running through him, knowing that this was not an orc hand. He pulled his head out from within his arms, and noticed that the world around him had grown silent. There were no more screams. His mother knelt next to him in the dirt and soot, her face showing no signs of pain. And Jordo’s eyes were dry. The world was so silent. “Mama, I’ll be good, mama! I won’ hurt you mama, I’ll be good! They won’ hurt us, I’ll be so much good!” “So very good, Jordo.” Her loving voice made him smile, even though she now spoke without her mind, as it was wandering in sadness. “What you do can’t stop them from hurting your mama, and I’d never want it to. You must let them hurt me, Jordo.” “Never!” he cried, but still his eyes were dry. His mother smiled. “If you truly mean never, Jordo, they will hurt you so much more.” “What you mean, mama? Mama?” There was no answer, and now he looked down at his mother as she lay on the ground. She lay on the ground, silent and still, and yet his eyes were dry. “Mama?” his voice cried out in an horror and a growing anguish that he could not feel. “You let them hurt you, mama!” Now the sounds returned to his silent world, though he could not determine what he heard or distinguish any single sound. A warm itchiness tickled at his cheek, and his hand reached up to scratch it. He felt a wetness, and with this feeling so many others returned to his mind, and he cried freely. The knowledge of where he was, and that seeing his mother had had to have been a dream, made his body shake in small sobs. Metal ground and screeched, and they were the first noticeable sounds yet heard. He was alone, yet he was in the little room he had known all his life: his cell. And so he felt at ease. He dried his eyes. They were coming to get him, it seemed, though it was not time yet for work; he knew that. But he also knew that he had nothing to fear, because he had always been so very good. But it was not an orc that came for him, but a man dressed in the same garb as Jordo. In his hand was a set of keys. “Come with me!” he whispered urgently, and Jordo was so ready to obey that he was silent as he rose to follow the man.

06-21-2004, 12:44 PM	#10
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Bethberry – slave of Mordor Race: Southron (from Far, Far Harad) Gender: Female Weapon: None but her wits and her training as a protector of her tribe. If she can find one on a dead orc, a bow, but with now crippled arms she might not be able to use it. Appearance: Her real name is know only to herself, Kashtia Ma’at-Ka-Re. She was called by the orcs in the rudeness of their tongue, Ghâsh’naga but has been renamed by Grash. She is not emaciated, for the slaves of her labour were fed decently and, even, pampered for a time by other slaves and she would swim daily, obsessively, for long hours, in the perfumed baths available to her once her forearms healed, broken early in her captivity in the malignancy and cruelty of her captors as a means of restricting her resistance. She has a supple and shapely musculature which speak to her past life of athletic prowess, but her arms have mended poorly. Her skin is a burnished, dusky caramel underlaid with rippling shades of dark tea but it is marred by bluish-grey blotches of extensive bruising. Eyes of glowing topaz look out on upon a world with a proud self-possession which suggests the very opposite of vulnerability: an impenetrability despite the abuse she has faced. Indeed, they complement the handsomeness and regal dignity of her facial bone features. Her hair is the colour of dark pools of water at their deepest depth and her earlobes are torn in two, where earrings were brutally ripped from her ears. She is tall for a woman, at least as tall as Grash if not taller and a proud, effortless carriage can still be detected in her movements. However, in her demeanour can be seen a deliberate effort to neglect and even besmirch the features of her beauty: her intricately braided hair is unkempt; the dirt of the cell cakes her legs and feet; her nails are filthy. Her feet bare, she wears a ragged, faded shift of once ornate and splendid colour and pattern, with ripped sleeves and torn edges, as if its tearing was a desecration of her culture and tribe. She wears it nonetheless with a solemn pride. Personality and History: She was a fiercely independent protector of an ancient tribe in the distant reaches of Far Harad. Her tribe she calls the Amazigh and, if she would speak of it, she is of the city of Makhubela. She is in fact a figure from old mythologies, an Amazon warrior. She is a woman who has known no inferiority or inequality. She has the self-sufficiency of a matriarchal warrior and has developed during her captivity great disgust for the men of northern cultures, and, indeed, for what she sees as the depravity of northern cultures. She rarely speaks, for who would know her language, and she despises the Black Speech which has surrounded her; she reacts with a strangely calm, stoic passivity which in fact represents a profound indifference to her captors and their power over her. She would move swiftly at the opportunity of escape, not simply from the Tower, but from the entire region, to make her way back to her tribe, but the different star patterns of the more northern sky perplex her and she has yet to learn their ways. She was captured over a year ago by a roving band of marauders from Umbar who had attacked her village seeking treasure and slaves for barter with Mordor, where her unusual form of beauty and status fed the curiosity and contempt of the men of Mordor towards the cultures they wished to colonise and enslave. Her studied indifference and the blemishing of her prime beauty through abuse and neglect and assault has ultimately led her captors to tire of her and so she was sent to the Tower to become a feast for the monster. She has languished in her cell, watching curiously the relative freedom of Grash and listening closely to the patterns of events in the Tower for any signs of how she can escape. ~~ Bêthberry’s post* The cell was cool, dank, dark. The stone walls sweated and against these she pressed her body, for the coolness and the moisture alleviated the sore swelling of the bruises on her back and limbs. Amid such relief, she dreamed. Nyumbani unada ye mkulima. Mtu utakuyo ndege. She sang to herself the old words which she had not heard for over fifteen moons save from her own tongue. How often had she recited the story of the hunter who, trapped by the lion, had miraculously turned into a bird and flown away high above the beast. She told herself the story over and over again as she thought of ways to make herself a bird and escape. Caged she was, but she would sing. ~ ~ ~ At first, when she awoke to find herself in chains in the Umbarian camp, she spoke up to the marauders in her tongue and for that she was cuffed about the head, hits that brought back the surging pain in her head which she had felt before blackness swarmed over her mind during the attack. Every time she had spoken the tongue of the Amazigh, her tribe of Far Harad, she had been hit or scorned. Sometimes the brutes of Umbar would throw their garbage at her and taunt her with pidgin imitation of her speech and soon she soon gave up speaking in her tongue aloud. But she refused to use the tongue of Umbar, the words of those who bartered her people as payment for weapons from men even more foul than they. For that reason the jackals of Umbar had begrudgingly fed her, keeping her healthy on the journey out of her land, for her caramel skin and golden eyes and lithe body would bring a high price from the men of Mordor. She had watched the sky change as they brought her into this strange land until she could no longer tell direction from the stars at night. Part of the time, too, she had been drugged so she could not remember the route. No longer could she smell the scent of the tamarisk tree or of cinnamon in the radiant heat of the savannah. Instead, the air hung heavy with acrid odours and she came to know the scent of sulfur for the first time in her life. She could remember only too well, however, the indignities and abuse from the hands and bodies of these swilling men who were no better than warthogs. Mordor she would repeat to herself, learning its name and some of the words of their vicious speech, as rough in tongue as the speakers were in attitude and action, but she would never give them the satisfaction of speaking their language to them. She had fought them at first, until they had broken her arms for her defiance and she could no longer fight them off. The snap of her bones breaking had brought back the pain in her head incurred during the attack on Makhubela, her home village. Many things were to bring back that pain and add other wounds. Unable to resist physically, she had taken the pain into herself and given it a name, kwenye darasa, until she had become so intimate with it she could follow its path and would know its duration and could recognise when it would peak. And in binding herself to the pain she took control of it and became utterly indifferent to her captors and their desires. And they tired of her indifference and intransigence and beat her in ways anew. Then they threw her off into this cell, taunting her that she would be fed to a monster blacker than she and more loathsome. ~ ~ ~ Shehemu yakii! Her dream was disrupted by howls of rage and hurt and the clang of steel upon steel from some kind of fracas in the courtyard; her senses became alert as she heard the screeching of the strange watchers and then warily observed the slave Grash run down the hallway. She tensed as if for battle when she saw him, for there was an urgency to his movements she had not seen in him previously, but he ignored the calls of other captives. She was curious about Grash. He had been startled to see her when she was first brought down to the cells, and stared with undisguised curiosity at her dusky skin. In her tongue she had asked him if her skin was much different from his own tanned hide, yet he had not hit her as the Umbarians had. He spoke in a tongue different from that of the filthy warthogs yet not one she knew. He would speak its words to her occasionally when he came to sweep her cell or bring what food was given to her and she remembered them in her cunning. He had come to call her Darash after overhearing her speak several times to her pain, for she had refused to divulge her real name to him and he had refused to repeat the name the orcs had given her. He smelled different than the foul men of Mordor and she had come to realise that despite his seeming freedom he also was captive. Then more footsteps sounded outside her cell and she pressed herself even closer to the wall, hoping to disguise herself and perhaps gain an advantage. Yet, instead of one of the foul creatures it was Grash who reappeared. He opened her cell door and called to her, “Darash.” She stood to her full height but without comprehension until he beckoned with his head and grabbed her elbow, drawing her with haste into the hallway. At first she resisted but then she followed him, wary, and yet aware that something had changed, like the sudden hesitation in the air of a dry season storm which would bring release after calamitous drought.

06-21-2004, 12:46 PM	#11
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Aylwen Dreamsong – male Southron Name: Jeren Age: around 25 Race: Southron of Khand/Harad Gender: Male Weapons: All his weapons were confiscated when he was caught and brought to the tower, which angered Jeren almost as much as being captured in the first place. However, Jeren knows well how to use the bow and a set of arrows, and has a fair hand with any set of daggers set before him. While he never had extensive training with any kind of blade longer than a dagger, Jeren would rather use a broadsword or rapier than go into a fray empty handed. But this silly thinking is what got him caught in the first place, so Jeren is hesitant to ever use a long sword again. Appearance: Strong and athletic, Jeren has the warrior build of his people. His dark mahogany curls frizz easily, falling just into his eyes and right below his ears. Stony grey eyes sit just about proud cheekbones and a determined, set jaw. He rarely smiles, and at most times there will be a contemplative look upon his brown-tan face. He wears a light tunic with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shirt has tattered since arriving at the tower, as have the hems of his brown breeches. He used to have a pair of nice, black leather boots, but they were taken upon arrival and deemed as a ‘nice find’ by the guards. Without his shoes, his tribal tattoos are visible all along the outer side of his calves. Personality: Jeren’s appearance mirrors his persona. He will be strong for others, and will rally others to bring them to the best of their abilities. He is always up for the challenge of being a leader. He will never show outward weakness to others, and tries his best and hardest to hide all inward weaknesses, though he has yet to perfect the latter endeavor. While Jeren will always motivate and be determined for other people, Jeren has a hard time fighting for himself. Jeren feels like if he has no one to disappoint but himself, he does not try as hard. However, when he has people depending on him Jeren rises to the occasion, never wanting to let anyone down. Jeren’s most intense fears are disappointing others and being a failure to them. History: Jeren comes from a strong warrior clan that roams the borders of Khand, Near Harad, and Mordor. While not a leader of his clan, Jeren led many fighting expeditions in his time of freedom. During the years of the war, Jeren worked as a strategic captain and led some of his and other clans’ best warriors on reconnaissance work, indirectly for the purposes in Sauron’s fight for leadership of Middle Earth. Jeren and his troop traveled as far west as Dol Amroth and as far north as Rhovanion and Rhun working for the forces of Mordor. On one expedition to the areas near Mirkwood, three of Jeren’s men were caught by the light-footed elven kind. Interrogations revealed plans for an attack on the border of Mirkwood, and plans went awry for the battalions fighting under Sauron as their enemies had been informed and could prepare for battle. After learning of the lost men, the leader of Sauron’s forces at Mirkwood blamed Jeren for the mishap and loss. Jeren was stripped of his title as captain and taken back as a prisoner of Mordor and branded a traitor of their cause. ~~ Aylwen Dreamsong’s post:* Alone. Jeren had never been so alone in his life. In his small, confined imprisonment room Jeren could find little comfort. The dank, dusty stone walls and the little candle that held all light in the room held no warm company. The wooden entryway in the floor that led to a small set of creaky wooden stairs did not offer hope of escape; Jeren knew who – or what – awaited him should he dare to open the decaying slab of wood. Jeren suspected it had been locked anyway. The metal bars on the left wall opened to some other cell, but Jeren had not been in his own room long enough to wonder if any other beings had been held prisoner. Alone. Jeren had no company save for the noises of battle outside the tower. They had been rumbling and shouting for a long while, or so it had seemed to Jeren. None of it gave any hope to Jeren. If the attackers came out victorious, Jeren was likely to be pursued and killed for his days of fighting in league with Sauron. If the attackers were massacred, he would still end up in the high tower as prisoner. He would remain a prisoner in his own King’s castle. Jeren had little pride left in him and no one to fight for. After being deemed a traitor and a piece of scum by those he had fought for and those he had led, Jeren had little motivation to do anything. His own life would never be worth enough to try and save, and he had spent his whole life trying to help others. Jeren sighed as he thought about the past, which had been dedicated to others, then held his breath as he took a good look at the present. Alone. Jeren did not know how long he had been in the cell. His clothes had already begun to tatter, though. At the hems Jeren could see the threads unraveling, releasing the pressure and care woven into breeches he had worn for so many years. Jeren’s thick black curls did not feel as soft or bouncy as they once had, while his face and body burned with the pain of a thousand scrapes and bruises. His dark eyes had long clouded over in misery, losing the sharp black gaze and being replaced with hardened and disheartened anger. Still, no matter how many thoughts brashly ran throughout his mind, he remained alone… …That is, until someone stuck their head through the little door in the floor. “I am Grash…follow me!”

06-21-2004, 12:49 PM	#12
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Fordim Hedgethistle – Game Owner NAME: Grash AGE: He’s not sure: somewhere in his mid-twenties. RACE: Men GENDER: Male WEAPONS: None but his wits (and whatever he can pick up from the corpses of the Tower) APPEARANCE: Grash is lean to the point of emaciation but sinewy and tough like an old tree that has grown where none thought one could survive. His skin is dark tan from years spent in the sun labouring in Sauron’s fields in the south of Mordor. His hair is black and curly like an Easterling, but his eyes are blue, testimony to the mixed heritage of the slaves who fuel the machine of war in the land of Darkness. He is of average height and physically unprepossessing, but he can be extremely dangerous when cornered or threatened. He never smiles, and it is possible that he has never laughed in his life. By the same token, crying and expressions of sadness or pain are impossible to imagine upon his countenance. He is dressed only in a pair of ragged trousers and a patched shirt through the many holes of which his naked body is clearly visible. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Grash has been a slave his whole life and knows nothing of the outside world. Due to the brutality and the hopelessness of his life he has become fiercely independent, with a will of iron that frequently hurts himself more than it does others. He trusts absolutely nobody, convinced that the world is run by the same rules that have governed his existence from birth. To Grash, life is brutal, short, dirty and bestial; the only way to find meaning in this world is to force it oneself. HISTORY: Grash was born sometime in the winter just over twenty years ago. He never knew his mother as she died soon after his birth, hard at work – as they always were – in the huge cornfields on the shores of the Sea of Nûrnen. He has spent his entire life in slave compound seventy-two, every day suffering beneath the lash and scorn of the orcs who drive them to and from their labours. In the early days of his manhood, he attempted to make friends amongst the other slaves, but they died so quickly, or were sent to other farms or to dig in the mines, that he gave that up. Grash withdrew into himself ever more, cutting off all possible contact with other people and cultivating the cold and stone-hearted spirit of the hopeless slave that he very nearly became for ever. One hot day two years ago, however, he watched – as he had a thousand times before – as the orcs who guarded them turned on one of the other slaves. She had been too slow in bringing something, or too quick in walking away, and now four of the monsters were beating her with their whips. To this day Grash could not say what it was about such a familiar sight that made him act, but act he did. Seizing his scythe he ran at the orcs and before they could subdue him he slew two and mortally wounded a third. He was taken and whipped, then bound in cruel ropes and made to walk all the way to the Tower of Cirith Ungol where he was made to slave in the dungeons for the orcs. Each day he is told that he will be sent into the tunnels to be fed to the monster that dwells there, but he is past caring. A constant stream of prisoners comes from Barad Dûr and passes through the cells that Grash cleans, on their way to the monster’s lair – and all that Grash can do is wish for the day that he too will find solace in death. ~~ FIRST POST FOR GAME* Fordim Hedgethistle‘s post The sounds of chaos died down from the courtyard above and Grash slowly emerged from his hiding place in the storeroom. Casting furtive glances about for the guards he walked down the dark hallway past the cells, looking neither right nor left at the prisoners. He had long ago ceased to regard the folk who passed through this place as actual beings. Rather, he thought of them as creatures like himself: dead already, without the formality of having their breath stopped or their hearts stilled. A few of the prisoners spoke to him, asking him to free them but he passed on as heedless as wood. He reached the stairs and climbed slowly, his every fibre tensed and reaching outward for signs that his captors were still alive. All he could hear, however, was the unnatural wailing of the Silent Watchers as they screeched their warning to the listening mountains. He had been climbing these stairs for two years now, and did not need a light to find his way. He soon reached the top and marked without emotion that the door, which was normally locked and barred as tightly as steel, had been left open. He poked his head through the door into the lowering gloom that lay upon this land always and looked about. The courtyard was filled with bodies and body parts. There was no movement. He stepped out of the door and picked his way through the courtyard toward the gate. Once, from somewhere high above, he thought he heard a cry and he fell immediately to the ground for fear of having been seen, but there came no other cry to interrupt the wailing of the Watchers. He continued and soon got to the Gate, but he found his way barred by some unknown and invisible will. It held him back like a huge black hand and try as he might he could not move forward. Finally, panting and gasping with the effort he fell back from the gaze of the watchers, defeated. The last time Grash had cried he has been but a boy, and a sound whipping at the foul hands of an orc had cured him of that weakness. But this was almost more than he could bear. His guards were dead, and before his very eyes he could see the road that lead to his freedom stretching out, but he could not reach it. Once more he threw himself forward but this violence seemed only to increase the resistance and he fell back into the court once more. As he lay there he thought about the freedom that was so tantalizingly close, and realised that it really was nothing more than an impossible dream. The wailing of the Watchers was sure to bring more orcs soon, and there was already, no doubt, one of the Dark Lord's Screechers already winging toward this place. Grash turned from the gate and crawled back to the cells on his hands and knees. Better to hide in the storeroom again and await the orcs than be caught out here. If he plead ignorance of the events he might escape with only a whipping. As he slunk into the hallway once more, however, he heard the calls of the prisoners and a new idea occurred to him. Alone and naked as he was, escape was impossible. He knew the ways and paths about Cirith Ungol well, and could easily find a way down from here to the road that lead westward to Minas Morgul. But beyond that he was lost. Even to get to that point alone and unarmed would be impossible…but with the help of other folk, it might just be possible. He sat for a moment and thought this over. He had never in his life considered the possibility that other people might be able to help him, but as hard as that thought might be, in this circumstance it actually made some kind of sense. His decision suddenly made, Grash rushed down the hall to where he had seen the jailer’s body lying in a bloody heap. He pulled the keys from the beast’s belt and began unlocking the cell doors.

06-25-2004, 11:03 AM	#17
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	POSTED FOR: Sarin Mithrilanger - (internet access problems) 1) I have never played an RPG at the Barrow Downs. 2)I am not currently involved in any RPG's. 3) Yes, I have posted in The Green Dragon Inn. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Name: Zuromor- Slave of Mordor Age: Around 20 Race: Man Gender: Male Weapons: None at the moment, though after being in Mordor and constantly fighting for survival he has learned to use his body and wits as weapons. Appearance: A tall man with hair black as the night itself and green eyes. His quick smile and helping hands for other slaves give a kind air to his person. He is well built; his body made hard by the harsh conditions in the slave camps. The rugged labor in Mordor has made him muscular, although the scarce food has left him whipcord thin. Sometimes, the constant hunger makes him feel close to death. His body is covered with old scars and new wounds from the beatings he receives almost daily from the slave handlers. His hair is unkempt - matted and very dirty. His beard is scraggly and filthy, also. His tunic is barely more than a ragged shirt. He has no breeches, only a worn loincloth. His feet are bare. Personality/History: Born into slavery, bred in the very bowels of the deepest and darkest hells, Zuromor knows only the dark, bleak existence he has in Mordor. His time as a slave has been filled with daily difficulty and despair. He has often dreamt of places he has heard about from the other captured slaves - green hills and beautiful lands that must exist somewhere beyond this wretched world. For his entire life he has been beaten by orcs and tortured – and often just so the orcs would have some entertainment. Soon after he began to mature he began to exercise in his cell as often as he could. He knew the orcs would only torture him until their sick desires and disgusting pleasures became indulged by another sad and pathetic life-form. So he trained in case he would ever be able to kill at least one orc before they slaughtered him. In the end, he vowed, they would not get their pleasures so easily from him. As if battling for his survival were not enough, he has fallen into thoughts of death - grabbing an orc’s spear through his bars and robbing them of their wishes to beat him and then tearing into his very flesh by killing himself. But he knew his death would mean nothing to him unless he could spill orc blood first. He waited patiently for that chance. ---------------------------------- Sarin Mithrilanger’s post Darkness spanned Zuromor’s entire cell once more. It was always dark and gloomy beyond all imagining. He sat in the darkest corner of both his cell and his mind. Dark thoughts came to him, besieged him. In an effort to shake himself away from such things he began to exercise, though he now tired of even thinking of doing such things. The orcs were not without intelligence however and they usually had a guard outside the group of cells his own was in – in case any of the slaves tried something foolish. But this night (or day) was different. There was no guard on watch. This seemed strange to him, but strange things often happened in Mordor. He was just finishing up his routine when he heard raised voices and odd noises that soon sounded like keys. He approached the cell door and peered down as far as he could. Soon he saw a figure approaching. He sighed and stood in the center of his cell expecting an orc to come and threaten him. But in a matter of moments a man stepped in front of his door and unlocked it. Zuromor was so shocked he dared not move. The man looked at him for a moment and then waved for him to follow. Zuromor hesitated - freedom seemed like another prison, just bigger. But maybe there is a land where orcs do not roam. He smiled briefly as the thought crossed his mind. He quickly followed this mysterious figure to his first taste of freedom. He was out of his cell and for the first time, there were no orcs around him.

06-25-2004, 02:34 PM	#18
Fordim Hedgethistle Gibbering Gibbet Join Date: Feb 2004 Location: Beyond cloud nine Posts: 1,844	Welcome aboard Sarin! I very much like your character's grim determination to take at least one orc with him before he goes -- perhaps, if he's lucky, he'll get the chance to do something very like that before the end of the game Game Note -- I have been PMed by two people already about the remaining Dwarf position, so for the time being we should consider that part taken (I have yet to receive bios/posts from those players, though). So that leaves just the Elf position to fill.

06-25-2004, 03:38 PM	#19
Amanaduial the archer Shadow of Starlight Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: dancing among the ledgerlines... Posts: 2,347	Hey all, Wonderful, an excellently dark game. I'm just sticking my head in to say I am here, etc. - Aman __________________ I am what I was, a harmless little devil

06-25-2004, 04:16 PM	#20
Novnarwen Ghost Prince of Cardolan Join Date: Apr 2003 Location: In your mouth... Eeeew, by the way. :P Posts: 517	Am I late? Hi! This looks like a very nice game. I would like to apply for the Slave of Mordor. I see now that someone has already applied for the position, but as I had already written half the bio and post, I'll post anyway. (Fordim, I tried PMing you, but I going soon so I will post it here.) Character Description Form: Applying for the Slave of Mordor 1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES/NO - Which one? Yes. I have played in the following: Hunt for the Dragon, Corsairs and Corsets, Breelanders All!, Flight from Rohan and Setting Sails for Valinor. 2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? List them, please: I’m currently in Defense of the Poros and Search for Rhûn. _______________________________________ For your character please include: NAME: Rhând (Raaaan) AGE: 26 RACE: Southron (Haradrim) GENDER: Male WEAPONS: None at the moment, but his own cleverness. He used to have quite a collection of knives though, which he was very proud of. APPEARANCE: His mother was a Gondorian. She was held imprisoned in Near Harad. At the time she was freed, she had nowhere to go as she didn’t know where she came from. She had been a prisoner for many years, but found comfort in a hurried marriage with a tired Haradrim soldier. Their son, Rhând inherited quite a few of the Gondorian features, but was of mind a Haradrim. - Rhând has dark blond hair. Before he was taken to the Tower as a prisoner, it was short, and neatly cut. Now on the other hand, it's quite long and knitted into a pony-tail. His eyes are brown. The spirit he used to have is lost, but somewhere in there, there is spirit and hatred enough to shine through when the time comes. The months in the Tower has made him weary. Dark rings around his eyes make him look dangerous and grim. In the centre of his grim face, his nose is situated. It is big, and the tip points upwards. It looks crooked, as if belonged to an old man. To tell you the truth, it looks broken; a proof that he has been beaten many a time. Other bruises in his face are also visible, but most he has on his body. When being a free man, serving as a spy and a devoted servant of Sauron, he could afford proper clothes. You see, his jobs paid well. It is quite different now, as he is wearing nothing but filthy rags. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Rhând is clever, humorous and outgoing. Yet he is ignorant, quick to anger, forgetful and quite arrogant. - Sometimes Rhând is too clever for his own good. He can actually seem quite dumb, because he is so ignorant about so many things. Blame the parents I say, but Rhând would rather not talk about his parents. He has quite a few bad memories, and would not like to share those with any outside his 'inner circle'. The inner circle, which he often talks about either when sleepwalking or when angry, is an unknown mystery. No one, who knows him, understands it. However, Rhând is yet likeable, even though his many flaws. His humour makes people laugh, even though much of his humour is at others' expense. Due to the fact that Rhând can easily bond with people, which has been an extremely good tool over the years, he has difficulties keeping friends. Quite a few times he is bored when being accompanied by the same people over a long period of time. This makes him restless, and arrogant in some ways. Rhând couldn't care less about other's people's wellbeing. This, I would say, is a result of his poor childhood. Rhând found himself too ignored, too little loved, and some of this made him the way he is today. HISTORY: Born and raised in Near Harad, by the River Harnen. He lived great parts of his childhood with his mother, as his father was constantly gone on raids or whatever it was he was doing. His father came along now and then though, but brought always new women with him. By this, naturally, Rhând felt ignored, but he got used to this way of living. His mother was busy working. Often she was away for days, but brought money, and food at the table as she came home. Nevertheless, Rhând grew used to his empty existence, but started at the age of sixteen to search for something more. As a child, just in his teens, he was an easy prey for the older ones. They took advantage of him, making him do the dirty jobs they didn’t want. Soon however, he found himself going upwards in the "ranks", amongst the part criminal young men. He was clever and in that way useful. Mostly, Rhând stole information and spied, and delivered it eagerly to Sauron’s loyal servants. In this way, he also became known as a traitor of the free men. But as most Haradrim supported Sauron, he was fairly respected amongst his kind. It was only amongst Gondorians and such, he later discovered, that they were quite keen on catching him. Anyway, “business” went quite well for a while. Information was an easy thing to steal, as it only had to be stored one place; in his head, but not hidden. Rhând even enjoyed giving all the info he got from Gondorians and etc. as they, who had spoken so openly to Rhând, had not the faintest idea that Rhând was passing on the info to their enemy. You see, Rhând had one advantage as also previously mentioned. He didn’t look very much like a Southron. His skin was not so dark as the most of his kind. Therefore, one could believe that he was from the south-western part of Gondor, and in that way he could easily either imitate a Gondorian ambassador to get info or just be there; right place at the right time with his ear well cleaned. For a long time this worked quite well, and Sauron’s loyal servants were happy to greet him whenever he came with new info for example about the Gondorian army's positions and their future plans. But what Rhând didn’t realise, was that a Gondorian ambassador had recognised him on two occasions. Naturally, this caused suspicions, and the ambassador’s suspicions were confirmed as a fellow ambassador suspected the same. As a result of this, Rhând was set up. The Gondorian ambassadors arranged a meeting, of where they pretended that they were seriously discussing tactics. They agreed upon something Rhând cannot quite remember (see under personality: forgetful ). However, he can remember that the info he passed on to Sauron's allies was completely wrong and could have led to a disastrous, maybe fatal, outcome. So that was when Rhând was taken by Sauron’s faithful servants and interrogated. As Rhând had passed false information, he was naturally suspected of being in the lead with the Gondorians; therefore, a traitor. Trying to explain himself that someone had probably set him up, he was brutally tormented and forced to tell a lie, about how he really worked for Gondor. Being too precious to kill in that case, he was sent to the Tower of Cirith Ungol, of where he has been a prisoner for the last thirteen months. __________________________________ Novnarwen's post: A four legged oblong thing came sneaking through the closed bars this morning. Yes, for it is believed that it was morning. It ran hurriedly after the smell, of which it had been eager to get closer to for a long time. It was a nasty smell, the smell of rot and dried blood. But this little creature didn't think it horrible at all. It came closer and closer, having its nose sticking up in the air, squeaking, trembling with curiosity. Its long, thick, tail could only just be seen as the dim light crept through the bars and into the square room. The tail made a whispering sound now and then, as it was dragged, quickly, over the stone floor. Suddenly, what it had been waiting for; there were movements in the corner. Its yellow eyes lit up, its mouth twitched and its tail slid more quietly along the floor. Not long now... In the dark corner of the room, something was indeed moving. A steady movement it was, someone was breathing. Rags and old clothing covered what was beneath. Finally, it was there! It ran, scraping its sharp nails on the floor, through a hole in the clothing. Sniffing, letting in the stank of rot, dried blood and sweat, it set its teeth into the flesh. "OUCH!!!" A voice, so loud that the bricks in the wall trembled, exploded from underneath the rags. The rags moved quickly from the ground, and a pair of feet could be spotted; a man arose. His face was pale and his eyes red and bleary. He was covered in sweat and dirt, this, making him look old and grim. The rings under his eyes showed the number of days, weeks and months he had staid here. His eyes looked desperately around. Cursing like mad, lifting a hand to where he had been bit, he discovered the creature crawling pettily towards the bars again. With gritted teeth and a malicious look in his face, he sprang over. As there was a crack, the man lifted his foot gently and laughed gruffly. "Never bite a sleeping man. Never!" Rhând sat down, laid his head on the ground and stirred into the dead rat's eyes. The open wound the rat had left him, made him writhe with pain. "Darn you rat!" he said slowly, feeling the pain in his neck die away for a bit. "Where did you come from?" he smirked and paused. "Was it through the bars or was it elsewhere? Is there another way to get out of this hole?" he shuddered, biting his lip. He cursed the rat, the hole of a cell and all the servants of Sauron. How had he ended up here? He knew very well how, but he had difficulties coping with it anyhow. He cursed once more, loudly this time. Offering the dead rat one last look, filled with hatred that is, he rose to his feet and clapped his hands together. Thirteen months inside of this hole, it was too much! He clapped his hands together once more. Clever they are, the free men, he thought to himself. They must have known that he wasn't who he claimed to be, and set him up. He frowned. A year had passed and he didn't even know the truth about what had happened. He wasn't sure whether it was the Gondorians who had set him up or whether it was Sauron's faithful servants. He supposed it was the Gondorians though. "Those foul folk of free men!" He yelled and cursed. He should have known that day, when that ambassador had called him in for a meeting. The ambassador must have already known, Rhând was certain of it. Why else would that filthy Gondorian have smirked so annoyingly at him that day? He clapped once more, jumped up and down, dancing. He broke into a song; which touched every aspect of his life now and what it had been before. He grabbed the dead rat, held it in is tail, and swung it in the air. Some would call him crazy, but the months locked up in the cell had made him different from what he had been like. From the very first day he had been brought to the Tower, or rather; from the day he had been interrogated, Rhând had been tortured. He usually screamed, asked for mercy or tried again to tell the truth about being set up, but this only made it more enjoyable for his interrogaters. However, as Rhând got to know their ways of tormenting, he was more aware and tried to make friends with his keepers. Sometimes, he found it good fun to learn about their miserable lives, even though they probably never spoke the truth. By doing this, he also made them forget about him, as they all believed he was both crazy and harmless. "This is good fun," he muttered to himself, still having the rat in his left hand, swinging it back and forwards. But he was interrupted by a terrible uproar. He cast himself to the floor, slightly afraid that they were coming to get him. What was he supposed to tell them today? He wondered. He had already listened to their pathetic lives; he would have to figure out something new, creative. Maybe the torture would stop completely then. He lay down, covered his head with his rags, casting the rat towards the bars. Rhând focused, trying to hear what was going on. There was shouting, no; roars, coming from .... somewhere. Rhând even got the odd feeling of whoever it that was shouting, weren't coming his way. He frowned; almost disappointed that no one was visiting. It was after all quite lonely staying here day after day in this dark hole. A few minutes had passed, when at last Rhând realised that someone was coming. He cursed, and regretted that he had even thought that some of these nasty, treacherous creatures, could be good company. He curled together on the floor, making himself look small; hoping that whoever came by, would just leave again; thinking that it was just an empty cell. He spent his mucles, in case they would burst into the room and grab him. He felt the bite on his neck burn with pain, and he cursed the inner circle, before letting out a sigh. "Anyone there?" A voice from the other side of the bars muttered silently. Of course, Rhând heard the whisper quite well, but grew uncertain about what to answer. This did not at all sound like the voice of the orcs who guarded the Tower or any other he had got to know through the torturing. Gritting his teeth, he realised that if it was indeed someone else, something terribly wrong was at hand in the Tower. How could possibly a normal man or woman, who weren't prisoners, walk freely around in the Cirith Ungol? Unless.... they were prisoners, he thought. Next thing he knew, he was out of the cell, trotting behind a man he had never seen before; named Grash. ***** That was it. I'm happy to edit if there is anything. Cheers, Nova Last edited by Novnarwen; 06-28-2004 at 09:55 AM.

06-25-2004, 04:33 PM	#21
The Perky Ent Maniacal Mage Join Date: Dec 2003 Location: Setting sail for Umbar, with Firefoot at my side! Posts: 3,297	Hello everyone! Today, I will be applying for the position of the jailed dwarf. So, without any further delay, here is Dorim, my dwarf. BTW, good luck Himaran. Now I only wait for your post Character Description Form: 1.) Have you ever played in an RPG before? Yes Which? Last Hope for Moria Last Ride of the Heir 2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? 1 List them, please: Last Ride of the Heir 3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? – YES – Which one? Both _______________________________________ For your character please include: NAME: Dorim Stonehewer AGE: 55 RACE: Dwarf GENDER: Male WEAPONS: Currently nothing. However, he needs very few weapons, as his fists are deadly when provoked. APPEARANCE: Dorim is relatively tall for his race, and has the muscle to back it up. His eyes were once a bright blue, but are now dark and bloodshot. His face is very rough and filled with scratches. He has a large scar ranging from the right side of his brow to the bottom of his cheek. Dorim is clothed in tattered rags, sleeves stopping at the shoulders. Dorim’s bulging muscles are a site, as they always seemed to be flexed. His baldhead has many patches of black on it, and his brown, unclean beard droops down to his chest. His complexion is very dark and unclean, as he is deprived of sanitation. Dorim also has another scar running the length of his left arm. His fit to bust shoulders are a site, as they seem to pop out of his shoulders. Without a smile, Dorim’s face is relatively neutral, giving very little emotion if any. His tattered pants are unevenly ripped at his knees, making his legs and feet even dirtier than his head. Dorim’s body is filled with millions of bruises, scratches, cuts, and blisters, as he doesn’t take very good care of himself and walks barefoot. Although not poise, his posture is very strait and rock like. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Originally a jolly, naive, merry dwarf, it seems that 15 years of imprisonment have broken his spirit. All humor that was in his body is drained, and Dorim’s compassion for others is as soft as the tip of a sword. Like a stereotypical dwarf, his priorities are strictly about himself. Gaining much experience from 15 years of imprisonment, Dorim has learned many things about the Dark Powers of Mordor and their allies. This, in turn, has given him a fearless personality, thinking no force of Mordor or beyond can make him quiver. Dorim’s hatred of Sauron and all his minions are as pure and powerful as the light of the two trees. Sarcasm no longer enjoys him. He now uses his energy for one thing. Revenge. Dorim is incredibly strong, stronger than the average dwarf, yet this is not something that deserves recording. His multiple labors have given him bulging muscles, especially on his arms. Unlike his former personality, Dorim is no longer full of himself. He knows there are far better things to waste time on. Dorim’s only “weakness” is mercy. A lack of it. Imprisonment has made him so stone hard, there is little left of him for mercy. It would take a display of monumentous proportions to make Dorim show mercy. And when it comes to servants of Sauron, mercy is not a word. HISTORY: Dorim was born in 2964 of the Third Age under the Lonely Mountain. His parents weren’t very rich, and did little to help Dorim’s future. Born in a time of peace for Erebor, Dorim quietly lived there, making a living as the owner of a tavern, making many friends. He became very wealthy, and was soon one of the most popular places to go around Erebor. His parents, however, died soon after his success, seeing their son amount to something they never achieved. In 3004, when Dorim was twenty, he decided to see the world. He asked his friend Doram to watch over his business while he was gone. Dorim’s original plan was to hike up to the Grey Mountains, then travel down the Anduin, and come back up the same way. He visited Minas Tirith and made numerous amounts of friends. He was almost convinced to live there. Staying for a long time, he learned much of the world. The only thing that stopped Dorim from moving was a message. Dorim was shocked to find out that Doram had lost a large wager and lost Dorim’s tavern. Furious, Dorim quickly continued on his trip, so he could try to save his business. Returning on his journey, Dorim traveled along the Anduin until he reached the Bay of Belfalas. At the beach, Dorim took a flask and filled it with sand. Then he started his journey northward. As Dorim started back up, he traveled on the eastern side of the river. Moving upward he traveled the wild, and then got on the Harad Road, walking along it for many miles. One day, while walking, a large group of Haradrim was marching south and found Dorim. Dorim fought bravely, but was overcome. In the fight, he lost all his weapons, lying helpless as the Haradrim surrounded him. Without another weapon, he threw his flask of sand at one of the Haradrim. The impact was so strong it knocked him out. Dorim then took a shard of glass and killed the man. Enraged, another Haradrim took his sword and knocked out Dorim. In the process, he face was brutally cut, giving Dorim his scar on the right side of his face. When Dorim awoke, he found himself in bound, being carried by a group of Haradrim. Apparently, they decided not to kill him and take him prisoner in Harad. There, Dorim was left to rot in a cell, without any care. There, in his cell, Dorim hardened. His soul was crushed, and it seemed his very essence was taken from him. Dorim was nothing but an empty shell. There, he only took in things he heard from the Haradrim guarding his cell. This filled him with a newer, stronger spirit. Although not filled with evil from the Haradrim, he was filled with the strength of their tolerance for goodness. By ten years, Dorim was a rock solid, hard-core fighter. Then, after ten years, Sauron summoned the group of Haradrim holding Dorim captive. They traveled up to Mordor, taking Dorim with him. There, they decided to enslave the dwarf in Cirith Ungol, along with other prisoners. There, he was tortured, where he got his scar on his arm. After brutal torturing, he was sent to a cell in the Tower. Five years later, his opportune moment has come. The gates of freedom have been opened. __________________________________ The Perky Ent's post: The festering odor of orcs emanated through Dorim’s cell. The constant darkness that filled his prison remained its putrid hue. Dorim’s back was firmly against his wall, where no light could reach him. Drops of water dripped from the damp ceiling and landed in front of Dorim’s barefoot feet. Inside his head, nothing passed through Dorim’s mind. No thoughts of heroic escape or fantasies of love. Nothing, as he had nothing to live for. In the last 15 years of his life, he was deprived of purpose. The only things that could move his in-animate body was either if someone opened his cell, or if Sauron decided he was worthless and should be killed. Fortunately for him, fate would choose the first option. Hearing a giant crash from the ceiling, Dorim didn’t bother to look up. Whatever it was, it surely wasn’t important enough. Soon after, Dorim began hearing even more loud sounds. He could hear people of all races mumbling in their cells. All races of Middle Earth had somehow found their way into the hell that Dorim waked up to every day. Then, as he closed his eyes, Dorim could feel sand from Harad beneath his feet. What little light crept into the cell vanished, as a pillar of light smiled down on Dorim. Behind him, he sensed something, and behind him was a lone Haradrim, holding a dagger. Dorim reached for his ax, finding nothing. The man was facing the other way though, not looking at Dorim. Then, another, larger beam of light came, and revealed a large group of Haradrim in a circle. They all pulled out their daggers, and began to make the circle they were in smaller. Suddenly, there was a shout, and a red bead of light shot upward from the center of the circle. Suddenly, the lone Haradrim dropped to the ground, revealing a dwarf with a piece of glass in his hand. Dorim. Suddenly, one of the men sliced Dorim’s head, and all the lights went out. Suddenly, Dorim heard something he never thought he would here. The opening of cell doors. There was a confused merriment being flushed through the cells. It flowed past Dorim, having little effect. There were still rumbles in the ceiling, but they were significantly lighter. Suddenly, a dark figure ran to the barred door of his cell. Dorim could faintly hear the jingling of keys. Suddenly, in an instant, the dark figure opened the cell door, and ran. Dorim, if he were still as foolish as he used to be, would have stood there in amazement, pondering the occurrence. Dorim rushed out of his cell, cutting his foot on a rock. It didn’t matter. Freedom was in his grasp. Looking out of his cell, Dorim noticed several others had been released. The fact that no guards were in sight troubled Dorim. “Maybe it’s a trap?” Dorim thought, wondering why fate had chosen this to happen. Dorim always believed in fate. He thought his capture was meant to be. That like his parents, he wouldn’t be remembered. His pessimistic thought came through Dorim’s mind every time something happened. It was just his way of looking at life. “It must be a trap! It must be! That blasted spider must be hungry!” Dorim thought, starting to back away from the exit. Then, he heard the scream of an orc, and realized something was wrong in the tower of Cirith Ungol. This was no mass feeding. It was freedom. Last edited by The Perky Ent; 06-27-2004 at 09:33 AM.

06-25-2004, 06:53 PM	#22
Fordim Hedgethistle Gibbering Gibbet Join Date: Feb 2004 Location: Beyond cloud nine Posts: 1,844	Egads! Yipes -- it's all happening so fast! Novnarwen -- Your post is truly amazing, but I have already accepted Sarin Mithrilanger's submission for the Slave of Mordor. But do not despair, for I am becoming something of an expert at this whole two people, one role thing, as I already have two people vying for the lone Dwarf position. Pio -- Would it be possible to accept both Sarin and Nova as Slaves of Mordor (in effect adding a slot to the game), as well as accepting both Himaran and The Perky Ent as Dwarves, and eliminating the second Elf role? Aman -- As my confirmed Elf would this be acceptable to you? Your character would be rather isolated, surrounded by Slaves, Southrons, and Dwarves, but that might be interesting for you, mightn't it? Until I get this sorted round with Pio and the abovementioned folk, I'm going to declare the recruitment for the game temporarily suspended. My apologies for the rather haphazard way in which this is proceeding, but I hate saying no to people who want to play in the game, and it is my first time out as a Game Owner (love the sound of that: G.O. Fordim).

06-25-2004, 07:05 PM	#23
Kransha Ubiquitous Urulóki Join Date: Jan 2004 Location: The port of Mars, where Famine, Sword, and Fire, leash'd in like hounds, crouch for employment Posts: 747	G'day, bonjour, hola, strasvitye, and all that. Like Aman, just popping my head in here on this game, which is really shaping up (I dunno what you did, Fordim, but this is drawing more players than most games, which have to eliminate positions rather than add). Well, t'looks like I might have 2 dwarves rather than 1 at my side. Perky, I definately like your character. Dorim shares a lot of core traits with my own, Bror. Good luck, and to Himaran, who's post is, rather obviously, unavailable for my viewing. Fine job, to all ye who have entered this veritable Land of Darkness (alright, when I say that it just sounds plain silly). __________________ "What mortal feels not awe/Nor trembles at our name, Hearing our fate-appointed power sublime/Fixed by the eternal law. For old our office, and our fame," -Aeschylus, Song of the Furies

06-26-2004, 09:21 AM	#25
Fordim Hedgethistle Gibbering Gibbet Join Date: Feb 2004 Location: Beyond cloud nine Posts: 1,844	Hmmm. . .so that's why all my hats are so tight these days Aman, ask and ye shall receive: unless Pio objects, I will now reverse direction again (I'm beginning to get quite dizzy) and declare the thread once more OPEN for recruiting, but ONLY for a Silvan Elf to keep Aman company. I will leave this Elf slot open until Tuesday afternoon, at which point I will put the posts in order, write a new post to set the action after everyone's been released from their cells and send it all off to Pio; with any luck at all we will have the game underway very soon after that. Thank you all for bearing with me.

06-26-2004, 01:35 PM	#26
Amanaduial the archer Shadow of Starlight Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: dancing among the ledgerlines... Posts: 2,347	Thank you very much, Master Hedgethistle bows __________________ I am what I was, a harmless little devil

06-26-2004, 05:02 PM	#27
Himaran Ash of Orodruin Join Date: Jan 2003 Location: Thangorodrim Posts: 777	Hi everyone, I finished my bio but I didn't have time to get my first post done. I will post both here tomorrow. Himaran

06-26-2004, 06:07 PM	#28
CaptainofDespair Shade of Carn Dûm Join Date: Jun 2004 Posts: 413	CaptainofDespair Character Description Form: Applying for Silvan Elf Position 1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES/NO - Which one? No 2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? None List them, please: 3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? – YES/NO – Which one? Yes. The Green Dragon Inn. _______________________________________ For your character please include: NAME: Morgoroth Aranur AGE: 1,567 RACE: Silvan Elf GENDER: Male WEAPONS: Since his captivity, Morgoroth has wielded no weapon, save for his bare hands. APPEARANCE: Morgoroth is not the fairest of elves. He had long made a recluse of himself, staying far from his brethren in Mirkwood. His hair is dark, nearly black, and the atmosphere of Mordor has not helped its once glorious sheen. Since his confinement, he has left himself go in that respect. But nevertheless, he is still an elf, tall and lean. But due to the fact that he is more reclusive than the rest of his kind, he has had to fend more for himself, and thus he is slightly more muscular. His face bears sign of his travels, and of his captivity. He bears a small scar behind the left ear, a blow from an orc scimitar, and he has a small gash above his right eyebrow. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Morgoroth is one of many strengths, and many weaknesses. He is a strong elf, both in body and mind. He has not let his physical prowess deteriorate due to his imprisionment, and most certainly not his mind. He often makes excerises out of nothing, in primitive attempts to keep his body fit. He reminisces of the days of old, singing softly of the battles with Morgoth, and keeping the lore of the day fresh in his mind. High and noble he is, and seeks to stay a path of righteousness, preparing to do his part against the evils of Middle-Earth. He will do anything for the cause of freedom, even if it means his own death. But for all his strength, he is flawed. His belief that the cause of all that is good must be upheld, makes him extremely impetuous. Through this, he ends up thrusting himself into situations he cannot use his blade to free himself from. He is also a merciful soul. Should an enemy repent their hateful ways before his blade can fall on their necks, he will free them, and give them safe passage. Even in his dungeon cell, this has not changed. Though he knows the Orcs must die, any evil Man who he comes across that repents, will be given freedom. HISTORY: Morgoroth was born on a beautiful spring morning in T.A 1452 in Mirkwood. His mother gave him the name Morgoroth due to the darkness of the hair upon his head. She could see from the moment he was born, that he would become a warrior. The fire in his eyes, even at that moment, was burning brighter in him even more than that of his father, who had died fighting alongside the Last Alliance in the Siege of Barad-dur. For years Morgoroth was seen as a distant child. He kept to himself around other children, and he seemed along interested in the machinations of war. He spent much of his time around the Elders of the Halls. He would sit patiently for hours, listening to them discuss the past, and present. It was here he learned of the evils of Gorthaur the Cruel. He wondered why one so great, would turn to such ways, and he continued to inquire more about his evil. As he grew older, Morgoroth seemed to become more and more reclusive. He no longer went out, save for those dire times when his presence was required on the borders, defending Mirkwood from the Necromancer of Dol Guldur. Instead, he would sit for hours, studying the history of his people, and learning more of Sauron. Finally, one autumn morn, at the age of 719 he left the home of his mother, and armed only with the blade of his father, he struck out to find his place in the world. He traveled through many differently lands in the East. During his travels, he encountered many folk, both good and evil. From these peoples, he learned much of the happenings in the world at large. He was fascinated by the Easterling peoples, but seeing that many shunned him, he sought to live a distant life from them, but still close enough to study their ways. And so for two centuries, he lived as a nomad, wandering from region to region, studying the people he encountered. But now, a change had come over these people whom he had spent so much time amongst. They became more war-like, more savage. Morgoroth quickly learned that Sauron had arisen again, and was using the Easterlings as part of his war machine. He detested this, and he despised Sauron. And so he left his wandering life, and journeyed to the Ash Mountains on the Northern Border of Mordor. Upon viewing that which was the Black Lands, he could not perceive why any would choose such a location as their homeland. The atmosphere itslef was a bane on him. It hung over him like a heavy fog. For a time, he could barely manage to breath in the clouded, volcanic air of Mordor. And so he thought it wise to rest himself, so that his journey back home to Mirkwood would be made easier. He moved little during the day, and went out only at night to hunt for any prey he could find. It was on one of these expeditions that he was captured. Seeing as he was an elf, the Orcs knew better than to kill him. So, they took him to Cirith Gorgor. He remained confined there for a brief time, until word from Barad-dur came that he was to be taken to Cirith Ungol. And there he was taken, and held as a prisoner for 18 long years. __________________________________ CaptainofDespair's post: Morgoroth awoke in his cold, dank cell on a dark morning. His unusually long captivity in Cirith Ungol had made him aware of everything that went on in Mordor. He had learned to tell, just from the sounds an orc made while moving, what was going on. He was kept alone, segregated from the other prisoners. This was ordered out of caution on the Tower Guards' part. He was dangerous, not because he could free himself, but because his calming allure, and his intermittent singing, would act as a bolster to the captive population, and might allow for a rebellion. But this day felt strange to him, for he perceived many new guard detachments being sent farther down into the Tower. He wondered what was going on down the depths of the dungeon. He could make out the faint sounds of screaming prisoners. "Most likely they are being beaten or tortured", he muttered to himself. "They won't last long." Suddenly, the horrid shrieking stopped. A another detachment of orcs went scurrying down the hall past his cell. Two of the guards stopped outside his door, and began conversing in their gutteral language. Morgoroth had managed to decipher some of which the orcs had said. One of them had, before the two had moved on down the hall, spoken of a small uprising on the third cell block. A few slaves had freed themselves, and were now in the process of holding of the orc contingents sent down to quell their revolt. A thought crossed Morgoroth's mind at that moment. "Hmm...maybe this one will succeed where the others have failed..." He paused for a moment, and then continued where he left off from. "However unlikely it may be." He chuckled softly to himself. "And if the revolt has lucky on its side, the Orcs will kill each other over some paltry trinkets taken from a haul elsewhere." Again, screams were heard reverberating from the lower levels. The orcs were dead no doubt, and many had probably turned to killing each other. The captains of the tower had never seen eye to eye, so even in a small rebellion, if they had some previous conflict, they would not aid one another. What seemed like an hour passed by quickly, and now, a hurried scampering of feet echoed up the hall, slowly making its way nearer to his cell. Morgoroth could hear the hushed mumbling of voices a few feet outside his wooden door. Slowly, he heard the clanging of keys approach. The movement hastened, as the being on the other side of the doorway searched frantically for the right key. At last, they found it, and inserted it into the lock. The mechanisms within the lock could be heard moving, as the key was twisted in its place. Silence then pervaded the area. But the thud of the lock hitting the stone floor interupted the aura of serenity that had overcome the Elf in that instant. The door was then flung open by a mysterious man standing the doorway. Morgoroth knew he was no orc, or mannish guard, but a prisoner of the Tower, awaiting his fate with Shelob. The figure quickly left, leaving Morgoroth to make his own exit from the cell. He gracefully got up from his hay-covered, stone slab bed, and bolted out the door. Last edited by CaptainofDespair; 06-26-2004 at 08:42 PM.

06-27-2004, 09:14 AM	#29
Himaran Ash of Orodruin Join Date: Jan 2003 Location: Thangorodrim Posts: 777	Character Description Form: 1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES Which ones? The Hobbit’s Gift, The Road to Erebor, Quest for the Ainereg, Sailing Away, The Summons, In the Shadow of the Star, Flight from Rohan, Resettling the Lost Kingdom, The Ambassador’s Son, Search for Rhun. 2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? One. Search for Rhun finishes in two days, but Resettling the Lost Kingdom is not quite done. 3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? – YES, both. _______________________________________ For your character please include: NAME: Dwali - he cannot remember his last name. AGE: 43, young for a dwarf. RACE: Dwarf GENDER: Male WEAPONS: Dwali carried only a steel axe with him on his travels, but it was taken from him after his capture. Although he lacks experience in hand to hand combat, he is deadly with a knife; and after stealing one from a guard (who was slightly too close to the cell door) Dwali hid it in his cell. Perhaps it will eventually come to good use. APPEARANCE: Dwali is of average height for a dwarf and fairly thin. His eyes, once a piercing green hue, have slow decayed into a dark grey; which now display nothing but emptiness and sorrow. Numerous scars cover his strong frame, as he underwent particularly painful torture after he refused to give information to his captors. His hands, always slightly out of proportion with the rest of his body, now look anything but normal on his skinny wrists. Although several years of travelling had rewarded him with a muscular body, the young dwarfs appendages have lost their luster from lack of food and exercise. Dwali's clothing is better than most in the prison, as he has been their a shorter time. His brown tunic and pants have several tears, but are far from tattered rags. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Hate is all that Dwali has known for his entire existance. The day that he returned to his camp as a child and found the mangled bodies of his two parents, a seething passion was woken in his heart; one of rage and anger. The dwarf is still young, and his emotions flunctuate; sometimes he can be quiet and thoughtful immediately before flying into a loud tirade while attacking animals and even trees with his weapon. He does not understand suffering or death, nor does he even know who he hates. The dwarf wants revenge to the point that it has become a general mindset in his life; one not directed at any single being. Spending three years in a dungeon has somewhat improved his behavior, and calmed him to the a point near sanity, but his new personality is one of sarcasm and pessimism. He believes that his and every other being's death is imminent, causing him to be virtually fearless of darkness and death. HISTORY: Dwali devoted five years of his life to hunting down the orc band which destroyed his family, and became a skillful tracker and warrior in the process. But after savagely killing every member of the orcish party and retrieving his parent's few stolen possessions, he did not find the rest his inner soul so longed for. The dwarf became a drifter and a wanderer, without knowledge of his relatives or of current events. Nor did he care about such things; for in his mind the act of loving something was but a weakness. Thus it was that Dwali continued south; and he past though many lands over many years. Eventualy he came to Gondor, but decided to avoid it and instead passed through Ithilien. It was there, on the eastern edge of that great forest, that he was captured by a scouting party from Morder. All the dwarf can remember after that fateful day is darkness. The all-encompasing blackness of stone, dungeons, and death. __________________________________ Himaran's post Dwali sat in the back of his small cell, listening to the sounds of battle coming from all directions. Such a horrid clamor did not bother, nay, even affect him; for it could only mean that some worse evil was approaching. Perhaps it is finally time to die. Time to leave this world of darkness... and enter another. Relaxing against the cold stone in a relatively calm fashion, Dwali contemplated what was to come. Maybe it was the great spider they had spoken of, Shelob, or another rival orc army. Then the thought that it was a force from Gondor flickered through his mind, but the dwarf tried to ignore it. The mind is deceitful. It leads to hope, and hope slowly turns to reality. He shifted his postion, trying to find a comfortable spot on the rough prison wall. And reality... is darkness. And death. Although only a prisoner in Morder for three years, Dwali spent much of his time brooding in the inky blackness of his underground cell. He had been tortured for information about his race after arriving at the tower, but had since been left alone to guess his painful end; fed on scraps more putrid than orc fare. The dwarf's personality, already frayed since the murder of his parents, had molded into one of pessimism, sarcasm, and an assurance that his death was imminent. But on that particular day, Dwali's demise was not to be. As the screams and clangs of metal began to fade, another sound caught the dwarf's keen ears. It was that of a key turning in a lock, and a rusty door swinging open. And then realization dawned -- it was his door! Dwali stood quickly, trying to recognize his rescuer (or murderer, more likely). It was a young man, but his other features were hidden by the darkness of the cavern. "You are free," he wispered. "Follow me, there are others." Ignoring the nagging thought that it could be a trap, Dwali stepped out of his chamber. It was probably all some sort of trick, and he would soon be beaten and returned to his tiny prison; but even to be out for a few minutes would be worth it. Then he stopped, and hurried back inside. The dwarf felt around the bottom of the wall, hands digging and feeling about in a frantic manner. Then his left hand hit cold steel, and he pulled it out gingerly. There, it a hidden crack, was the knife he had stolen from a nearby guard over a year before. Perhaps it would be of some use afterall. _____________________ Hope this works! And thanks for being patient. Himaran Last edited by piosenniel; 06-27-2004 at 09:49 AM.

06-27-2004, 09:35 AM	#30
The Perky Ent Maniacal Mage Join Date: Dec 2003 Location: Setting sail for Umbar, with Firefoot at my side! Posts: 3,297	Fordim - I fixed the small problem. Hope it helps. If I need to fix it more, say the word. __________________ 'But Melkor also was there, and he came to the house of Fëanor, and there he slew Finwë King of the Noldor before his doors, and spilled the first blood in the Blessed Realm; for Finwë alone had not fled from the horror of the Dark.'

06-27-2004, 09:38 AM	#31
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	CHARACTERS/PLAYERS: Slave of Mordor - Fordim Hedgethistle Slave of Mordor – Durelin Slave of Mordor – Sarin Mithrilanger Slave of Mordor – Novnarwen Southron – Aylwen Dreamsong Southron - Bethberry Easterling – alaklondewen ~~ Silvan Elf – Amanaduial the archer* Silvan Elf - CaptainofDespair ~~ Dwarf – Kransha* Dwarf – The Perky Ent Dwarf – Himaran Last edited by piosenniel; 06-27-2004 at 11:13 PM.

06-27-2004, 09:39 AM	#32
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	NO FURTHER PLAYERS NEEDED Fordim, the Game Owner, will be looking over the last bios/posts for any edits needed. Thanks, everyone, for your consideration and patience. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fordim Once youv've sorted through all your posts and gotten the edits you want from the players - can you please arrange a list for them, in order by PLAYER NAME, - then I'll get them up on the game and open it for you. Please just put your list and your next post here on the DT - it's easier that way for me. Thanks! ~~ Pio Last edited by piosenniel; 06-27-2004 at 09:47 AM.*

06-27-2004, 09:09 PM	#33
Fordim Hedgethistle Gibbering Gibbet Join Date: Feb 2004 Location: Beyond cloud nine Posts: 1,844	Almost there Thank you all for getting the game off to such a good start with those wonderful posts. I was hoping that this would be a character-driven story and it looks like it will be. There are some very interesting dynamics at play here already. Oh, I should say formally, I suppose, that CaptainofDespair's bio and post is accepted for play. Also, welcome to the Downs CoD. I will get right on the ordering of posts and the first-post-after-everyone's-been-freed and have that by early tomorrow morning (EDT), so we can look forward to starting the game within 24 hours (if I understand from Pio how this works). Just so you all know how it will begin: Grash will explain to everyone that the orcs have killed each other, but that the front gate is barred by the Silent Watchers, so they're going to have to risk the Tunnel. . . (insert foreboding music here). But before we plunge into that, our characters will poke about the Tower a bit and gather what weapons, armour and provisions they can. Grash will suggest that the group break up into smaller parties to speed along the search, so start thinking now about who your character would want to band/bond with from the outset. (I would suggest that it would make psychological sense for the races to band together at this point: Elves, Dwarves and Men; although, perhaps gender would be a bigger factor? However you want to work it all is fine with me.) Once more, thank you all for your interest in playing this game, and for the great posts. I'm really looking forward to this (just in case you can't tell). There are a couple of treats in store for us that will, I hope, make it an enjoyable experience.

06-28-2004, 09:51 AM	#34
Fordim Hedgethistle Gibbering Gibbet Join Date: Feb 2004 Location: Beyond cloud nine Posts: 1,844	Pio, could you put up the first posts in the following order: Fordim Hedgethistle Bêthberry Amanaduial the Archer Alaklondewen Durelin Aylwen Sarin Mithrilanger Novnarwen The Perky Ent Kransha CaptainofDespair Himaran And after these, could you include the following post: ~~~~~~~ Grash led them down the dark passage toward the storeroom at its end. They were a motley collection of folk and they were still adjusting to their sudden and unexpected freedom. Some were clearly joyous at their release, while others merely looked about them as though in a daze. All bore some mark of torment or abuse, and if Grash were capable of human feeling he would have been heartbroken by the pitiable state of them all. There was not a whole shirt or unrent garment amongst them: they were starved, exhausted, naked and entirely unarmed in the dungeons of their torturers. And yet they were free. Free – Grash let the word roll about in his mind, like a tasty morsel of meat about his tongue, tasting and relishing it. He had never known freedom, and was as yet unsure of its flavour. He felt it was sweet, but when he looked about him at where he was and who he had to rely on, his mouth went sour with the forethought of failure. Once more he thought about running away and hiding, and telling the orcs that the prisoners had freed themselves, but he knew they would never believe him. He had no choice now, but to continue with his plan of escape. Reaching the end of the passageway, he led them through the low arch to the right of the Underdoor, behind which lurked the nameless terror that consumed all who dared venture into its lair. Never had Grash passed that door without a shiver, knowing that it was his fate one day to go through it, prodded on by the jeering insults and sharpened knives of orcs. He saw many amongst this ragged group glare at the door with similar feelings of horror. When they were gathered in the storeroom, Grash turned to speak. At first, however, his heart failed, for in all his life he had never spoken to a group. Indeed, in the last three years the only speaking he had done had been to respond as curtly as possible to the rough commands of his captors. When he looked about him he saw the eyes of the prisoners glinting in the half-dark of the room, all of them looking to him for guidance and escape. Grash, hardened as he was by the long terrors of a life spent in servitude to the cruelest of masters, was afraid. He swallowed twice, though his mouth was dry, and began to outline his plan. “Krâzduk dakka, nit grankúl.” The instant he spoke he could see that few if any of them understood a word of what he said. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps they did not speak the Black Speech of Mordor, which had been his tongue since birth. He switched into the Common Speech that the orcs used when speaking with members of other tribes. “Food,” he said, pointing at the sacks and casks that lay about. “Water,” and he indicated the small cistern. “We take some with us. From here, in skins and bags. Grik, need weapons, armour, clothes. Search bodies and find these things; try to look like orcs.” He saw that they understood him, as uncouth as his speech might be. He gestured at the group, making motions with his hands as though he were trying to part them. “In groups,” he said. “We look in groups. Two or three; go above into courtyard, fraz Tower. Then meet here, and leave…through Door.” There was a slight murmur as they took this in, and Grash could see that his plan was not being taken very well. One of the Dwarves stepped forward. He was sinewy and tough, like all Dwarves, but this one was darker than most, even after his years in the Tower. Grash had heard orcs speaking of him once, and they had said that he had been prisoner here for nineteen years. “Why must we go out through that door?” he demanded. “The beast which lurks there will destroy us all!” There were sounds of assent from the rest. Grash tried to explain. “Gate closed by terrible creatures of stone. Cannot go out, cannot get past great wall that cannot be seen. You go to gate, you see.” He pointed out through the arch of the storeroom, toward the Door. “Only way, only way out. You come with me through there, or go back to cell now and wait for orcs to return.” The male Elf spoke, then. Grash was awed by the two Elves, for he had never seen one until he had come to the Tower, and all that he had heard of them had been from the orcs who ruled his life. He knew more than to trust the word of an orc, but still he was somewhat afraid of the Elves – afraid that they might kill him and take his blood so they could live forever. “Why must we find weapons?” he asked. “Where are the others rebels? Surely they are armed, to have killed so many orcs.” “No, no,” Grash said, shaking his head. “No others. No rebels. Orcs killed orcs, fought each other. Some ran away, will soon bring others. Other orcs and maybe,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “maybe even, Screechers – Screechers of the Dark Lord.” He shivered at the thought. “Hurry, hurry,” he said, “look for weapons, look for clothes. Go in groups, but come back soon; orcs coming, be here soon. We must be gone before they find us.”

06-28-2004, 09:58 AM	#35
Novnarwen Ghost Prince of Cardolan Join Date: Apr 2003 Location: In your mouth... Eeeew, by the way. :P Posts: 517	Whee! Hi! Thanks for accpeting my character. I'm really looking forwards to this game. It looks great! Short note: Pio, I have done some few edits in my post. So the one which is up now, is the one which should be in the game. Thanks! Cheers, Nova (Yes, I can delete this one afterwards...) __________________ Scully: Homer, we're going to ask you a few simple yes or no questions. Do you understand? Homer: Yes. (Lie dectector blows up) AUS Blog

06-28-2004, 02:12 PM	#37
Amanaduial the archer Shadow of Starlight Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: dancing among the ledgerlines... Posts: 2,347	I have posted on the game thread. CaptainofDespair - I have somewhat attached myself to your character (a little) in this post and used him to some extent: if this alright with you? If I have misrepresented him or you are not happy with this, let me know __________________ I am what I was, a harmless little devil

06-28-2004, 02:16 PM	#38
Fordim Hedgethistle Gibbering Gibbet Join Date: Feb 2004 Location: Beyond cloud nine Posts: 1,844	More notes from your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man (get it? get it? leading you all into Shelob's Lair. . . ) I've just read through all the posts once more and noted that the issue of language is going to be a bit tricky -- who can speak what language, etc. We should all be fairly attentive to that in our opening posts on the game thread: who can speak which langauges etc.

06-28-2004, 02:28 PM	#39
CaptainofDespair Shade of Carn Dûm Join Date: Jun 2004 Posts: 413	Aye, it's alright. I have no qualms about anyone using my character in minor ways.